crowsofafeather

Job after job, town after town— sometimes with the odd break in between.  Despite the centuries, seems some folk just ain’t gettin’ it through their heads what it means to follow Balance.  The odd human with one too many ambitions can be forgiven— but if it's Death the Council's after sendin' 'em, chances are that luck's run out.  He's a hunter, the long shadow of the Undertaker himself;  the never-ending tale of his memory goes far, far back, past when many of these sinners were lil more than a twinkle in their parents' eyes.  He's got plenty faces he hardly needs t’make a point in forgetting, most for nothin' more than bein' too dead now t'worry after.  Neither does he keep much track which of his coin come from where, how much the gilt he's got on him is from this last pay or the one before.  Hells, if he's been good about his liquor, might even be some left on his person from the pay before that!  Ain't worth a headache to remember everything; a done job is a job done, better off forgotten at the bottom of a bottle with other, even more unpleasant things.

T'least, that's how it goes— but this time 'round…

He's thinkin' about it again, and there ain't a bottle in sight save the flask in his coat— the one he drank empty about 3 days on the road ago.  Lucky for him, town's just about comin' into view over the next bit of hill, and a flick of Despair's reins is all it takes t'get there faster.  Folks stayin' long oughta leave their horses at the stables, those passin' through can leave their steeds hitched at a post if they fancy;  the Rider ain't one for neither.  Despair'll return to him as easy as he's dismissed, when he's next needed.  For now all Death needs is to call another job done and a stiff drink.  

It's been weeks since he's last been at this bar, waitin' on a Watcher to get him a whole bottle rather than a glass, when luck seems to have it out for him.  All in the form of a voice that’s been grating his memory since last he heard it.  

“Hey Periphes!  How’s today been treatin’ ya?”

It’s that boy again.  The odd one who thought it’d be so funny t’go coverin’ his blunders and win favour by that sad attempt t'flirt. Pretendin’ to offer himself on a platter like that, really, what a joke; who the fuck flirts with Death?

The Rider can feel the deep pinch of his scowl as his eyes flick up, castin’ a mean look towards the boy comin’ to lean on his elbows at the bar.  Oblivious fool— smilin’ as if nothing, not even stopping t’wonder why a room full of patrons has only one body hunched where the liquor’s poured…  just chattin’ off asking the barhand after their day, sharin’ pleasantries.  Doesn’t even order anything, fuck else is the point of going to the bar then?  Finally his wanderin’ eyes get to takin’ in his surroundings, noticin’ exactly who else is up here with him.  The Rider’s can see it through the mirror behind the counter, and he ain’t surprised to watch that smile falter a touch as those wide gold eyes recognize the company—

Hang on;  a new dash of color comes to the lad’s marked face without even havin’ met the Rider’s glare yet.  He’s nervous, can practically smell it off him.  S’only the case cuz he’s so close, and has a shit way’a hiding it.  

“Quit gawking,”  Death warns low, slipping that bottle of whiskey under his bandana to take a drink without showin’ his face.  Even if it did, his hat’s got an odd way of castin’ a dark shadow over his visage.  Hidden, blacked out.  As he ought t’be. 

“S-sorry, didn’t mean to!”  Boy’s quick to turn back to his own hands, watchin’ em knit together and tap all awkward ‘gainst the wood.  It’d be one thing if he scampered off, or if this was the same flavour of avoidant the Rider’s used to gettin’, the kind that buys him a whole lotta quiet and solitude.

“So… how've you been?”  Instead, the lad goes askin’ after small talk.

“Hope whatever you’re comin’ from wasn’t some bother."

“Get your drink and walk off,”  The Rider grumbles before downing another swig.  His preferred liquor’s got a habit of reflecting his mood; bitter, cross-concoction of hellfire and snake venom, filtered through a scorchin’ sun.

“Not looking t’chat."

“Are you on a job right now?”  The lad’s eyes snap back to the Rider, lit up like a child's glee t’hear he might be gettin’ a stray.  His voice lowers but his body leans closer, just shy a few inches from that wide perimeter Death keeps walled around himself.  Just those shy inches more—Hells, maybe one or two less—and he’s liable to have his fists talk for him…

“Pretendin’ to mingle to keep eyes on someone?  They here right now?  Or are you waitin’ on info?  A client maybe??  I’d be glad to help!”

Thankfully the boy backs away, but whatever fluster had him shy to even speak is clear gone now in his excitement.  Death doesn't entertain the gullible n’ naive; if he ignores the fool and his irritating spirits he’s liable t’get distracted by a fly— buzz off with it.  The lad seems to catch the hint after a while more, going quiet but not anymore relaxed.  If the Rider has him set on edge he’s sure got an odd way of handlin’ it, stickin’ to his seat rather than up and leaving.  No one’d stop him, might even be a small cause for celebration in the Horseman’s eyes; one less pest lookin’ to gain off him.  

“Hey, don’t know how much you remember from our… first conversation—”

“Think you left an impression, kid?”  Some men are fast t’speak from havin’ silver tongues; the Rider’s tongue is a viper’s flick of spat tar, about as clear cut a warning as strikin’ a match and holdin’ it right near the fuse.

“Squid.  Ain’t any kid here.”  Funny, one lil word and the boy lets slip a touch of his own bitter; the Rider sees how quickly that touch of temper's bit back though, as if he's spillin' things he ought not to.  He goes back to that grin but now spread a lil wider, or maybe Death’s staring a lil hard at them fangs threatenin' to pierce the boy’s own lips.  

Irritating, that's the word for it… irritating.

"Can't have left all that bad of one if ya remember me though! Thank you."

Now there's the last straw. The boy got his warning and then some, now Death's had enough of chatter interruptin' his misery. Maybe it's what he said, maybe the Rider's had one dozen more drinks than he counted—unlikely as that is—or maybe the boy's a lot sharper than he looks, but just as Death turns t'face him with a glare so burnin' it'll singe him down to the damn soul—

"Anyways, offer still stands for ya whenever you'd like, I'll just be outta town for a lil while soon. Nothing like a lil fun company before hittin' the road, right?"

—And for just a split second long enough, the Pale Rider's made speechless. The lad ain't even looking at him; chipper as a damn songbird, some unaware puppy fixin' his shirt collar right in the jaws of a hellhound ready to snap 'round his throat. Easier t'see it now, facing him directly, but it don't stop the surprise from hittin' Death like a stampede how completely unafraid he is. The way he carries himself, leanin' at the counter like he ain't ever known fear, despite barely reachin' the Rider halfway up his chest standing.

Lookin' up at him like that, when he finally meets with those glowerin' eyes castin' fury down on him, like Death's just the friendliest sort— and…

Oh. Oh Creator, he's bein' serious.

"Somethin' up? What's the look for?"

"Turn around… and walk away." Those're the words the Rider growls just for the boy t'hear, keeping as steel a grip as ever on his composure. He's back to giving Squid the cold shoulder by facing forward at the mirror again, starin' down at what drink's left in his calloused hands without bothering t'think what kinda look he's getting in return. The sooner out of mind the better, ain't on him to go teaching greenhorns the price of meddlin' with the wrong sort'a folk. But Squid's still friendly as all sin with his partin' words, wishing the Rider a good evening after some quick apologies for bein' a bother. How Irritating.

Now's been a few days since then; boy's still in town, always showin' up in the corner of Death's sight like a nasty lil eye parasite. General store, the gunsmith's, saloon, the inn… granted there ain't too many places t'visit in this hovel. Never stays too long, just long enough t'catch and get the Rider thinking again. S'almost been the week, and he's got his own places to be come sun up. Usually the plan's just t'be gearin' up supplies and saddlin' away, 'cause the sooner the job gets done the sooner he gets paid. He ain't up sittin' at the bar nursin' his drink this time when that Squid makes his appearance, but Death still gets t'watch how his reflection in the mirror comes sauntering in… Same way he watched it saunter out earlier in the week. Lad catches his eye all on his own, throwin' a friendly wave to no reply before turnin' his back t'chat with the barhand.

And the Rider's caught mullin' it over in his liquor again.

'…Ah, fuck it.'

—o—

To give the boy credit, he ain't lackin' in enthusiasm. Minute his back was put against the wall his hands went to work; feeling out the Rider's hips, caressing his sides through the open shirt, rubbing his hand over the front of Death's pants… Normally, any whore worth their cost would be hummin' n' moanin' on a limp cock by now, but seems this young man's got intentions on havin' the Rider hard before his calves touch dirt. Worst part is, it's working.

His fingers loosen the Rider's belt but don't go takin' it off quite yet, just granting himself enough room to slide in his hand. Boy's got Death's property rolling in his palm while his other mitt's still playing dangerous games; tracin' out the curves and edges of a gaunt body, lightly squeezing or slowing his caresses in tandem to how he's treatin' that waking wood.

It's… interesting; he ain't gettin' paid for favours, but Squid's after his pleasure like a bedmate taken to a room rather than a back alley. His breath caresses the Horseman's skin when he leans in his forehead, where the Rider feels a jolt to his senses at the lightest brush of lips to his abdomen, his perfect hearing locked-in to that pin-drop of a wanting hum…

"On your knees, boy," Death bites, dry, cuttin' himself off from intimacy before it gets to be too much. They're not here for any of that nonsense; they're here because this pest planted a ridiculous idea in his head and damnit if it just didn't let him go.

"Right, 'course!" Squid pulls away like nothing, falling on his knees with a flush to his cheeks. Both hands fumble at the belt in haste, finding it a little tricky to fully undo with gloves still on. Death might've thought to comment, but his company triumphs in time t'keep the Rider's silence. It's—admittedly—cute how his head flinches back at the sight that meets him, like he's surprised at what he finds, what he caused. That blush to his face blooms more colourful—whatever hue of his blood mixin' in with that bluer skin—while that previous boyish awe changes to a hunger Death honestly didn't expect. It's a dangerous stroke to his ego, the kind that threatens to pull the thinnest smug curl to his hidden lips. In any case, he's throbbin' hard and there's a willing hole inches away; he can feel the lad's hot breath brushing his puffy, purpled tip.

"Why don't you put that mouth to good use?"

And the young man does just that. He answers the Rider's goading as if he's following after instructions, chasin' the high of another man's pleasure like maybe he had been paid… ain't even after touchin' himself despite how his fingers flex and curl against Death's chaps. Leather pawing 'gainst leather in greedy clingin' n' clutchin', while his tongue works wonders dancin' tango with the bulging veins along the shaft. No one but Death oughta know how long it'd been since his last lil partaking of such vices, but even the Rider's got no clear clue— 'cept that the counter's now gotta reset. He keeps quiet, set t'just watch and enjoy himself gettin' that once-in-a-while sinful attention. The boy wanted this so bad, it's on him to do the hard work. Bobbin' his head nice and slow like that, tryin' to take more and more in wanton gulps b'fore pullin' back for a lungful'a air, his tongue lappin' circles 'round the crown of the Rider's cock to keep that steady climb going. He might have to really tune in t'catch 'em, but Death can swear he's feelin' those soft thrums of pleasured moanin' rippling against his nerves. Alright, maybe the lad is useful for somethin', but it ain't like Death needs for much of a fucktoy—

"Wouldn't ever think t'catch a Horseman with 'is pants down. Looks like my lucky day~"

Damnit. The Rider's gotta scold himself for lettin' distraction take his senses; he's better than this for fuck's sake. Now some sneakin' lowlife thinks catching the Pale Rider with his pants open and back turned means he can be taken down easy, hammer of his pistol already clicked back and ready t'fire off. Death wouldn't've bothered respondin' to such taunt with a sound if he wasn't also promptly plucked from the boy's warm mouth; guess it might be the lad's first time gettin' caught outside. Funny, sure as hell ain't Death's; happened before, more than likely will happen again.

As for the undercuttin' outlaw lookin' to fill a Horseman's back with lead, The Rider is a fast fuckin' draw but he's still gonna need that second or two t'turn around—!!

Squid doesn't. Even on his knees with a large man and manhood takin' up his entire sights, somehow he gets his revolver out and fires before either more experienced gunslingers acts.

Takes him two bullets; first one goes to the bastard's hand holdin' up the pistol and does a good disarming knock-back, second gets 'em right in the neck.

"Ah shit, taller than I thought. Sorry, meant for the head." Squid's gotta peer around the Rider's thighs to see the lowlife writhing in the dirt, uninjured hand clutching at his throat to quit the wild sputterin' of his own blood. Death's stunned— starin' at the body, then down at the lad apologizing for blowin' a hole in a man's neck rather than his brain …Why?

A question either for another time or never; the Rider acts unfazed as Squid tries standing up, pushing him back to the dirt.

“Y'think you’re done here?”

"B-but the guy—" Squid tries stutterin', eyes flickin' back and forth between the Rider, the outlaw, and the cock gettin' dangerously closer to touchin' his lips.

"Yeah, you got ‘im. He ain’t getting up." Death tosses back a last glance, confirming for himself that the bastard's choking on his last few breaths as the blood loss gets t'be too much. Really was some damn good aim, even if he missed what he meant for. He fixes his attention back on the boy between his legs.

"And if I have t'get hard again, we're done here."

Takes a second for the lad to get the clue, but sure enough he takes Death back in as eager as before. If anything he might be a bit more eager, like the idea of the Horseman goin' soft is a threat he ain't about to let happen. Those fingers get to clutching at the Rider's thighs again, leanin' on him for some support as his bobbing gets faster, deeper. Death can feel his cockhead pushing at the start of the boy's throat— ain't easy to tell if he's tryin' not to gag or take more of him in in how he's lurching. What's for sure is he's oddly quiet, though that lustin' haze in his eyes sure says a lot on its own— paired with his legs startin' to really rub together. Death barely gets to make eye contact with Squid before the boy glances away fast, but he still catches it alright; lad's needy, writhin' in the dirt and tryin' to keep himself composed like that, just from choking on cock…

"You shoot through a man’s legs often?" Death's words rattle in his efforts to mask a groan. That look, those fuckin' eyes…

"N—"

"I didn’t say stop."

Squid doesn't get to answer, barely even pulls his mouth away before a hand knocks his hat off, takes his head and forces him back down, makin' him go as deep as to actually gag. Too bad; the Rider's taken a step forward to pin the poor man closer to the wall, his hips startin' to roll forward to a faster rhythm. Heh, so much for composure— maybe it's just been that long of a time since his last. Probably just that.

Fuck listenin' for shy whines, fuck lettin' the pest do all the work; Death's feelin' his climax rising and gets to thrustin' into the boy's mouth. He ain't friendly, he ain't considerate; pisses him off how Squid's squirmin' against him but still working his tongue just like that, right where it matters. Lad's hands should be tryin' t'push the Rider off and let him breathe, not goin' t'grip the back of his thighs like he's enjoying this! Death's gotta growl to hide another groan, this one a whole lot deeper as he's just itchin' at the edge—!

The way Squid's throat tightens in greedy gulps shoots a tremor down the Rider's thighs, coaxing for more of his release to paint the boy's insides like he's just after thirstin' for it. Death's eyes have to close; can't stand to watch his company's expression as he finally made an audible, wanting noise; one the lad mighta tried hidin', but with his face firm pressed to Death's pelvis—hilted on that cock as it throbs with its spill—his voice shivers up the entire shaft. So there, the Rider had his fun and finally lets go of Squid's head so he can pluck himself off. Seems the boy has the right idea, goin' right ahead to dusting off his hat and rising back to his feet… but not without closing Death's pants for him.

That strange young man continues to be full of surprises, thanking the Rider for the fun even when he's yet to have any. But why should Death care? It's a one and done, and like any other similar encounter, right around now's the time everyone turns 'round and walks away, never to exchange words or glances again. He shouldn't be surprised though—

"Hope I catch ya around again, sometime! You're not an easy man to forget."

—That the lad's sneaks in another strike against his expectations. What he says doesn't matter, they're just words; the ramblings of a young man with brightness in his eyes and—somehow—an even brighter smile. Boy's quick to turn and walk off to whichever direction he's headed, so at the very least he's smart enough t'know his cue to leave this time. Good, havin' some brains is better than none. Lets the Rider stand there in his stricken silence without worry of bein' pried at, for the seconds his thoughts buffer logic. It's getting late, nothing more 'bout any of this t'be thinkin' about. They did it, they can stop thinkin' about it; Death's free to forget the boy's face and move on like always. Just like Squid's free t'be doin' the same, any moment now.