i'm a ride hosea matthews won't survive

Losing track of her place in the novel right as the detective is meant to be solving the case, she turns to pondering the grass and patches of dirt, the trees that shield the camp from potential surveyors on the other side of the river. It's been a slow day. Even the clouds slog by. No hint of rain within them, yet the sunshine and modest spring temperature do nothing to stir her interest. Dutch has been reading and talking and finding all he can do besides keeping her company, lately, and Molly is realizing how few hobbies she has had the pleasure of maintaining since Blackwater.

It isn't all that different from Valentine, besides the people being of a higher brow variety. Dutch didn't care for the descriptor, but it's the honest truth. Probably. How dignified can a livestock town be? Her mouth sours, some. She wouldn't know, since the women didn't fancy to bring her on their only excursion so far. She must ask Arthur or Hosea to accompany her out soon, since they are the only ones Dutch would entrust with the task. He insists it is protection, that Javier or John might flirt with her and that the other men won't do for reasons he won't share. Most likely, he hasn't thought of them yet. Insisting that she had survived several months on her own without his help had been rebuked by the assertion that an angel like her in a town like that would be snatched up faster than a hundred dollar bill.

She supposed it was fair. Molly had never liked the men in Blackwater, either.

The consideration of her next escape must be what prompts her to call out when she sees Kieran wandering the cliffside. Thinking about jumping over, judging by the pinched look on his face and the sluggishness of his gait. Despite it, he looks much better than he had tied to that tree: his hair is brushed out, though it's thin with stress and hunger, and the duster coat he donned again covers up his dirtier clothes. Molly is far enough on the side of the aggressors to feel pity for him rather than disgust, which she does not ponder any longer than necessary.

"Kieran!" She calls.

He jolts, but walks over, eyes wide. "Yes, ma'am?"

Molly scoffs. "I'm not old enough to be a ma'am," she says, touching the slight smile line she's been worrying herself over lately.

"I'm sorry, Miss— Miss Molly?" He looks ready to leap for certain, his brows drawn tight in anticipation of a firmer scolding or a rant at his expense.

Instead, she smiles. "That's better. Why don't you sit with me?"

He smells, undeniably. She doesn't care for that, but boredom is worse and he's right here. She would be lying to say she had no inklings of curiosity about the man, unsatisfied by the tepid ramblings Dutch offered whenever she asked questions like who he was thought to be or what he intended to do with him.

Kieran shifts on his feet, worrying a patch of balding grass with his boot. She notices the toe is about to burst out, worn thin in spots. "I dunno. Think Dutch would have my head if he saw me sittin' with you."

Molly raises a brow. "Didn't say kiss me, did I? I only said sit." Kieran's ears redden, but he relents with a nod, sitting on the farthest ledge of the rock. She would normally invite him to get comfortable, but she only has so much to say to him and he does reek of sweat and barn, despite them having been out of Colter for weeks. "You know, I think it's terrible what they did to you. Nothin' deserves that." She knows it is not really done with — oh, wouldn't she be the one to know these people do not grow bored with their social torture? — but it's the politer way to speak of it, pretending that it's over.

He scratches the back of his neck. "Thank you," he says, clearly unsure of whether or not it's the correct response.

"O'course." She looks at her hands, at the book, not sure of what else to say. It's a bit rude to ask him to sit for only a sentence or two. "Are you a reader?"

"No, ma— Miss."

"Do you know how?"

He hesitates. His gaze looks at the open pages in her lap, testing himself and coming away even more unconfident. "Enough."

So, he doesn't. She didn't expect that he did. People who do usually read often. Softening her expression unlaces the tension of his in turn, but not by much. Suddenly, she is struck by that sense of pity, hard and fast. "You don't seem like a heartless O'Driscoll," she says. She imagines it's the gentlest she's spoken in a good while. "You seem scared."

"I wasn't one," he says, rushed, as if waiting for the opportunity. "And— well, I am scared. You people— I mean, these people ain't very nice to me."

"Not to me, either," Molly says. Anyone else might have called her dramatic, but she was only trying to connect with him, and Kieran seemed to be willing to allow it. "What were you, if you weren't an O'Driscoll?"

"Myself, s'pose." Kieran looks over the cliffside, squints into the sun. "I just took care of their horses, same I been doin' here."

"Before that, though, you must have done something... else?" Molly presses, skirting around what she wants to call such work.

If she could get more information on Colm's gang, it'd put her in Dutch's good graces. The better ones, anyways, she would like to avoid thinking she's fallen from them entirely. If she can get nothing but a little more about Kieran himself, then she will satisfy the natural interest that comes with having a man tied up in your vicinity for several weeks. It was brutish, and she hasn't seen a lick of a reason to have done it, but if she pries enough then she may sniff out just what makes Kieran so vile a man. Or else, she will know that Dutch's choice was ill-informed. Not wrong, of course; mistaken, a problem all good men run into.

Kieran pauses a moment, then looks at her, a small, cracked tooth grin. "I was an army man," he says.

Molly considers it with a burgeoning grin of her own. "Horseshit."

His face twitches. "You don't believe me?"

"I'd make it through bootcamp before you did," Molly says, the tease coming out far blander in tone than she wanted it to. She is young, but not a fool; who's this man think he is to lie to her with a smile? May as well go with that angle, if it's what her heart's saying. "Who were you, really?"

"I was!" He insists. Looking down and away, he huffs. "For a month or so."

She stares, then laughs. He goes to stand, and she bites it down, at once feeling guilty. "Oh, come now. I didn't mean to insult you."

"I— I just shouldn't be talkin' to you," he says, waving a hand towards her. There's no hesitation to his step as he flees the scene.

An army man. He must have thought her an idiot to believe that one! For a month? Molly makes a mental note to trap him in a conversation somewhere he cannot scurry off in the name of Dutch's watchful gaze. What could he have done to be turned away by the most desperate little group of criminals she's ever heard tell of?

Her mother had always been frightened. Molly thinks it's where she gets her habits from, that constant wide-eyed stare and fidget to her step, the twirling of her cigarette between her fingers. She nearly drops hers, now, into the sandy riverbank of the Dakota. Beige coats her white shoes. Mallaidh O'Shea is a harrowing, harrowed woman beneath soft makeup and carefully pinned curls; she has trouble figuring if she means herself or Mammy, wonders if names can pass down nervous curses and if she should have chosen more wisely when presented with the opportunity to bear someone else's.

Molly would like to think she has good reasons for her Mallaidh outbursts. What better reason than a man? Her father was, almost certainly, the one who drove her mother's hands to their constant tremble with his nonsensical ideas and risky ventures, even if they always turned out fine. Dutch is very like him, she's coming to realize. Bombastic and then quiet, always unsteady, a man who will wander in eye or mouth if he cannot follow his feet. Being on the run does not seem to satisfy his need for disruption, if the eyefuls he's been taking of the other women say anything.

Checking in on them. Checking in on them! Does he think she's an imbecile? He is not a proper man but he knows the proper ways, he has shown her; how a man should act around women, around ladies, though she does not qualify the Van Der Linde girls as such on most occasions. Molly has wound herself so tightly in the insult to her intelligence that she might, if he only admitted to the truth, be willing to accept that his heart was changing.

No, no. It's a terrible idea. If it weren't for Dutch, who knows where she would be? Dragging her feet back home, most likely, ready for nonstop verbal lashings from everyone she met for the next year. Especially now. She hasn't written them in so long, they must think her dead, abused, or worst of all, too poor to mail.

She's not really poor, is she? If it's only temporary, must she settle with such a title? Though he is a no-good bastard at times, her father made a life and then some. Certainly, Dutch can do the same. He is younger, more impassioned even. Molly bides her time if only because there is promise, somewhere, of an island just like home with a more temperate climate and richer soil and a fine, sweet man of her own.

Sometimes she considers writing. Having no one to speak to makes it difficult to ignore the dread slowly spreading in her gut. Dutch turning her loose might as well be the same as killing her, especially so far from a port city. Where would she go? She hasn't the faintest clue where they are in any meaningful sense, and she understands a little better now, with two more years under he belt, just how dangerous it is to be gallivanting around on her own as a defenseless young woman. Molly thinks of shooting a gun and shudders, pulling her shawl around her shoulders.

Maybe if any of the other women would listen to her kindly, she could put her mind at rest about these what ifs. The men have a brotherhood mandating they report to Dutch should Molly speak out of turn, but sisterhood would protect her secrets. Only, she's been denied the right to join it. No one in this gang, by her judgement, knows the way things ought to work.

As she's planning to turn back, cigarette burnt to the filter and coming apart beneath her heel, Molly makes out the shape of Bill lumbering with Kieran in tow. There is no one quite as pale and strung-out as him, though she hasn't paid enough attention to learn the broader strokes of him. (Yes, she has; far too much attention paid to so lowly a man.) Molly hugs her arms to herself, hesitating until the idea nudging at her mind forms something legible.

Kieran, if she can get him alone, might listen to her. Bill does not, though she tried in a fit of desperation many weeks ago when he was drunk and, she had hoped, more pliable. He laughed in her face and defensively asked why she thought he was the one to inquire about man problems to, then stumbled off to lose all his money in a game of poker with Micah. Whatever that meant, she didn't know or care. Seeing him grab Kieran by his collar, yanking him to walk faster towards the hill that leads to camp, reignites the loathing that blossomed in her heart that evening. She begins to walk.

"Hello, boys," Molly greets, voice shrill from the too-far distance she chooses to start in on Bill from. "What're you doing with that poor man, Mr. Williamson?"

Bill grunts out something that is hardly words and stops their march back to camp. Kieran looks as though he'd rather sleep with the fish than be caught by the scruff in front of her, his gaze anywhere but her face. His hair is wet, which concerns her at once, plastered to his cheeks and showing white scalp where it thins at the top of his head.

"I asked you a question, Bill," she says, giving Kieran the relief of ignorance to turn a colder look onto the other man.

Bill's ears redden, though he takes on the countenance of a struck-at tomcat more than an apologetic fellow. "S'rry, Miss O'Shea," he says, clearly pained to do so. She can imagine her place in Dutch's tent is all that keeps him anywhere near cordial with her, at least when he is sober enough to understand the consequences of inciting her anger. "Dutch sent the O'Driscoll—"

"—I ain't—"

"—down to bathe, on account'a him smellin' like shit. I got the job of escortin' him."

Molly nods. "And why are you holding him by the— collar? I hope not the hair," she says.

"You wouldn't understand keepin' a wild man like him in check," Bill says, cracking a grin that is ugly as a snarl.

She maintains the sweet smile on her face. "Why don't you let me try?"

Bill stares. "Try what?"

Her eye twitches. "Go on up the hill and let me walk Kieran back," she says, switching tactics. "And I'll keep it to myself that I found you sleepin' on guard duty yesterday afternoon."

"I were not!" Bill says, but he lets go of Kieran, whose shoulders drop an inch. He flinches at the raise in his escort's voice, though, which displeases Molly very much. "What do you want with this one, anyway? Ain't Dutch enough?"

"I saw you with my own eyes," Molly says, unyielding. The implication stirs the fire in her chest, makes her want to take her chances on jabbing her finger into the face of a brute like him, but she tucks her fingers into fists and refrains. "Go on, find a rock to sleep under," — like the insect you are — "And we both keep our secrets. Would y'want Dutch to know you cain't be trusted?"

At that, his back straightens. Huffing, Bill opens his mouth to speak, then closes it and brushes past her, stalking beyond the hillside's path opening and to the ruins of the cabin near its mouth. Watching him, ear perked to listen for the O'Driscoll darting the other direction, she lets his bulk fade into the distance before she turns back to Kieran.

"Why'd you do that?" Kieran asks immediately, so urgent as to sound angry. "What're you gonna do to me?"

"Why, nothin' but walk you back," Molly says, placing a hand on her heart. For a moment, she considers doing just that, then adds: "Unless you'd like to lend me an ear?"

Somewhat tiredly, he nods. "That's fine."

When she holds out her arm to him, Kieran skitters back, alert once more. "What's the matter?" She asks.

"Dutch'll shoot me if he sees me walkin' you by the arm!"

"Dutch couldn't give a rat's ass who walks me where right now," Molly says, a touch terse, and then sighs, smoothing her skirts. "He is about as fond of I as he is of you."

"That's hard to believe," Kieran says, but he shifts on his feet, hands fidgeting at his sides, and when Molly offers her arm again, he takes it.

He does smell better now. Like rain and sand, though horse hair still clings to his clothes and she spends most of this first minute plucking them off of the arm of his coat. If he notices, he does not say anything about it. They will be visible against the river, his coat long and dark and her hair a swath of bright red on a boring, desaturated background of rocks and water. To think Dutch might be angry puts a cheer into her step that she can't reasonably call ladylike. He had treated her so unlike a real man would, insinuating her to be unstable for merely suggesting he might stray from her, though. Molly's last concern is measuring her own pettiness.

"Did you... fight with him?" Kieran asks. He sounds unsure if he should speak at all, and Molly has been frowning at his sleeve rather than enacting her last-minute plan.

"Yessir," she says. "We—"

He bristles beside her. "I ain't old enough to be a sir."

Molly looks up to find him grinning, small and uneven. The corner of her painted lips raises. "Mister...?"

"Just Kieran," he says. "I ain't anyone worth callin' mister."

She returns her attention ahead. "Yes, Kieran, we did. You've been watchin' over the camp, haven't you? Ain't you seen the way he alleycats around with those women?"

"You ain't testin' me to see if I'll talk bad about him, are you?" He asks.

Molly raises a brow at him. "Have the others done that?" She isn't sure who it speaks more to, but in her present state of disliking her lover, she wants to throw the blame at him wherever possible.

"No," Kieran says. Sheepish, he looks at his feet. "Yes, I think I have seen him bein' friendly with one or two."

"Never point it out to him, 'less you want your head torn off," she advises. "What possesses a man to speak to a woman that way, I haven't a clue. The way he did to me, I mean. I know why he talks to Mary-Beth the way he does." She spits the last of the woman's name, ignoring the tension in the man beside her when her tone bitters. "Suggested the stress is— well, I shouldn't go into detail. I doubt you'd like to hear it. S'pose I wanted to say somethin' to someone 'fore I burst a vein, is all."

As they make their way close to the bottom of the hill, Kieran is quiet. No reply is fine by her, so long as there is not a denial or a sympathy in Dutch's name spoken. Beneath their feet, grass begins to rustle, the dirt and sand giving way to green and brush. It's a steep climb she's glad to have an arm for, even if Kieran is not the most steady of companions, swaying here and there. It is a more equal exchange of support than with anyone else. He must be hungry, she thinks, not knowing if Pearson is allowing him more than strictly necessary in portions yet.

How cruel. She hopes Dutch sees her taking a liking to him, even if it's superficial at best, and bleeds out his eyes. The violent persuasion she's taken today will be gone by the time they lay down to sleep, his hand strong and warm on her stomach, holding her close as though they never quarreled at all. For now, she will be as wicked as he says she is.

"He seems to be nice one minute, 'n' the next he ain't," Kieran finally says.

It's as close to validation as she has ever gotten, not counting Hosea's initial warnings, all that time ago, that Dutch was a difficult man to love. That sympathy apparently had a warranty on it.

"You're right about that," she says, tempers her excitement at the prospect of having someone to confide in so as to not scare the fellow off. Resting her hand on his forearm properly, she can feel how tightly he has his arm held in place, not daring to brush against her. She sighs. "So long as he treats me well most of the time, I s'pose I can't say much. But I'm a sensitive lady."

"I ain't a lady, but I think I'd be hurt, too," Kieran says.

Molly could kiss him, then and there. "I appreciate the sentiment," she says, because she must acknowledge the reality despite how pleasant it is to be understood. "But I'm afraid it's true."

"If somethin' hurts your feelings, of course you're upset," Kieran says. "Ain't you allowed to be upset?"

There's a confusion to it that makes her blush, as though she were the one to not understand how things must be. She does not like them nor particularly think they are right, but— Molly received enough lectures as a girl and mistakenly confided in Grimshaw once, and these proved to her that there is an understanding of emotion far simpler than her own which is accepted as standard for a lady. Having Susan say some running mascara simply came with being Dutch's woman was daunting, yet she ignored the fear. She had said it would be good, too, that he knew how to treat a woman. Rather than giving in to the far-away look in her eye at that statement, she went on a far less sympathetic tirade about how if Molly helped with chores, she might find Dutch a little more forgiving. She stopped listening at that point.

"It ain't that I'm unallowed," Molly says, hesitating. "I just— I cry, and then he feels sorry, and it's a whole lot of trouble that needn't be made."

"I thought you was mad at him," he points out. "Now you agree with him?"

Molly's blush darkens. "I... why, you're a very smart man, Kieran," she says, because she sees no other way to escape the conversation prematurely. "S'pose you're right."

Half of a hill still faces them, and she can't very well hurry up the rest of it, turning Kieran loose. He would be off to the hills or maybe even going to find one of Colm's roving bandits to report Dutch's woman is unhappy, could be bought into the company of fellow Irishmen, could be turned unfaithful; oh, the thoughts of what he may do now that she's shared a little of her burdens weighs on her greatly. She regrets ever opening her sorry mouth to a man she barely knows. One with such a violent background to boot, who can barely dress himself with any decency. Molly squeezes his arm tighter when, really, she wants to shove him away, suddenly disgusted with— something, someone, she isn't sure what or who or why.

Kieran mistakenly interprets it as a bid for comfort. His hand is calloused but warm where it presses atop her own, then quickly falls away. "I think you're a nice lady," he says.

"Thank you." Her skin crawls. He is only being kind. Why does she feel insulted? Instead of lingering on it, she returns to their last conversation. "Will you tell me who you were before Colm, now?"

That humor enters his voice again. "I told you. I's an army man."

She tsks.

Kieran's beard is wiry against her fingers. He seems pleased by the touch, eyes closing as she scratches his jaw. Docile like this, he reminds Molly of a dog that's been kicked one too many times. She would think an animal would learn fast, a man faster, but as a child, she'd seen her father's hunting dogs trail her governess as though the old witch hadn't taken her cane to their backs moments before.

The rosiness of his gaunt cheeks, the soft sigh when she brushes her thumb over his cracked, dry lips— Kieran is as relaxed as a man who has never before closed his eyes expecting a slap, stretched out in the grass beside her. His jacket is warm under her, denim keeping her dress safe from the dirt. She knows better than to assume he has tuned everything out, still entrusts her life to his ability to hear anyone else approaching.

Some day, someone will notice them missing from camp and come looking around the perimeter. The risk used to eat at her each time they stole away, but now, she has to will it to the forefront of her mind, the fact that they would certainly both pay if caught. Since they sprawled out on the ground, she has been more taken with just how much of a gentleman he is for laying out his jacket for her. Dutch would have found a rock or a stump, even if it meant his lover walking an extra mile of rough terrain in heels. He didn't seem built to care for a lady, she's coming to believe.

"Your beard's awful patchy, isn't it?" Molly talks just to talk, maybe wants Kieran to know she notices these details. How often has someone had the pleasure of seeing him like this, content?

His eyes flutter open. "I can shave it, if you don't like it," he says.

The assumption makes her sad, but the offer elates her. Is it cruel to consider asking, just to see how far he will go? Yes, she thinks, it'd be a terrible thing to do. Kieran looks at her without malice but with a sense of urgency. Shame crawls over her neck, knowing she'd had even the slightest inkling of committing such manipulation. She would be stooping to Dutch's level, taking advantage of someone without a lick of black in his heart, as she sees it. Forgiven streaks aren't considerable.

"No," she reassures. She scratches at his jaw again, then moves to run her fingers across his cheek. "It's endearin'. Makes you look like you." Whatever that means. Dutch is rubbing off on her, in his good and his neutral and his awful ways. As the words settle, they sound less like a compliment than she thought they would. To cover the tracks, she runs her thumb over the crow's feet by Kieran's eyes, watching them close once more. "You're a sweet boy."

His mouth cracks. "I ain't a boy, I— why, I'm older than you," he says.

She smiles, guides him by the chin to close the few inches between them. His beard scratches her chin, the struggling stubble of his upper lip leaving that much unbothered; maybe there is an advantage, at least until it grows out, but having second-guessed herself already, she decides not to make things worse by trying to rectify whatever insult she might have accidentally given him.

"S'pose I have a type," she jokes.

"I'd hope not," Kieran says, just as fast as he'd offered to go clean-shaven. That same urgency is in gaze. "Dutch is awfully mean. I'd never treat a woman that way." He pauses. "Ain't too many men I'd treat that way, neither."

Heat spreads up and onto her face, but Molly cannot place why. It could be embarrassment, since she didn't expect him to take her so seriously. And then there is a little taste of bile in her throat and a hot, personal anger in her belly, because even though she knows Dutch is awful and Kieran says it to make her feel seen, probably— she can only hear Abigail's reminder that she is unloved, the mean-spirited laughter at her expense, thinks of how easily everyone in this camp takes their own sorrows and finds a way to reflect them onto hers. Everything is shared amongst these people, grief and blamed included, but no one offers to take a share of the mortification she feels when she remembers how much of herself she has sunk into that man.

"Molly?" Kieran's voice is softer.

She scratches his jaw again, smiles though it doesn't reach her eyes. "You're sweet," she repeats, forgetting she's said it already.

"I'm sorry if I shouldn't'a said that," he says. "It just makes me angry."

"If someone heard you speak about him that way, you'd be out in minutes," Molly says. "They don't trust you. They don't trust me, I don't think."

"So I'd take you with me," he says. "I been thinkin' of it."

Oh. Kieran's gentleness always goes so far, then fades into the youthful sort of confidence that had made her love Dutch. There's no question of whether or not she would go with him. Not in his face or his eyes, and it isn't tacked on in the beat of silence that follows. For once, he doesn't waver an inch. (Idly, she wonders how watching him come into himself would feel.)

Molly is inclined to be insulted, at first, but he's right. She has done nothing to convince him otherwise, either, is curled up with him in the grass stroking his face and hair and badmouthing her own lover with him. Then again, how many people have believed a word of what she says? Dutch disagrees with all of it, especially as it pertains to himself, and the women would not believe the sky was blue anymore if Molly dared to point it out. Even Arthur, who she had taken for a very sweet boy, just like Kieran, has denied her her own feelings when she's tried to speak to him privately, begging to know if his father had always been this way. To have someone make an assumption about her that is actually correct is enlivening.

"I would," she says, finally.

Despite his apparent sureness, surprise colors his face. "You would?" Kieran pushes himself from his comfortable spot beside her, grass rustling. He nudges her curls, careful not to yank on them. "What if I left today? Would you then?"

"Oh, Kieran," she says, puts a hand on his bicep. She chuffs. "We couldn't possibly make that sort of decision right now."

"Then let's make it in an hour," he says. "What's there to decide? They hate me, they— no one could ever hate you, Molly, but they ain't nice to you." Sweet, she thinks. Untrue. "Why stay somewhere we ain't wanted?"

Molly runs her hand over his arm. He shifts to sit up so he might put his hand over it, though she can feel how tense he is beneath her touch. Wanting, and scared. How familiar a feeling that is. She sighs, lets go of him to push herself up and come closer. That uncertainty and tension infects the rest of him, the way it always does when she nears, and the crude flattery of his gaze falling distractedly from her face is enough to make her play along.

"Where would we go?" She asks, leaning her cheek on her shoulder. Dutch's attention is difficult to grab unless she swoons, fawns and so she knows what men like. Hopefully. It doesn't seem to work well, anymore, but Kieran responds how she wants him to, stammering.

"California, maybe," he says. "It's good business out there. Lots of people, lots of horses. I'd never be out of a job."

"If you've got a job, I'll never see you," she says.

"I won't have one forever," he counters. A dreamy quality enters his ramble, and his eyes look away, focusing on where her hand rests atop her skirts. "I'll just work until we have enough to start our own business. A ranch or somethin'. My Pa wanted to start a farm out there, but both my parents died before he could. Hopefully that won't happen to us," — a chuckle, though her brows draw in concern — "But it was his plan, too. I just know horses better'an I do plants."

"When did your parents die?" Molly asks. Suddenly, she's self-conscious of how little she's asked Kieran.

"I was young. We got cholera."

She gasps. "That's terrible."

"People die," Kieran says.

"Well, yes, but your parents—" She stops, not wanting to add salt to wound. "I just mean, you must have been terribly lonely. It's sad to think about."

Kieran's eyes crinkle. "I'm still lonely. 'Less I'm with you." He looks at her face, raises a hand and seems to consider caressing her cheek or fixing her hair and instead pushes his own behind his ear. It falls immediately after, too short to stay put yet. "That's why we should leave together. You're lonely, too, aren't you?"

She cannot deny it. "I am."

"So come with me," he says. He twitches before he finds the guts, his breath hitching, but he takes both of her hands and piles them between his own, squeezing. It's antsy, a little too hard, though it doesn't yet hurt and so she lets him. "I'll treat you like a princess and get you whatever y'want. Hell, we can even go to Ireland. I think I got cousins there. We can do anything, Molly."

Eeriely, it reminds her of Dutch's initial speech. A hotel room just outside of New York, her hands on his heart, feeling his deep voice reverberate through his chest as he spoke of freedom and excitement and, one day, riches unlike any she'd seen amongst the class of her breeding. We'll buy the whole damn country if you want to go home, he'd said, laughed, and she had laughed, too, not realizing the endearment she felt was more the kind given to an old man reminiscing on things that never happened.

But Kieran is sincere. Dutch meant to say every word, but his intentions didn't go beyond that evening, or possibly that week. Dutch does not live beyond a week. She knows that now. Kieran thinks of the future, she's learned, and he's feeling all the years of desire for her at once because of it. He's been with these criminals his whole life, she presumes, if his parents died so long ago. He knows their tricks, he must, and she has learned to be pleased without asking where nice things came from. Capability is there.

"Give me a day to think about it, Kieran," she says. "Please?"

"I'd give you the whole year," he says. "Whatever you want, Molly, that don't start tomorrow."

It could work. She could certainly get re-accustomed to being the center of a man's world.

Molly first expects to find Dutch coming into the room when she hears the hallway creaking. Then, she decides the steps are too light and purposeful. He's been dragging his feet without aim, lately. They pick up, and Kieran passes by the threshold, then retreads, coming to rest against the doorframe.

She bristles. "Where's Dutch?"

"He's talking to Susan," Kieran says. His usual anxiety is smoothed over, which unnerves her more.

"Arthur? Hosea?"

"Molly," he coos, not dissimilar to the tone he talks to the horses in when Micah spooks them. "The house is empty."

With her worry seemingly settled, though it isn't, he takes a few steps inside the room. She knows he wouldn't put her in that situation, not knowingly. Whether or not it could be called danger she isn't sure. Certainly, their trysts have been less fun, more fear as of late; she had once been sure that Dutch would not lay a hand on her, if only because she was certain Hosea would beat him into the ground in kind, but he has grown so unpredictable she thinks he may shoot them both. It would be fine. She is unhappy and so everything is terrible, but Kieran does not deserve a bullet for—

Does he love her? She has never asked. He's never said.

"Molly," Kieran repeats. His hands are strong on her waist, and she gives in to it quickly, falling against his chest. A hand on her head is more uncertain, patting awkwardly. "I don't like this place. Don't think you do, either."

"No," she admits. Righting herself, hands pressed to his chest, she looks across the room and out the window. All she can see is sky and trees, but she knows that just below her line of sight is the land, dreadful and hot under the sun. "You can't be in here long. I think Dutch knows."

"That's fine," Kieran says.

She balks. "Fine? It's fine?"

Before she can continue, he says: "Molly, I'm leavin'. I want you to come with me." He licks his lips, hesitates. "I need you to. I got a bad feelin' about this place."

Even though it's been a constant subject of her rumination as of late, she falters. His denim jacket is course between her fingers, and she runs her hands over it just to have some sensation to distract her from how her brain pleads to go empty, stillwater. It's her reaction to most things, anymore, and then her eyes sting hot with tears and the last thing she wants to do is make a choice of any kind.

"I do, too," she says. "Have a bad feeling. So much death, it gives me headaches." Her face twists. "For Christ's sake, there's a graveyard!"

"I know," Kieran says.

She looks into his eyes, then, really looks, and finds he is not nearly as sturdy as he seems. They shine with alertness, animal, flickering all around the room. She realizes he has never been in here, nor in any of Dutch's tents.

Does the mess reflect on her? She had kept the other places they slept tidy, though they rarely needing keeping-up with how neurotic Dutch used to be about things being in their places. Clothes are strewn about the room, papers, books. The debris already present before they came still rests everywhere but the bed, which she had taken care of the first evening. She's been too sad to do anything else. It is overwhelming, the reek of sorrow that comes up from the ground. She has never been a spiritual girl, hardly a Christian woman, too young to feel she has to care about whether or not things like God and ghosts are real or any different from one another, but she thinks this place is cursed.

She doesn't realize she is crying until she hears herself choke on a sob. She wants to turn from him, hates the idea of Kieran seeing her cry, as if seen tears might cement the truth of how terribly Dutch's behavior bothers her. Instead, she presses her face to his neck, smelling the sweat dried there, the scent of hay.

"Molly," he says, quieter. "Do you know where the train tracks are? They're just north of here."

"I think," she manages.

"Meet me there. Today, I'll wait, but I won't wait any longer."

The fact he is putting his foot down makes her cry more, even though she knows it must be done. There is nothing she's waiting for, nothing to tether her here but her own grief. What makes it any different than leaving home? Kieran pushes her away to take her face in his large, calloused hands and kiss her forehead. The floor creaks as he leaves, looking as she feels, but dry-eyed. Unlike Dutch, she is certain that he hates to leave her this way.

Is it that she cannot come back? Molly's father would be satisfied with whatever story she told, only happy to have his little girl back to be the prize of the household during his business meetings; her mother would want to kill her, briefly, and then would settle down if she made it clear she would not go away again; her governess might have been let go to help another family, unless they adopted another child. The idea of being replaced makes her burst into fresh tears, even if she has never felt particularly loved by her parents. Is this why her mother insisted a puppy would make her father's dogs sad?

Is it the future? She hadn't been sure of what she would find in America, not beyond better. It was a questionable assessment. The city she arrived at was surrounded by homelessness and poverty. Molly whimpers. Has she not landed there herself, now? She cannot decide if her family would scorn her for living amongst these people or pity her for falling, as the clueless young girl she feels, into the arms of such a devilish man as Dutch. Man, man, man, must she always live with, for, around a man?

At least Kieran is different, she thinks. She startles at the thought and tosses them all away. Of course, she will never be without a man. It wouldn't be natural for a girl like herself, pretty and proper, to be alone. Unbecoming is the word. She ought to write a poem, when it's safe. She will have to walk to the tracks, or she might have penned it on horseback with the paper pressed to Kieran's spine for stability. Her heart races so fast she may faint. Molly has never been good at regulating her emotions, and now they threaten to simply kill her, her chest aching hard, squeezing as she begins to gather up her things into a pile on the bed and search for the bag she had them neatly folded into when she came here.

Two years now. Two decades, two years, two days, two hours all at once. She can smell the slums of Manhattan. There was a fire the week before she would have arrived at Ellis Island. Despite her skepticism, Molly thinks, I should'a seen the signs.

Retreating to what she once knew as confusion is easier than focusing. Treading light down the steps and finding the downstairs empty, Molly takes to her corner to stare blankly out the window at camp. People frown as they mill about. This place is full of death, alright, that poor MacGuire boy and all of the joy that went with him. She can feel more on the horizon.

Her bitterness shapes how Isaac views Arthur, and life. He actively tries to avoid being like his father, young and unable to understand nuances. He knows only that Eliza is upset and sometimes kind to him, while Arthur seems terrified of him when he is not being cruel. Eliza eventually grows neutral towards Arthur, but then Abigail gets pregnant and she is thrown back into her own memories, angry again. By the time he can, in a vague sense, take into account all of the moving parts to his parents' relationship, Isaac is a moody and selft-righteous teenager who only doubles down when challenged.

Eliza continually choking down discontent with their life, taking his confidence regularly to express what no one else will hear her say, does not ease the impression. Isaac comes to understand himself as someone who mustn't feel in order to make more room for others' problems. He disconnects from Arthur entirely. He forgets what a father is until someone reminds him, even though one sleeps in the same tent as him. Whether it is his or not is questionable.

Isaac generalizes creativity with the worst parts of life. Then sensitivity, then nuance, until he grows into a young man who is very distant from the gentler parts of himself. He is ruthless on jobs and quickly overtakes Arthur's spot as the gang's cold-blooded guard dog. He makes John's impulsivity look like distinguished planning. Having grown up feeling unloved by his father, anyone who praises him instantly earns his loyalty. He becomes the son Dutch never had; slowly, he is taught to reject Eliza the same way she taught him to reject Arthur.

There are rare occasions that Arthur longs for a son or Isaac aches for a father. This, or Eliza grows tired of their fighting and begs them to get as far from her as possible. The two end up on a silent afternoon fishing trip, now and then. There is no repairing their relationship, because Arthur will not apologize to Eliza and Eliza will not apologize to Isaac and Isaac uses his and Eliza's suffering as a reason to justify all of his wrongdoings and grudges, regardless of how relevant they are to their failing unit. The most that is ever said is Arthur telling him Lyle would have loved him, as the most covertly heinous insult he can muster; or Isaac remarking on how Dutch prefers him, as a way to stab his father in the most vulnerable place he can reach.

By the time of the final stand and Arthur's death, Eliza is likely gone with the rest of the younger women. She does and does not love her son, but she has been waiting seventeen long years to take a breath. Even after having grown to hate her, after Dutch feeding his own unresolved childhood issues into his ear any time he aired his grievances to the one man he had come to see as a father— being rejected and abandoned by Eliza is worse than it was with Arthur. Here he is, knowing he was worth as much to the woman who raised him as the cheap dresses she left behind. Just as his father, he takes his embarrassment and turns it to aggression and resentment.

Isaac gets on with Micah like no other. Bill is great fun when he's drunk. He adores how apathetic Dutch is becoming as the psychosis eats his brain. A man like Isaac cannot be tied down long, though. He will leave Dutch because the man is still chasing some sense of community, even if the community he aims for is more of a cult, these days, and he finds that sort of longing pathetic. It is every man for himself, thinks the boy raised by a village. You can only rely on yourself, thinks the boy who has never mended his own clothes. He is so much like his grandfather that he is starting to sound like Arthur.

When Isaac is drunk, he allows himself to think about the ones who left that spring. Up what mountain did that winter bring them? Does Mary-Beth write books? He hopes not. Artists are the cruelest, dumbest sort there is. What of Karen? He liked her the most; she was mean as his mother should have been. Jack, that snot-nosed brat he could not stand? John? What of John, who made everything a competition to see who Arthur betrayed the most?

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He's a boob man. He's content to cop a good feel and get no other solid touches in for a week. He'll bury his face in his partner's chest while cuddling or fooling around, even if it's not that ample. It's soft/er to lay his head there.

On himself... don't you see how open his collars get? SMH my head. Put them away, slut. He's very typical with his pride points and they're evident in the way he dresses: his masculine figure, his hair, his muscle.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Dutch is vain. He likes the attention of being came on and appreciated, and he likes the possessive quality of coming on you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

With a long-term partner, Dutch is quick to learn what makes them tick. Otherwise, experience does him little good. The fact he likes when his partner guides him does not encourage him to get a better grasp, either.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

If he's giving, missionary or any sort of cuddle. It's intimate and slow, and makes for a deeper bond. His focus is on building a connection, for the most part, or making his partner feel appreciated.

If he's receiving, he prefers the exact opposite. He wants his head shoved down, or to be pinned in place. His goal is to be railed into next week instead of having any capacity to ruminate on the fifty things plaguing his mind at any given time.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

He's serious. Dutch takes everything far too seriously in general, but once he gets worked up, it's even more difficult to regulate his emotions and how easily they spiral. Frustration during sex takes him beyond his usual coping mechanism of lashing out and straight into tearing up, if not crying. His failures are worth punishment despite his ego; it doesn't hurt that he can glean some pleasure from that punishment if it's sexual. It's in bed that he gets overwhelmed with the desire to express his adoration for his partner, where other times it's often directed by social expectation. The same can be said of loathing them, which is more opportunistic otherwise.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He plucks the gray hairs from his hairline (don't tell anyone), and he's considered getting rid of the ones on his happy trail, too, but who really wants to deal with that pain? Also, more like his enchanted forest. He's covered in curly body hair, front to back. Fuck that fuckass shaved chest model. Fuck.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

His romantics are usually genuine. Given how much sex lowers his walls, he's not quite as good with flirtation and seduction when he's actually riled up. If not based in love, it's all lust.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He's not doing more than strictly necessary. Sometimes he'll crack open a smutty book to get the gears working, especially when he's stressed and trying to let off steam.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Dutch likes having his hair pulled. Not gently, either. Short of occupying his mouth, it's one of the only ways to make him quit talking.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Hotel rooms don't offer enough isolation, so he prefers abandoned cabins. Putting in the work to spruce the area up, whether it's an old or just the floor in front of the fireplace, builds extra tension for him. He's been spoiled from years of having his own cot, so he much prefers somewhere that isn't the ground, though.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Anything and everything. Dutch loves hard and fast, and will be riled up by anything you do for as long as he's smitten with you. If that's not the case, touch is the surefire way to get him on a chain: his neck, his cheek, his hair, his waist, anything intimate enough to be a proper signal, somewhere only you can touch him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Dutch's instability during sex makes degradation a hard no. He can find pleasure in being beaten around physically, to an extent, but his ego bruises far more easily and he will get genuinely upset with a quickness.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He's got the oral fixation to end all oral fixations. He's the happiest between your legs. With so much practice, having asked for it with most of his partners in the past, he's naturally good at it by now. Receiving oral is just as well to him. When it's someone else offering, he sees it entirely as an act of submission. Don't question the double standard or he'll get defensive.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He likes playing rough, but he also likes to go slow, feeling like he doesn't have to work hard for what he wants; that he deserves something savory. Receiving the former is well and good, but the latter is a surefire way to get him struggling with overwhelm.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He prefers a full scene or even better, a full day to build up to the main event.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Dutch is easy to squick out. He'll pretend as though his discomfort is a joke if pressed, until it's clear that his chuckling is entirely nerves or judgement. In other cases, even if he doesn't understand why you're asking for something, he's willing to try anything once. Unless he also likes it, he's unlikely to do it again, even if he feels neutral about the act itself.

He also prefers low consequences (a semi-public quickie versus potentially getting burnt while playing with wax) when fooling around with risk. Usually, it's too much stress to go all-in. He wants his time with you to be pleasurable and relaxing.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Dutch loves to tease. Watching you grow flustered or frustrated is his favorite part of flirting. If he had his way, he'd leave you hanging every single time just to see how far your willingness to obey his push-and-pull goes.

On the other hand, his tolerance for getting teased is low. He quickly grows desperate, and if pushed too far, he gets frustrated and wound-up beyond the enjoyable point.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Regardless of where he is, that man does not shut up and does not understand the concept of controlling his volume. He yaps endlessly, flirting and dirty talking until he's running out of things to say, but he also doesn't restrain many of the noises he makes.

A majority of his flirtations are straight out of the books he reads or from listening to Hosea flirt with women back in the day. Most of his charms are secondhand. He'll probably enter fight or flight if you recognize it and point it out.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Dutch has a small smell kink. It starts as loving your perfume, then he recognizes the smell of you underneath it, then he just likes how you smell, now he's putting his face in your pit or your crotch because they smell the most like you and your sweat.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

His tan lines are suspiciously absent. Is he sunbathing in the nude? (Yes.) When does he have time to do that? (Only God knows.) He's a little bigger than average, mostly in girth. He's a big guy all around, years of muscle packed all over under a layer of fat.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

His sex drive depends on his mood swings. When he's depressed, he forgets it's even an activity that people do. When he's manic, he'll tear you limb from limb like a wild dog. Stay on your toes. Even in the interim, he's a yearner through and through and can easily heart-boner his way into an actual boner.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

He's possessive, but also enjoys feeling possessed. He likes when his partner finishes inside of him and seeing his cum on or in them, in that sense.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

It's not so much a secret as a fantasy that would take several tense conversations to work out of him. Javier's not exactly sexually liberated. Outright admitting what he wants instead of finding a way to engineer it "naturally" is not his style; but there's no natural way to come about some things.

There's trust to be shown in willingness to be tied up, but Javier quells that vulnerable part of the idea by focusing on the fun to be had in breaking free, and then fighting one another. Because of course, you can't have intimacy with him without a little violence.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Javier has an appetite and plenty of time. He's paid for sex and picked up people in bars over the years. (Most of the latter, he went straight back to the bar with the money in their wallet afterwards.)

He's as good at it as a young man with wavering regard for how his partner feels can be. Though he always listens to you, he's not giving his one-night stands the same effort; naturally, there's a few missed lessons there.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

Any position he can make unbroken eye contact in. He's the guy who gets hard when his partner looks at him for too long. If you squirm over it, even better; he likes flustering you.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

For the most part, he's grave. Javier's emotions are bigger than he is, and trying to figure out how to pour those into you without making a fool of himself is hard work, which he takes very seriously. But if you're laughing, then so is he, even if it always trails off somewhat stiltedly into an intent, fond look.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Javier has sparse enough hair on his torso he doesn't usually have the need to deal with it. It's mild all over. He will be taking the 1899 version of an everything shower if he expects to be alone with you for more than five seconds though. That includes shaping up the hedges because nothing about him can be 100% unrefined.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Javier is clocking in for a shift at the yearn factory everyday. Man is overworked. He's not crying. Who brought up crying? He's definitely not really overwhelmed and crying uncontrollably. That'd be emasculating haha. He doesn't do that... (He does every, like, four times you fuck.)

Even when he's rough with you, Javier makes it evident he cares. He chalks his inability to hide it up to the fact your presence could make even the most experienced conman flinch, rather than the fact he's so smitten it's almost pathetic.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He'll try to seduce you first, even if time won't allow it to go any further than flirtation and he has to finish the job himself and leave you bothered. Naturally, with loving so hard, he's learned to sustain himself for weeks on only a few seconds of your time. He's got to pick from a long list of memories if you ever ask him if he's jerked off to the thought of you, your voice, your touch.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Body worship is an obvious one, though he'd short-circuit on the receiving end of it. He also loves the way you smell, both during sex and otherwise. Cuddling? His face is in your neck, hair, crotch, or armpit. If you wear cologne or perfume, he's stealing you a bottle of it but not handing it over until he's sprayed it under his pillow.

Charles could not be paid to give a fuck, so he doesn't comment on the tent randomly smelling better. Javier distracts Sean until the conversation moves on or he gets bored of trying to pry. And if that doesn't work, convincing Sean he's hallucinating is not at all beyond Javier.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Javier prefers somewhere private: a hotel room with an actual bed, a tent far from camp, a secluded little creekside. There's excitement with risk, but he enjoys getting to be truly alone with you the most.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

You.

What, you expected more? He's a loverboy.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

For a while, Javier will refuse anything that puts him out of physical control. Bondage of any kind, edgeplay he's not perpetrating, even things that are as mutually risky. He is quick to love but not to trust.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves pleasing you, and oral is an easy way to do it. More than that, Javier cannot get enough of how you smell, and that's the strongest between your legs. He's the one to offer it first, though most of his experience in it is with you, and he takes cares to learn what you like most.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He must think himself mysterious despite it all, because you've yet to be courted. There's no good reason for that, in your opinion, as fun as it is to know you entice someone. He has fixed too many jewelry chains without the right tools, pointed out too many holes in your clothes. You get the impression that his interest in keeping you pretty is out of the same pride with which he keeps himself looking good. You can't help swooning in private, but you detest that he wants to lay claim to you without first having the confidence to act on that desire.

Coward. You've never taken him to be as presumptuous as other men, but he often tests the endurance of your good graces.

Javier has invited you on day trips before. This morning, he drew in towards the poker table you were tossing cards over with Mary-Beth and leaned onto his forearms to ask another of you. He looked handsome in the late morning light, black hair falling into his face. Fishing was his proposition, although you never do much but watch him cast the line and stare at the water, hoping that you don't make eye contact. (Coward.) After the two of you finished betting with stolen jewelry, Mary-Beth slid to you a grin alongside the deck. Being a lady, she knew. Having eyes was not enough to tell Javier was sweet on you, given he had a pair of his own.

Fishing became an offer to teach you guitar, since you had asked him weeks ago and, naturally, it would be easier to focus if you were alone; then it became want to see somethin' interesting? as Javier gave you a push into the saddle, a fast shove, as though scared to touch you but too chivalrous to let you handle yourself; and by the time you had gotten out of the shroud of trees that protects the Overlook camp, there was a full day of activities ahead of you. Mysterious as a bodice ripper, this one. Javier's once-slouched spine was ramrod straight from the moment you put your arms around his waist for stability.

Hours later, the two of you were roasting chunks of a fattened bass, talking about spring and the lovely blooming fields. He's more appreciative of delicate beauties than the other men. His guitar laid in wait throughout dinner, neck disappearing in the tufts of grass surrounding the splotchy section of dirt you'd settled down on. One tent, a small fire, and Boaz grazing in the brush make for a quaint scene. Closer to the lake, the greenery is fuller, dotted with flowers; here, it's balding. The horse was content either way, having grown used to the chewed-up grass around the hitching posts. You hadn't managed to replace your own traveling tent from Blackwater, having donated most of the money you pickpocketed in town to the camp funds. You can only be thankful that he isn't bashful about sharing a necessity. As sweet as you are on Javier, there's a fine line between an invigorating obsession and the inconvenient sin of immaturity.

Well, obsession could be a hopeful descriptor on your part. His eyes say what his stoic face doesn't. They dart around the little campsite for a while before he reaches for his guitar, the fire drawing long, soft-mouthed shadows over the acoustic body he sits in his lap. You shift closer, intending to pay fuller attention. In an instant, his gaze is on your hand pushing into the ground to help you slide closer.

He disappears behind curtain bangs. "You still want to learn some?" Javier brushes a few strings, the dull notes stopped before they can ring out. Pick, mute, pick, mute, the awkward gait of a lopsided tune.

"Sure thing," you say. Your undivided focus wears on his nerves. There's no better feeling than the way he fidgets beneath your stare, the threading of his composure threatening to give way. It's been depleted for today, his expression fond when he looks at you. "But I don't know that I'll understand much if I'm not holdin' the guitar."

His eyes narrow, near imperceptible, but Javier must know it's true and so he obliges. Having earned his blanket suspicion makes you giddy. Jeans rustle against ground as he raises onto his knees, shuffling closer. The acoustic is heavier than you expected, skirt needing fixed once you've crossed your legs to support the weight. His strumming position is easy enough to mimic, but you're quick to get lost on the fretboard, choking it in a softly closed fist. Javier studies a rock on the ground until you're situated enough he can instead eye your incorrect hand positioning.

He reaches out, hesitates. As you are about to poke fun at him, he sighs. "It's not easy to figure it out from this side," he admits, hands dropping to his knees. "I've never taught anyone before. Figured it out myself, too."

"You could get behind me 'n' reach around." It's innocent at first, but you realize the opening you have created, quick to jump in it with a sly grin. "Been a while since you ain't had to pay for that, I'm sure."

Javier reaches out, flicks the air beside your temple. "Jackass," he says, good-natured, and gets to his feet.

Moments pass with him weighing what qualifies as too close, his hands trying from two inches too far to position yours until, with another quiet exhale, Javier's knees are on either side of your hips, his face peering over your shoulder to double check the guidance of his muscle memory. Despite your teasing, you prefer his awkward dancing around to a man who readily takes the opportunity to breathe down your neck. Maybe it's the same thing that keeps him from outright admitting himself which makes him respectful now. Plucking your fingers up between his and shifting them around, he diverts your attention.

The gutstrings are tough but smooth on your uncalloused fingertips, warm from Javier's playing. You'd want to believe you're better at hiding how his proximity makes your fingers want to twitch, how your interest shifts towards him and the roughness of his palm until you can correct its course. Once he's manipulated your fretting hand, he pinches the index and thumb of your other together. It seems random to you, but it must be a specific, natural posture to him.

"It's easier to start with a pick, but I don't have one." His voice is softer, trying not to shout into your ear. There's a waver behind it, one that stays in his throat but might climb out if you push him enough. You've heard his nervousness come through before; it was a good evening of messing with him. "Unless you want a coin?"

"This is fine," you say, unsure what difference it would make. "I thought you did it different." Javier's hand usually rests the unused fingers on the edge of the guitar's maw, thumb strumming.

"How I strum takes a little more finger strength," he says. Considering his backwardness, it's wishful thinking to hope he's toying with you, now, the way you toy with him. Without a hint of innuendo, he goes on. "This'll just irritate your nails." When your hands look right, his warm breath disappears from where it had fanned against your cheek. That he is not taking advantage of the opportunity disappoints part of you. The other is again grateful he can control himself. "Hold that pose. I've gotta— relieve myself."

It's knee-jerk. "All alone?" You turn to look over your shoulder where he's getting to his feet. Where your fire-shadow obscures him, you can't define anything but his face.

Javier barks a laugh, tracking his way into the brush. You know him well enough, after all this alone time bought on cheap excuses like friendly bonding, that the anxiety in it is clear.

Although he told you to stay put, you have never cared for listening to a man. Having spent hours watching his quick hands and his singing mouth in equal measure, you fix the pose of yours and try to strum. The guitar lets out a meek chord, strings vibrating where your fretting fingers do not choke them enough. Your thumb slips over the bases of the strings, barely touching the last few. Your pressure is too soft, that's obvious, but you fear being too harsh. What would break the strings? Could anything? New ones can be bought, but you cannot undo the look that would cross his face upon seeing them limp and lifeless.

By the time he returns, you've gotten back to where you were. Javier crouches beside you, a little ways in front of the guitar's neck. "I heard you tryin'," he says, squinting without the smile hitting his mouth. He leans forward to move your hands again, though he struggles to do it.

You want to laugh. He had said it was difficult from this angle and here he is, trying again— for what? The most you allow yourself is a giggle. "Are you actually scared of women?" You ask.

"I don't want you thinkin' I'm a creep," Javier huffs, humoring you with but a glare. You find his irritation endearing and his defensiveness, rather telling. "You don't respect me, but I'm trying to respect you."

"Oh, you wasn't worried about respect when you jumped on me earlier, were you?" You ask, raising an eyebrow. Pale goes his face. You snicker, sharp and sudden, after letting him believe it long enough to take in his drained cheeks, how ashen he becomes. "Jesus, Javier, you'd think I'd shot Boaz. I'm only jokin'." Javier loosens while remaining weary, sitting down from his crouch with bent knees knocked in front of him. Quieting yourself, you watch openly the flex of muscles in his forearm as he fixes his already in-place hair. "It was useful for me, actually. Would you get back there?"

He relents without argument. Closer this time, focused on getting your fingers to do as he says. They aren't used to the strange bends required for even the simplest of chords. Unruly, they crowd together and press too hard or too little. Some slip over to neighboring strings, some taking extra causalities, others unable to reach. Javier touches you more than he ever has, even on days where you believed he might finally speak his mind. After moments of fiddling in relative silence — you enjoying the attention and him, trying to find the words to teach — the fire's ambient crackle and pop give way to the click of his throat as he swallows.

You know from the strained nature of his breath that he's nervous to be near to you. It's delightful. Butterflies are too delicate a word for the inducement in your gut at rendering this stoic man so easy to read. Pride, and a helping of your own affection. You wish he would let his hands linger instead of drawing them away. Suddenly, this little clearing appears to you quite secluded and romantic. Three-fourths of your mind is listening and a wayward quarter is entertaining, as usual, thoughts of his touch sliding up your arm. His return to the other hand, pinching your thumb and pointer together again before his final retreat, give you one last memory to cherish. As Javier settles onto his heels behind you, you think something tougher than the softness of his stomach brushes your back, but it's gone in a moment and he's inviting you to try strumming. A fleeting touch on your elbow, encouraging.

Your first attempt is another dull one, the sound muffled despite Javier making you press the strings harder. "Don't be afraid of it," he coaxes, presses to you so that he may put a few fingers of pressure on the top of your wrist. The sudden confidence boost is of obvious origin. Where you had sparingly enjoyed his touch, you're biting your cheek to keep from speaking now. "Like this." Javier nudges down harder, and your nails slip against the strings, haphazard, in your distraction. He guides your wrist, and the sound is braver than before. "That's a... chord, I think."

"You think?" You ask. You strum again, and his hand disappears from your wrist, then the press of his body against yours fades, too.

You think, in its absence.

"I learned guitar when I's younger. Hosea only knew a little about playing it when he taught me English." He sounds sheepish admitting it, which endears you enough you consider not teasing him right away. Relief from you is difficult to earn and just as brief. "I've never had to worry about knowing how to call the different parts of it, so..." Javier clears his throat, skirting around his vulnerabilities. "Keep trying to play it."

The guitar gives another mewling attempt. You had liked him touching you, but without it you realize how many times you've tried and failed. The embarrassment is frustrating and you strum with double the force. The strings give a proper, full reply, your nails smarting some from scraping the wood of the guitar on an awkward downstroke. After a pause, you try again. And again, and another time— each one is more confident, until it sounds like someone who's got a clue what they're doing is playing.

Javier's hands are on your shoulders as soon as that moment comes, clammy against the bare skin your blouse's arms leaves. He squeezes gently. "Just like that," he says. He shifts closer and you are certain, this time, of what you feel, biting your tongue so hard your eyes water. Not out of discomfort, but to try to wipe the growing smirk off your face. Necessarily, he's leaning against you, reaching to position your fretting hand, and his erection is clear at the small of your back while he tries to convince your pinky to stay put.

You cannot help yourself. It is going to fluster him, which you will feed off like a psychic vampire, to be sure; but there's an undeniable cheer from that depraved quarter of your mind that wanders, sometimes, when Javier gets close. So you do have an effect on him.

"You must be proud," you say, like you're only being pompous.

His love of Dutch should prove he wouldn't care if that were the case. "'Course I am," Javier replies.

It's sweet, but not enough to make you feel any less eager to spit something out. The fun you take in teasing him is unlike anything else. Wriggling your way into a slim crack in his armor is such a reward, you cannot contain yourself. Laughter doesn't find you, at these moments, because you find it funny. No, it's that you've got no other way to let go of the rush. You make a good con artist when you don't love the victim.

"Yes, I can feel it," you drawl. It sounds too invested. You are invested, but pretending that you are not is part of the fun, so you lean into the sultry tone. A giggle escapes you, easier to stave off than the sudden breathlessness is.

Javier pauses, fingers hesitating and then falling from yours. Sounds as though he trips himself trying to retreat, the words taking a moment to sink in. "I'm sorry," he says at once, knees retracting from their spots by your hips. Denim and leather scrape grass as he goes, and a rabbit in the brush mimicks his escape, scampering off into the woods under the rustling of leaves. "It happens, sometimes, you know— we were so close—"

"It's okay," you say, smile evident in your voice. You study the fire drawing dancing shadows, barely resisting the urge to watch him flailing.

"—I was actually trying to teach," — he halts, letting out an exasperated noise or perhaps trying to re-find his bearings — "What?"

"I said it's okay," you repeat, turning to look over your shoulder. Javier doesn't shrink from your gaze. He must realize the way he looks: legs sprawled to give you an awkwardly wide berth, with mortification scrawled on his face. Without missing a beat, he collects himself, as far as the latter goes, with a speed that's almost humorous. You ease your expression. Crucial to understand is the balance between poking fun and luring him in. "We were close. It happens."

He exhales, chest deflating. "I don't want you to think..."

Before he finds what he's looking to say, you cut him off. "It's okay, Javier." The softness of his name on your tongue soothes him. He shifts to sit up straight, hands rubbing the thighs of his jeans. Wiping the sweat off of them, you realize, ecstatic. "Come back."

Expression suspect, he shifts to kneel behind you, a fair distance away. It's clear he's going to try to move on from it instead of making a pass at you. For a moment, you consider accepting the silent implication that he would rather not. Sometimes embarrassing things happen without cause. That much is true. But Javier is not the only one of you that's been spiraling down that path, and he is not the only one who might want it, and he's never going to be the one who says anything, anywhere, anytime. If you want anything but a guitar lesson from the man tonight, you know you're going to have to be the one to say it first.

"Why don't you put this away?" You ask, giving the fretboard a small lift.

The spike in his heartrate may as well be visible. "Yes, ma'am," he says, in the same serious tone everyone reports to Grimshaw with. You snort.

You could've gotten up to rest the guitar in the tent, returned in a few seconds. The request is more to see if he will do it, and Javier obeys. He slinks around fast, clearly doesn't want the bulge in his jeans to be in plain sight. Into the tent he disappears, the firelight bathing the canvas flaps obscuring him. You watch his ass until you can no longer, feeling a weight slide off your shoulders at the realization you can stare at him, be as hungry as you want now.

Of course, glances were stolen as frequently as you could manage in these last few months. His forearms flexing while he cleans his guns, the spirals into thinking of the barrel's phallic nature, the drifting of your hand to your hip to consider your own and how he might dream of you holding it. You worried that he might believe you want him for nothing more than a fling if you showed too much desire.

Having taken a moment to catch his breath in privacy, he emerges from the tent with stitched-up composure. The campfire draws those kind shadows onto him, gentling the sharpness of his face and making it clear what muscle lies in the arms beneath his rolled up sleeves. Javier settles with false coolness beside you, and his ass is no sooner on the ground than your hand is on his knee, fingers slotting between the folds of his jeans where the leg bends. His coolness thaws and he's already close to the hot, squirming thing he'd been when you turned your head over your shoulder.

"I'm sweet on you," Javier says, unprompted. He looks from your face to your chest to his knee, then back to your face. His dark eyes are firm, and you don't move beneath them. "I want more than sex."

Oh, now he can be straightforward? But then, you know you prefer him this way. To think he's fumbling most of the time but gravely serious at the prospect of not having something meaningful with you is romantic, in a way. It's that he thinks you wouldn't already know which is a touch sour.

"I ain't blind," you say. "And you aren't subtle." Whatever venom is in it is honeyed. He flushes, mouth twitching into a timid grin. You shift forward, slow, until it's clear he won't skitter away. Javier lets you crowd into his space, keeping a precious few inches between you until his back meets the grass and you have climbed atop him, knees straddling his hips and your forearms beside his head. "Sweet on you, too, Javier."

His arms, pinned odd, wriggle out. He brushes his hands on his waistcoat before they gingerly rest on your waist, the pressure all too faint but quite nice. Even when you've been sitting in the dirt, he doesn't want to touch you with any on his hands. You have so rarely thought of him as cute, but the word comes to you.

The smile on his face reveals his snaggle teeth, sharp canines. "You've got me all figured out, don't you, corazón?" Javier asks.

"It wasn't hard," you say, and this time it is a little pompous.

Endeared by how intently he keeps eye contact and a little peeved by his ignoring your cleavage, you press your chest down against his, only leaning in for a kiss once you've gotten a glance out of him. Javier's hands are strong where they slide around to your back, one moving across to curl around the opposite side of your waist, drawing you closer. The affection is new, but the easy way you work together is not.

He is all soft and open-mouthed beneath you, only his facial hair prickly against your upper lip, your cheek, your chin. It's gentler than you ever imagined him to be. Javier lets you lick into his mouth, nails curling into your blouse and then letting go as fast. Shifting your weight, you move to hold him by the jaw for no reason but the simple fact he will let you. He grunts, then strains his neck to lean up and into your kiss, pushes his chin into your hand to let you in further.

You give him a short reprieve before sliding your fingers into his hair, tugging gently to guide his head as you pull away from his mouth. It's weak and sharp, his ponytail making it difficult to worm them in far enough. Javier bears his throat to you, and you nestle a kiss into the softness under his chin. He pants, once, twice, then breathes out a laugh. "You're lucky I like you."

"Why?" You ask, not wanting to stop and speak. His skin tastes warm and sweat-salty, a hint of the lingering alcohol of a cologne dabbed on in the morningtime. He's always done-up, but you like to pretend it was especially for your company today.

Every movement of his chest is felt under you. It expands again. "I'd smack anyone else for yankin' my hair."

His hands come up your sides, edging close to cupping your breasts. They jump to them more out of surprise than eagerness when you bite at his neck, enough to be felt but hoping the red marks will fade in an hour's time. He's never seemed the kind to bruise like a peach, at least. You nose his neckerchief, fail to uncover anymore skin, then move to pull it undone, trying not to choke him. Javier doesn't protest and so you bite again, above the tough, keloided scar ringing the base of his throat. Over the rough tissue, you kiss gentler. His collarbone, though, fits between your teeth and he outright hisses.

"You trying to eat me?" He asks. You can hear the grin on his face and give another gnaw at his collar.

"If only." You move back to where his neckerchief will hide the marks, giving a tougher bite to the strong muscle of his neck. The accusation earns an attempt, doesn't it?

He must mean to stifle a louder noise, for what comes out of him is a strangled whimper. It's nicer on your ears than anything could hope to be, and with your hand moving between the two of you to seek out his clothed hard-on, you entreat to earn another. His hands, resting idle around your chest, squeeze. Given nothing but another kiss to his throat, softer, Javier starts to knead. He's an attentive kisser, but it sparks the first real bolts of desire in you. His breath falls above the crown of your head, hitching when your palm finds him and starts to feel, in earnest, the shape of him through his jeans. It breaks with another high sound, short lived, and then he's chuckling in nervousness.

Leaning away, you take the break as a chance to tease him rather than catch your own breath. "You moan like you've never been touched before." It's thin with your panting, doesn't land anywhere vulnerable.

"Never been touched by you," Javier says, as if agreeing.

It softens you some, and you feather your kisses up his throat, his jaw, his cheek. "You're too sweet," you coo. You let go of him, take his hand from your chest. His other stops, thinking it's a dismissal. Just in time to catch the bob of his throat, you guide him down your body and between your legs, pressing it in enough to feel the heat of your sex and the dampness gathered beneath your skirts. "Do you feel that, sweetheart?"

A beat of silence, a breeze grazing the trees. It becomes clear you aren't going to continue without an answer.

"I do," he says quietly.

"I liked that guitar lesson, too." Your fingers guide his to press in, the fabric's texture almost uncomfortable but the pleasure of stealing his suaveness away again indescribable. "Havin' you so close to me, with your hands on me." Knowing you may be giving away too much, you continue. "Almost wish I went on teasing you all night, but I'm impatient."

You watch his face as he registers what you mean, even if it's a little bit of an exaggeration. Getting this man on his back has been infinitely more arousing than those fleeting touches, but they had done something to you, too. You move your hand away, and Javier's doesn't leave. Its pressure lessens, but he rubs at your clothed pussy before moving over the shape of your thighs beneath your clothes. He seems interested in learning how you feel as a whole. He pauses, squeezes at the fat of your inner thigh, lets his head loll to the side as he exhales shakily.

"You make a fool out of me."

You kiss the corner of his mouth. He closes his eyes. Then you're laughing, soft, and his hand is curling around your hip. "You're real content," you say, can hardly believe he's so simple to please.

"I am." He scrunches his face, lets it go. Trying to set it into something presentable, but you don't let him. Javier grunts when you catch his mouth, letting you kiss him into the ground until you think he might sink into it. Between hungry, forceful kisses, he manages to spill out more compliments. "So pretty, my girl." The hand that had stilled on your chest kneads again, surer. "Fine as art, hermosa." Hanging back, unable to rake in enough oxygen in the seconds you're fine spending apart, he rambles freer: "I love the way you push me around. God, I don't even know what to do with a woman like you."

As he speaks, you're raising your hips, hand smoothing down his body to find his jeans again. "Good boy," you say, off-handed, more of a degradation than a praise and yet he shines as if it were all the same. Your fingers find the button of his fly, undoing it deftly. "Keep talkin'."

"You are the most aggressive woman I have ever met," he says, watching your hands picking at his clothes. It's an adoration of its own, even if you could've done much worse to earn it.

Nearly makes you want to prove that claim. In his infatuation, eyes fallen heavy and lips parted, deep gaze trained on you— you've often thought of him as pretty, never finding it a word reserved for femininity so long as Javier lives. The soft edge of it spurs you to grip him, a little cruel, but he gives no indication it hurts. If so, he likes it. He turns his head and lets go of your side to press his knuckles to his mouth, firm, then talks.

"I'm s'posed to be doing all this," he says. "I'm the man." It's veiled as a joke, but you can hear the vague sense of woundedness behind it. Your palm seems an awful fine place to be any other time, but he's squirming now that it's sex, whatever complex that must display within him.

It's not your concern, besides how easy it makes it to dig further into him. "Then do it, big man. I didn't tie you up, did I?" you taunt, faux-sweet. "Sure you wouldn't mind, anyways."

He's not foolish enough to believe you'll let him, but Javier takes the chance. His mouth is on yours before he's rolled you into the grass, more fervor to it after your comment. Throwing his weight to do it, the impact is jarring on your joints, and you feel him mutter an apology against your lips. Javier doesn't press against you until you claw at his shoulders, and then he is heavy atop you, barely supporting himself. The fire's heat builds, all these inches closer to it, lending to the sweat threatening to gather at your lower back. His touch is the most burning thing. On your arms, down your side, and then he's found his wits enough to pick at your waistband.

Fingers dance there until he's satisfied enough with the kiss to part from your lips. "May I?"

You consider. Javier waits patiently, his fingertips grazing skin where your blouse has come close to untucking itself with all the movement. His earlier comment comes to your mind, then flashes of just what benefits there may be in having a guitar player for a lover. You say yes, eager to quiet your mind with the real thing. Javier's eyes trail down to watch his own hand slip beneath your skirt, the man crowding into your space as he shifts to turn his wrist. Steps ahead, you're thinking of the touch of his calloused fingertips well before they seek you out through your drawers. The muscles of your stomach still flinch, as if unexpecting.

The fabric between you frustrates him even quicker than it does you. He gets past its drawstring to run the rough pads of his fingers over you. Wetness makes them move easy, as he passes them over your slit, light. Hearing the waver of his breath, as if you weren't the one being touched, breaks whatever patience you had for drawing things out in the name of sensuality. There will be another day to let him figure you out. You ache.

"Why don't you let me feel you sayin' how pretty I am?" You encourage, and Javier's surprise is brief. He looks like he might tease you for your eagerness, so you push his shoulders, an attempt at distracting him. He kisses you once before obliging.

Taking your skirts as he goes, your shirt falls and covers your stomach. Javier seems to consider not doing away with the clothing completely, but you bring your knees to your chest and slide your legs out before he can try to work around it. Gentleman that he is, he takes the time to lay them under you, rather than having you lay bare on the ground; or, it could be that doing so permits him a long look between your spread legs while your hips are lifted. The idea stirs your gut.

His stubble scratches the sensitive skin of your thighs as Javier kisses along it. It takes one, two nips for you to be certain he is biting on purpose. Where his hands settle, forearms beneath your legs and fingers curled around your hips, you lay your own atop them. With his breath, warm, fanning your skin and his mouth so close— you go quiet, as if you might be able to focus hard enough he listens to a command not spoken. You'd sooner make him beg than consider it yourself. The fact he wouldn't be difficult to convince is delicious. You only think yes, please as Javier works towards your middle.

The deep breath he takes doesn't go unnoticed, but you've not time to taunt him before your eyes meet, his nose pressed against you. Looking away seems the last thing on his mind, gaze fixed on you as his tongue works over your slit. Like his kisses, it begins exploratory rather than pleasurable; along the shape of you, tracing your lines, seeking your clit. When he finds the nerves, though the touch is fleeting, your fingers hold his a little tighter.

It's all he needs. Javier works his tongue around your clit in circles, until the strain must make his eyes squint with the effort and they close, briefly, as he laves over you. The absence draws more need than his attentions. You can feel the blood pooling, how you've grown tense with anticipation. You relax your legs, move a hand to rest atop Javier's head. The heat of his mouth licking along you, his tongue pressing in and evidently savoring you, starts to work at your patience.

"Do I taste good?" You ask, breathy.

Javier delves further in response, his hum vibrating against you. He parts from you with a loud inhale, one so desperate air you can't help but laugh. His cheek brushes your thigh where his smile broadens it. His eyes linger on your skin as he collects himself.

"Yes," he says, after a long pause, and then his face softens, gazing up at you. "There aren't words for it."

You wonder if he's thought about what he'd flirt with, or if he's simply found his footing. On the matter of you, Javier swings between quick-thinking and near incapable of doing it. The easy way he goes with what you ask of him makes you wonder. Javier makes his own request, silent, brushing your hand off his to reach behind his head and take his hair down, the tie around his wrist. Snaking his arm back around your leg, he lavishes you in kisses before refinding your clit, far more focused. A pleased sound is muffled against you as you thread your fingers into his hair. It's damp where it'd been gathered up, and you comb it out, Javier grunting when you hit tangles. Your nails scratching against his scalp earn another soft noise.

"You're louder than I am." Your voice is strained enough to show his effect on you, but Javier flicks his eyes towards you. The bitterness is playful, but he can imitate irritation real well. It does nothing but prompt a smile and another tease. "Can't even take your mouth off me to bite back? That good?"

You're careful not to let your expression waver as he trades circling your clit for sucking at it, and not too kindly. The sound that crawls up your throat is quiet enough a pop of the fire obscures it, you hope. Javier's brows draw tight in concentration, apparently trying to get revenge through appeasement. You sigh, fingers curling in his hair, and shift to dig your heels into the ground. His nostrils flare in pants, the heat of it condensing on your skin, and his hands move down to dig his fingers into your thighs, clipped nails sharp in spots.

Pressing into your feet, you nudge your hips up into his mouth. The dirt slips some, but Javier moves to support your legs with his hands splayed under your thighs, encouraging you to roll up against his face. Another noise, as though you're touching him. You write the sudden hitch in your breath off as a side effect of using your core, even as Javier uses his strength to still your hips and works over you with a renewed passion. It draws a proper moan from your lips, and then the restraint you had is gone, crass sweet-talk slipping fast and low from you: how good he looks, how smart he is with his tongue, more playful prods at his masculinity that he does not refute, too preoccupied.

He breaks away panting, finally, raising his head. The light of the fire glints off his face, chin and mouth wet. He's dark with flush, the sharp lines of his cheeks hazy. You let go of his hair and it falls to hang in his vision.

"Aren't you pretty," you coo, tugging at his shirt.

Javier comes willingly, only resisting when you try to pull him in for a kiss. "But I just—"

"It's my pussy," you interrupt. It's clear he spoke without considering your likely blase attitude, because there's no surprise in response. "I don't care where your mouth was."

He snickers at the vulgarity and lets you pull him in by his collar. Any timidness comes about when you lick into his mouth, intending to taste yourself on his tongue. He shifts onto his forearm, other hand sliding beneath your shirt and up to your ribs, then follows the curve of your side. In the lull, you think it'll be nice to know what Javier does as an idle lover. Will he be touching you constantly, seeking out your hand? Wanting to trace your curves, like this, as if it soothes him?

His hardness brushes your leg, and you take advantage of the position to throw your ankle behind him, pulling him closer. The discomfort of denim and metal zipper against your thighs is menial compared to the sound he makes into your mouth, nothing but the thin fabric of his drawers between you. Your skirts are getting wet beneath you with slick and spit, but you couldn't care less. Javier scrabbles to even his breathing.

"You've been so selfless," you say, intending to continue after you coax a response from him.

His voice is hoarse. "I loved it."

Watching the apple of his throat move in a dry swallow, you glance beside you and see his neckerchief discarded in the grass where you had laid him down. Briefly, you try devising a plan to push at his restraint, but come up empty-handed. Not with his gaze fixed on you, so intent, and his face so honest. He's easier to read to you than to others, but to find Javier honest is close to impossible. It feels special to be beneath it, even if it's the least a man can be.

You stroke the scratchy skin at his jaw. Though you'd like him with a shadow all the same, his tight hold on his appearance is part of his handsomeness. Your thighs are starting to feel a little raw from being scratched his cheeks, the night air chilly on your skin where fabric cannot heat it the same as his mouth. There's something drunken about him as you run your thumb over his lips, tacky with drying dampness.

The docility about him prompts you to pry. "What got you worked up? Was it more than you said when you was sputtering around?" It's delivered soft enough to smart less. It could have been the proximity, sure, but there's been plenty of times you've had to pile one atop the other in close quarters, stumbling into hiding on jobs or lacking room in wagons. It was tense each time, but he's one of the most disciplined of the gang in every measure.

"You smell good," Javier admits. No hint of shyness in his expression, only the same intensity that's been there all the while. His hoarseness is trying to fade into a lingering thinness. Lips press a kiss to the pad of your finger. A sliver of his hotheadedness rears. "Wasn't sputtering, either."

"Just that?" You ask, ignoring him grasping for those straws.

"Yes."

Nudging his shoulders downwards, he goes. Javier's amusement is cut with a plainly visible affection. Which idea is most laudatory, you're unsure: that Javier cannot abate his desire to treat you like the finest thing he's ever seen, or that he's behaving on purpose. Without the distraction of his touch, however momentary, you feel the uncomfortable roughness of the ground under you and want the spoiling of his hands on you again, his arms around your legs, asking you to trap his head.

The shadow of him looks good after you bend your knees, his sharp face upturned to watch you even with your body sprawled underneath him. You love this gentleness, how he leaves you all the room despite the tension in his jaw. Tracing it with your fingers, Javier huffs. It probably aches. He's not the sort of man to deal with things he does not want to deal with out of obligation, so far as you see it. Fingers move from his jaw, to his temple and into his hair, let him have the reprieve of laying his cheek on your lower stomach to catch his breath. Javier seems content to be there, and you realize now there's no urgency to get any attention on himself. It feels a little cruel. There is undeniably, too, an opportunity to torment him more.

"Don't you want something, Javier?" You ask.

"I can wait," he says. He breathes in, raises to settle between your legs again. A hand curls back around your thigh, stroking at the broad side. "I've waited a long time already."

He intends it to be romantic, but you only think of your frustration in how he danced around courting you. Though you understand it and you enjoy the hesitance from a man most would not expect the respect of hesitancy from— there's a little devilishness in it when you brush your other knee against his side.

"The least I can do is let you take care of yourself, then, isn't it?" You run your nails against his scalp, and Javier leans into the touch. "Sure it won't take long, with how worked up you are."

The curl of his lips is unbelieving. "You're cruel," he says, fond as ever.

"You can ask for more." Offering is unlike you, but you know it'll fluster him to choose to debase himself when he's gotten the chance to have fuller relief.

"No," Javier says, as you expected. His lashes look long from here, laid against his cheeks. It might be funny that he's looking at your pussy in consideration like this, if you weren't so keenly aware of the lack of space between him and your pleasure. "I want to finish with my mouth on you." The words come out in a rush, not antsy to have them said but to have them heard.

To say you didn't know he had it in him isn't true by any margin, but the sincerity of the vulgarity makes you bite your lip. What tension had cooled off during your kiss rewinds itself. As the air starts to chill your calves, Javier shifts to straddle your leg, seems to stop and contemplate. He shoves his jeans down, and you're aware of what a tangled mess the two of you are, out in the open. Owanjila isn't infrequently traveled by. The thought had completely slipped your mind as soon as pouncing Javier became a possibility, but you have the sneaking suspicion he wouldn't care if you brought it up. You must not either, if the worry had missed you this long. The night's been quiet and lonesome enough.

You bite the inside of your cheek when Javier presses up against your shin. His hand is strong where it grabs the backside of your leg, keeping it steady. His drawers are damp, sweat and precum staining them, but he does as you said and begins to grind against you. The shape of him, hot and wanting, as he works his hips in heavy, slow rolls and the sound of his breath instantly falling harder lead you straight to fantasizing. Shifting to your elbows, easier to card through his hair that way, you can't help watching the thumb's width of skin showing where his shirt and vest ride up, fall down, ride up.

Not only rutting around on the ground but doing it half-clothed. It's such a debauched image that you almost want to laugh, and then his mouth is on you and the weight of his cock is enrapturing in comparison to something so meaningless as risk or decency. The lull refreshed your nerves, but they hadn't lost their sensitivity. In fact, Javier drawing his tongue along you is twice as nice and he is twice as confident in wandering. It pushes inside of you, his stubble prickling your sex where his cheeks and chin press up to it. With his mouth opened so wide, the groan he lets go of is plain as day.

Your muscles twitch, that familiar tightness building behind your navel as he exhausts his interest in thrusting with his tongue, as if deeply kissing, and then works his way up, seeking your clit. The hand not on your calf is squeezing your thigh, your hip, shifting blind and grabbing whatever it can as Javier moves. He's a stoic, cold sort of man; to provoke him into wanting is a rarity, but to get him like this pushes your ego into a blossom. He's an ardent lover, you knew from the moment he first took a liking to you, on account of his inability to hide it.

Your lips part, mind focused now on working yourself towards your climax. You fall silent, save for panting. Half of it is the goodness of having Javier completely at your whim, and half of it is the eagerness with which he's licking at you. For a few moments, here and there, he parts to rake in breath and then returns to you, a man starved for the taste, the sounds you make. Losing yourself in ideas — what his hips might feel like carving into yours, if he'd be louder than the grunts falling between your legs, how you might pay back this favor — slips into narrowing on the tug at your gut as he works your clit. The sensation sharpens, fades, then re-emerges softer, until you know that even a moment of change will lead to you working up another orgasm from scratch.

Prying his fingers off where they dig into the flesh of your hip, you lace yours between them, wanting something to hold. Exhaling a warning, he works his mouth harder, noises of effort starting to come from his throat. It's an awkward angle for your wrist and for his neck, but neither of you move from it, not until you have gone quiet and then groaned his name. You can feel your muscles pulsing, but the sensations of his tongue and lips and hips on you blur into one good feeling as Javier works you through it.

The night's quiet is sharper when you catch your racing breath, Javier's cheek now pressed to your inner thigh. His breath fans hot, his hips limp atop your leg, and you enjoy the warmth of his closeness before jumping into teasing, which you doubt will hit its mark regardless. You're too clearly sated, sagging onto your elbows, then onto the ground entirely, looking down at Javier beneath lidded eyes.

"Surely you aren't done for?" You draw it out, feel Javier's hand slide from yours as he untangles himself from your legs to lean over you.

"Not until you say I am." Still, the hoarse quality has taken his throat once more.

A spark of pleasure that goes through you at that earnestness. "Got off and now you've sprouted a backbone, huh?" You ask, smoothing your voice. It's softer all over, not much energy left with which to be bold.

This one lands as you wanted it to. He winces, but there's a good humor about him. "Does it make me less fun to pick on?" He returns, as if his pride is nothing, should he be less of interest to you.