I’m Never Going To Write This But I Am So Very Intrigued By The Concept Of Platonic!Jeyna In Tartarus

Class of Classic's : wonderland student's

I took some freedom with their desings (mostly the clothes) but i really like the way they look in the book!!

Wonderlandians i'll always love you ♡

Credits to @class-of-classic-blog for the names, they're awesome!

Abigail: Arthur, John is missing you need to go save him.

Dutch: Arthur, Micah is in prison and about to be hanged you need to go save him.

Trelawny: Arthur, Sean is being transported to be executed, we need to go save him.

Ms Grimshaw: Arthur, Tilly has been kidnapped we need to go save her.

Dutch: Hmm it would appear that Arthur has gone missing after a sketchy parley with my sworn enemy that we all agreed was an obvious trap.

Dutch:……

Camp:…….

Dutch: Eh, whatever. Im sure he’s fine.

On that cowboy shit again (pls click for better resolution probably ♡)

Gliyeraba in my head is just elphie happily studying alone at a desk in the library but through the window in the background you can see glinda and fiyero on a self-imposed quest to get/make/do something to make elphie happy and it's just pure chaos. glindas legs flying over her head and fiyero running after her to save her. fiyero climbing on some cliff to get a specific flower and glinda with her arms open on the ground to catch him if he falls (she'd just get squished though). all scenarios work equally well the other way around. they're just pure chaos. in the end, it's always elphie who has to come save both.

"I was gonna say you're like a son to me.. but you're more than that."

"It ain't that complicated!"

How quickly that shoulder pat of comfort turned into a condescending one.

Woe I'm banning you from angst until you give me the charming sibling fluff I ask for >:< (this is all in good fun anons don't attack me plz)

yes poppy thank you <333 i needed this

- when they were younger, daring took his role of older brother very seriously and swore to protect them through everything

- their parents made a shitty comment about darling wearing a suit to a school dance, so dexter and daring went in ballgowns

- daring helps style and dye darling’s hair and dexter helps with her makeup because darling is honestly so bad at doing it herself

- they do face masks together and have movie nights

- they tell each other everything

- dexter and daring were originally supposed to be roommates, but they both decided that it would be better for each other and their sanity if they weren’t

- when daring gets arrested, darling and dexter cover for him while they use their father’s money to bail him out

- they can communicate through faces at each other

- darling and daring keep spares of dexter’s glasses because he’s always losing them, while dexter ans darling have an extra of one of daring’s mirrors and daring and dexter have small knives for darling

- they have matching armour and look absolutely badass in it

On the characterisation of Fiyero

Fiyero’s characterisation relies a lot on the actors that portray him, particularly in Act I. Bearing in mind the limited stage time, the emphasis on lines such as ‘life’s more painless for the brainless’ and ‘those who don’t try never look foolish’ in Dancing Through Life is, at least to me, crucial in conveying the fact that despite his seemingly perfect life, he is honestly unhappy. I think the same goes for 'well, I’ll say this, she doesn’t give a twig what anyone else thinks’ - he says it jokingly, a throwaway comment on the school outcast, but he admires her for being strong enough to stand on her own two feet without using a facade as a crutch, for fashioning her own weapons out of insults and determination and aloof sarcasm to fight back against the endless harassment, and is a little jealous, too. He’s not brave enough to weather the storm on his own; he cares too much what people think of him, even though it’s damaging.

And he kind of has to. He’s a Prince, after all, and the level of scrutiny paid to royals is ridiculous, especially here in Britain. For example, Kate was recently in the news for - shock horror - getting stuck in a traffic jam, on her way to picking George up from school. Also hitting major newspapers were Charles and Camilla’s bedrooms, William’s new haircut, and the royal mince pie recipe. Truly brilliant journalism, right?

Fiyero was raised a royal, which in my mind is part of the reason why he acted out. Being born into such a huge responsibility would never be easy, especially if he didn’t want to rule in the first place, and this was part of his life over which he had some control. He didn’t ask to be in this position, and he probably would’ve been expected to act as an adult at a young age. The responsibilities would have smothered him, leaving him to search for an escape.

(This happens with celebrities in real life, even teenagers, and more so with the rise of callout culture.)

Being royalty would’ve distanced him from most people his age, and there would’ve been the inevitable gold-diggers and sellouts, whether they were friends or lovers. He grew up ironically lonely. As well as royalty, he was also raised as a politician, well-versed in the arts of negotiation, lying, and masking true emotions. He was never able to truly be himself, to let go of formalities or expectations. His 'scandalacious reputation’ preceded him like a red carpet, and with money, alcohol, parties, and the plethora of women at his beck and call, a great deal of people would’ve expected him to love the attention it gave him - and wouldn’t have understood in the slightest if he said it was incredibly stifling, that he hasn’t eaten a vegetable in a year, that he’d really like to sit down and read a book or finish that sketch he started a long while ago. It was a vicious cycle, one he would break if only he knew how.

It’s also likely that as the reigning monarchs - that aren’t the figureheads the British Royal Family have become through the years - his parents would have had a staggering amount of duties and engagements, which could’ve distanced them from their son whether they meant it to or not. In times of tragedy, of insecurity, of dramatic upheaval, where would Fiyero turn?

As I said, he’s not as strong as Elphaba in that he can’t just not care what people think of him, and after flunking out of numerous schools, his parents would’ve been disappointed in him, to say the least. They would have doubted his ability to rule, and after a while, so would he. He would look at the complete mess he’d made of his life, and wonder how the fuck he could get it together enough to lead an entire country. He believed he was too far gone to be saved, to break the endless chain. He’s adored by the public, and it’s a victory, even if the victory is hollow.

Royal status doesn’t mean he had the best life. Money doesn’t mean he had all he could ever want. Power doesn’t mean he had a voice that can be heard. After all, a comfortable life doesn’t provide immunity from tragedy, from strife, from the trials and tribulations that others face. A comfortable life can still be empty.

These little glimpses into his true feelings and personality don’t have to be glaringly obvious - to be honest, they’re better when partially concealed, as if the facade slipped for a mere few seconds before settling back into place. Over the course of the musical, they grow more and more obvious, until everything is on the line and the facade finally falls to the floor.

I think part of the reason that he falls for Elphaba is that she can see through this facade like it’s made of glass - and what’s more, she accepts who he is underneath. She knows he isn’t happy with his life, she knows he’s more than what he pretends to be, and isn’t afraid to tell him so. Besides that, she knows what it’s like to be lonely, to have to pretend like you don’t care. To have to protect yourself from falling apart, if not for yourself then for the sake of others. Over the years, she hardened herself to the tirades of harassment, of bullying, of abuse, but her heart isn’t made of stone. She has green skin; the remarks and actions from others about that wouldn’t have slid like water from a duck’s back.

There was a reason why Elphaba’s famous line of ‘no, you’re not, or you wouldn’t be so unhappy’ was emphasised. That exchange in the Lion cub scene is basically Fiyero trying to prove to both Elphaba and himself that he is nothing more than what meets the eye, that life is truly nothing more than parties and sex and drinking. His 'genuinely self-absorbed and deeply shallow’ line is a very obvious lie, and Elphaba doesn’t hesitate to call him out on it. Underneath the light, funny words, he’s clearly tired of keeping up the pretense, but somehow Elphaba is the only one to have seen through it, and he’s taken off guard. She’s the only one that cares enough to do so.

Even later, in Act II, he couldn’t let down the facade. He was trapped in a gilded cage, bound by the expectations of the intolerant, cruel, and manipulative society in which he lived, used as a pawn by Morrible, and made the leader of an organisation whose primary aim was to capture the woman he was in love with and kill her - or worse. Definitely a lot worse. What’s more, he had to do it with a smile on his face. He wasn’t happy - not when he was painting a picture of himself as the perfect prince, and not when he was on the balcony in Thank Goodness - but he had to solidify his old facade, the very one that Elphaba saw though without even trying, and make it a reality. If anyone noticed the cracks in the foundation, then there would be serious consequences.

It’s not until the pivotal Throne Room scene that Fiyero is at long last able to stop pretending. Though perhaps able is the wrong word; it’s not like he’s left with an easy option to take. He’s presented with an inevitably disastrous situation - and he follows his heart, does what he knows is right, even against the imminent backlash. He could’ve pretended that he didn’t remember Elphaba, that he never had feelings for her, that he believed that she was wicked - even if he broke both of their hearts in the process. Not to mention that if he did, it’s unlikely Elphaba would’ve lived.

But he didn’t, and breaking years of metaphorical shackles can’t have been easy, especially with so much at stake. He found the strength to not care what the public thinks, to find this strength and solace in the woman he loves. In As Long As You’re Mine he looks so much more comfortable than he ever did before, thrown under the spotlight with every move scrutinised. The difference from Thank Goodness, where he was obviously uncomfortable and unhappy, is massive. The line 'you’ve got me seeing through different eyes’ is more than loving her past her non-conventional beauty, but that she’s opened his eyes to a new way of living. He doesn’t have to put his happiness last, he doesn’t have to pretend, he doesn’t have to live for everyone except himself. For the first time, he’s allowed to be Fiyero, rather than His Royal Highness Prince Fiyero Tigelaar, or the arm candy of Glinda the Good.

It hurts him to see Elphaba in pain, and hurts him to have to let her go again. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and ends up saving her life. Somehow, I think he’s happier with his sacrifice in the cornfield scene than he ever was in the Emerald Palace. He did what he knew was right, even while knowing that he gave his life to do so. Arguably, this is Fiyero’s moment of glory; the point where he shines brighter than the moonlight from the previous scene. Had Elphaba been caught, it would’ve been game over - for everyone. It would’ve dealt a massive blow to the Animals and the Revolution as a whole, it would’ve ensured Morrible remained the puppet-master of Oz, and it would’ve had a disastrous effect on both Glinda and Fiyero. In sacrificing himself, he saved Elphaba, and as a result, saved the Revolution and the hope it inspired.

He was no longer afraid to stand against the dissent of those he used to bend over backwards to keep happy, and the old facade, having been dropped in the Throne Room, was never replaced.

The mirroring of the 'it’s not lying, it’s looking at things another way’ exchange in the Finale is very important to me (as is the first appearance of said exchange, in all honesty), and marks a new era in their lives, one where they can learn to be themselves, to not put on a show for the sake of someone else.

At last, they were unlimited.

Vampires are sleek demons for good times

(some say the van der linde gang is run by the devil himself, hard to find and harder to kill, with an appetite bigger than us all combined)

As the world emerges into the 21st century, newspaper articles are printed about the downfall of the legendary Van der Linde gang, one of a dwindling number of outlaw gangs remaining in America. The articles tell how Dutch's Boys were pursued from West Elizabeth all the way out to New Hanover and Lemoyne, the chase finally ending in a place called Beaver Hollow. They list the men who were taken down in the gang's last months, as well as the ones left unaccounted for, warning law-abiding citizens to be vigilant for signs of these dangerous men.

Most of the populace reading these articles either don't pay much mind to the news, or regard it merely as something new to gossip about with their peers. But there are others who find it means far more, as they read one name among the rest: Arthur Morgan.

A man reading the paper in a hotel room before he meets with a gallery owner about his latest showing remembers a wry man who chased coyotes, lured alligators, and herded horses to fuel his dream.

A widow in the safety of her mountain cabin remembers a man who saw her at her lowest and offered a hand, who taught her to hunt and kept her company over a meal.

A young couple far away in Boston remember a man who carried their letters, and faced down their families to give them a chance at freedom.

They're not alone, others sprinkled across the country who recognize the name as being attached to a man who changed their lives despite how briefly he was in it. A man with a past he was never entirely proud of, but one who managed to leave behind a legacy that others could be nonetheless.

“Come on, Arthur…”

Sean stumbled after him, boots skidding in the dirt, barely able to stay upright. The campfire crackled behind them, warm light spilling over the trees. Arthur kept walking, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“I just got back, y’know?” Sean whined, almost tripping over a root. “After them bastards took me— you missed me, admit it.”

Arthur sighed hard through his nose. “Jesus, kid. You’re like a damn tick. Ain’t even been back a whole day and you’re already clingin’ like a drunk pup.”

Sean didn’t even flinch at the words. If anything, he grinned bigger, that lopsided, cocky smile that somehow made Arthur’s guts twist into knots. His cheeks were flushed — partly from the whiskey, partly from something worse.

“You did miss me,” Sean said, sing-song, bumping his shoulder against Arthur’s. “C’mon, Arthur. Jus’ admit it. Say it. Say it.”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, growling low in his throat. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Go bother someone else, damnit. You’re drunk as hell.”

Sean grabbed his sleeve and tugged — a desperate little pull. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur swore under his breath. He should shove him off. He should tell him to go sleep it off and stop makin’ a damn fool of himself.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let Sean tug him off the trail, back behind the wagons where the firelight barely reached. It was quieter here, just the crickets and the far-off murmur of the others drinking and laughing. Sean pushed him up against a tree — not hard, but enough that Arthur could feel the heat of him, the way he was vibrating with nerves and booze and feeling.

“I missed you,” Sean said, lower now, more serious. His hands fisted in Arthur’s coat like he was afraid Arthur might slip away if he let go.

Arthur sighed again, but it came out softer this time. Almost a groan.

“You’re a damn fool,” he muttered.

Sean just smiled — a little more genuine now, a little less cocky. “Yeah, but I’m your fool, aren’t I?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He grabbed Sean’s face, rough and firm, and kissed him — messy, hard enough that their teeth clicked. Sean made a sound, surprised and pleased, hands scrambling to clutch at Arthur’s shirt.

“You’re so goddamn needy,” Arthur rasped against his mouth, voice rough and fond and miserable all at once.

“And you love it,” Sean breathed, grinning against his lips.

Arthur kissed him again, slower this time, one hand still cupped around Sean’s jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble there like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Sean leaned into him with a needy little sigh, chasing after the touch like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them.

“You’re lucky I’m drunk too,” Arthur muttered against his mouth, voice low and rough. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be puttin’ up with this.”

Sean chuckled, breathless, his fingers twisting tighter in Arthur’s coat. “Bullshit,” he said, grinning against Arthur’s lips. “You’d’a come after me yourself if I didn’t drag you out here.”

Arthur grunted, neither confirming nor denying it, and grabbed Sean’s hips to steady him when he wobbled a little too much. Sean was practically melting against him, warm and heavy and just so damn much.

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, kid,” Arthur said, barely above a whisper.

Sean nuzzled against his cheek, shameless and sweet. “I know what I want,” he said, hot breath brushing Arthur’s ear. “Want you. Missed you so much it hurt.”

Arthur froze for half a second — because it was too much, too raw — but Sean just looked up at him with those bright, earnest eyes and that stupid, crooked smile, and Arthur was helpless.

“Goddamn it,” he growled, and kissed Sean again, rougher this time, pushing him back against the tree. Sean made a desperate little noise, kissing him back with everything he had, like he was trying to make up for every hour he’d spent locked up and alone.

Arthur’s hands slid down to Sean’s hips, gripping them hard enough to bruise, and Sean laughed breathlessly into his mouth, like he couldn’t believe his luck. His fingers slid up Arthur’s chest, clumsy and eager, tugging at the buttons of his shirt like he wanted to get closer, closer still.

“Easy,” Arthur rasped, catching his wrists. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ out here with the whole damn camp five feet away.”

Sean pouted — actual, honest-to-God pouted — and Arthur almost laughed. Almost.

“Later,” Arthur promised, voice low and rough as gravel. “You sober up a little. Then we’ll talk.”

Sean leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, eyes fluttering closed, still smiling. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. Long as you stay.”

Arthur huffed a soft laugh and tightened his grip, holding Sean steady.

“I’m here,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

The camp had long since gone quiet. A few snores drifted from the tents, and the last embers of the fire glowed low and red.

Sean was still buzzing around Arthur like a damn moth to a flame, though — even after sobering up a bit. If anything, he was worse now. Touching him, grinning at him, bouncing on his heels like he had a secret he couldn’t keep.

Arthur grumbled under his breath when Sean tugged at his sleeve again, but he followed anyway, boots crunching soft on the dirt as they slipped away from camp.

“You are tiring, you know that?” Arthur muttered as they pushed deeper into the trees.

Sean just laughed, not the least bit discouraged. “You love it. Admit it, big man. You missed me dancin’ circles around ya.”

Arthur shoved him lightly — a hand to the back of the head, rough but almost fond. “Shut up,” he growled.

Sean stumbled a little, laughing harder, but when he turned around, his smile was sharper — hungrier. His eyes raked over Arthur, top to bottom, and it sent a bolt of heat straight through Arthur’s gut.

“You gonna kiss me again, Arthur?” Sean asked, voice low and teasing. “Or you just gonna scowl at me all night?”

Arthur’s jaw ticked. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stepped forward, crowding Sean back against a tree, looming over him.

“You don’t ask for it,” Arthur said, voice dark, “you earn it.”

Sean grinned, sharp and wicked, like he’d won something. “Then teach me how, tough guy.”

Arthur didn’t give him the chance to be a little shit about it. He grabbed Sean by the front of his shirt, hauling him in and kissing him — hard, messy, nothing sweet about it. Sean gasped into his mouth, hands scrambling up Arthur’s chest, clawing at him like he wanted to climb inside his damn skin.

Arthur manhandled him without much ceremony, crowding him against the rough bark, sliding a knee between Sean’s legs to pin him there. Sean rolled his hips down with a shameless little groan, chasing friction, grinning even as he kissed Arthur back like his life depended on it.

“Goddamn,” Arthur muttered, breaking the kiss long enough to catch his breath. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” Sean panted, rocking against him. “C’mon, Arthur. Want you—been waitin’ for you—”

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressed a rough kiss to Sean’s throat, biting down just enough to make him squirm and whine. His hands wandered without thinking — rough palms skating over Sean’s hips, his sides, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. Sean lived for it, gasping and laughing and mouthing at Arthur’s jaw in return.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” Arthur growled, sliding one hand down to cup him through his pants, squeezing slow and mean.

Sean jerked, hips bucking, a raw sound torn from his throat. “Then what a way to go, eh?” he managed between pants.

Arthur snorted, half a laugh, half a warning, before kissing him again — this time deeper, hungrier, grinding their bodies together until they were both breathing hard, losing what little patience they had left.

He didn’t let Sean have anything easy — made him work for it, kept control of the kiss, the pace, everything. Every time Sean got too eager, Arthur would grab his wrists, pin him harder, bite at his throat until he was panting and pliant again.

“You wanna act like a damn brat,” Arthur muttered against his ear, “you’re gonna get treated like one.”

Sean just moaned and grinned, the cocky little bastard.

Sean rutted against him, wild and desperate, his hands pawing at Arthur’s coat like he couldn’t get close enough. His breath came hot and fast against Arthur’s neck, whimpering little noises he didn’t even seem to know he was making.

Arthur growled low in his throat and shoved Sean harder against the tree, the bark scraping at his back through his shirt.

“Hold still,” Arthur barked, voice low and dangerous.

Sean only laughed, breathless and wrecked. “Make me,” he taunted, rolling his hips again.

Arthur’s patience snapped.

He grabbed Sean’s wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand, holding him tight against the rough bark. Sean hissed at the sting but his hips bucked helplessly, chasing friction, chasing Arthur. His pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair a damn mess from where Arthur had been grabbing at it.

“You’re a damn nightmare,” Arthur muttered against his throat, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“And you fuckin’ love it,” Sean gasped.

Arthur didn’t bother arguing. He freed Sean just long enough to yank open his belt, rough and impatient, fingers fumbling a little in his own urgency. Sean helped, clumsy with eagerness, laughing quietly every time their fingers brushed.

“Greedy little bastard,” Arthur rasped, palming Sean through his underwear, feeling the thick heat of him.

Sean groaned, hips jerking. “Arthur, c’mon—need you, need you—”

Arthur grunted and shoved Sean’s trousers down enough to get at him, wrapping a calloused hand around his cock and stroking him slow and hard. Sean gasped, throwing his head back against the tree, baring his throat in a way that made Arthur’s chest ache for reasons he didn’t want to examine.

“Fuck—” Sean bit his lip, trying to stay quiet even as his body jerked under Arthur’s hand. “God—you’re killin’ me—”

Arthur kept stroking him, slow and steady, hand rough, unforgiving. Every little noise Sean made went straight to Arthur’s cock, thick and aching inside his own pants, but he didn’t rush it. He wanted to watch Sean come apart first, wanted to see how badly Sean needed him.

Sean was shaking, eyes fluttering shut, hips fucking into Arthur’s fist helplessly. “Please,” he gasped, “Arthur, please—”

Arthur leaned in close, lips brushing Sean’s ear. “You finish for me, kid,” he said, voice a rough, low growl. “And maybe I’ll let you have me next.”

That was it — Sean shuddered hard, hips bucking once, twice, before he spilled hot and messy over Arthur’s hand with a broken moan, muffled against Arthur’s shoulder. His whole body sagged against the tree, boneless, wrecked.

Arthur didn’t let him go. He held him there a second longer, feeling him shake and gasp and cling.

When Sean finally blinked up at him, dazed and grinning like a fool, Arthur just shook his head and muttered, “Dumbass.” But there was no heat in it.

Sean laughed weakly, pressing a sloppy, grateful kiss to Arthur’s jaw. “Worth it,” he mumbled.

Arthur huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a surrender — and finally let him slide down to sit against the tree.

“You’re gonna owe me for this,” Arthur said, undoing his own belt with rough hands, voice low and dangerous.

Sean just grinned up at him, eyes bright and wicked even through the haze. “Anything you want, big man.”

Arthur smirked, dark and fond.

“Good.”

Sean sat slumped against the tree, still catching his breath, his shirt rumpled and half-untucked, trousers pushed down to his thighs. His cheeks were flushed deep pink, and his stupid grin hadn’t faded an inch.

Arthur finished buckling his belt, gruff and efficient, trying to pretend he wasn’t still aching for it. He wiped his hand off with a handkerchief, grumbling low under his breath.

Sean’s head lolled against the bark, but his bright eyes were still fixed on Arthur, sharp and hungry.

“My turn,” Sean said, voice rough and giddy.

Arthur shot him a look. “Your turn?” he rumbled.

Sean pushed himself upright, wobbly but determined. “Yeah, c’mere. S’always you takin’ care of me. Let me—” he licked his lips, grinning wider, “—return the favor.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You’re half-drunk and all the way stupid.”

Sean just cackled and grabbed for him anyway, hooking fingers in Arthur’s belt loops and dragging him closer with surprising strength.

“C’mon, Arthur,” he purred, voice dropping into a low, teasing drawl. “Lemme be good for ya.”

Arthur grunted, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t stop Sean when he slid down onto his knees in the dirt, looking up at him with that wild, mischievous gleam.

“You’re a damn menace,” Arthur muttered.

Sean just grinned wider, hands fumbling at Arthur’s belt, undoing it with clumsy fingers. Arthur should’ve stopped him — the whole damn camp was just a few hundred yards away — but when Sean looked up at him like that, pupils blown wide, freckles flushed dark across his cheeks, Arthur’s willpower cracked clean down the middle.

Sean freed him from his trousers and gave an appreciative little whistle.

“Big fella,” he said, practically beaming. “No wonder you’re so grumpy all the time. Must be a burden, haulin’ this thing around.”

Arthur barked a low laugh before biting down on it, rolling his hips forward just enough to brush against Sean’s eager mouth.

“You gonna keep talkin’, kid,” Arthur growled, “or you gonna do somethin’ useful?”

Sean’s grin turned filthy.

Without another word, he licked a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of Arthur’s cock, pausing at the tip to swirl his tongue around it like he had all the damn time in the world. Arthur hissed through his teeth, one hand coming down heavy on Sean’s messy red hair, holding him steady.

Sean took him in slow at first — too slow — eyes bright and playful even as he hollowed his cheeks around him. Arthur groaned low, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Sean made a pleased little sound, like he liked getting manhandled, and started working him in earnest — fast, greedy, messy.

Arthur’s hand tightened in his hair, grounding himself.

“Christ,” Arthur muttered, voice rough and tight. “Ain’t no damn patience in you, is there?”

Sean pulled off with a wet pop, panting, grinning up at him, chin slick. “Patience is for cowards,” he said proudly, before diving back down again, taking him deeper this time, until Arthur felt his knees damn near buckle.

Arthur bit down on a groan, his free hand bracing against the tree behind Sean’s head, trying not to fuck into that hot, eager mouth too hard. But Sean made it damn difficult, moaning around him, hands clutching at Arthur’s thighs, desperate and unashamed.

It didn’t take long — it couldn’t, not with Sean looking up at him like that, drunk on it, drunk on him — and Arthur finally lost it, hips jerking once, twice, before he spilled down Sean’s throat with a low, wrecked growl.

Sean swallowed every drop, messy and eager, licking his lips like he couldn’t stand to waste a drop. Arthur leaned heavily against the tree, trying to catch his damn breath.

When Sean finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Good, wasn’t it?” he said smugly.

Arthur let out a broken, breathless laugh, still trying to recover. “You’re insufferable,” he rasped.

Sean beamed, crawling up into Arthur’s lap like a damn stray cat, hands sliding under Arthur’s coat to feel his chest.

“Yeah,” Sean said, pressing his nose against Arthur’s throat, “but you like me anyway.”

Arthur sighed, a long-suffering sound, but he didn’t push him off. He just wrapped an arm around Sean’s waist, holding him there against the tree, while the night spun slow and lazy around them.

Maybe he did like him anyway.

The little bastard.

Arthur shoved Sean lightly ahead of him, trying to get him to shut up and walk straight as they stumbled back toward camp. Sean was still riding high, practically vibrating with smugness, flashing that big idiot grin like he’d won a goddamn prize.

“Shut up,” Arthur muttered under his breath, elbowing him.

Sean just laughed, way too loud for the hour, and stage-whispered, “You’re just mad ’cause I got you to make all them pretty noises, big man.”

Arthur grit his teeth, cheeks burning under his beard. “I will knock you flat on your ass if you don’t shut it,” he growled.

But it was too late — they were already in the edge of the firelight. A few of the gang were still up: Bill, Javier, Uncle — playing a lazy hand of cards and drinking the last of the evening whiskey. They all looked up as Arthur and Sean came bumbling back in.

Sean swaggered, all puffed up like a damn rooster. Arthur tried to slouch behind him, shoulders hunched, scowling deep enough to scare off a bear.

Didn’t help.

Bill took one look at them and barked a laugh. “Well, well, well,” he said loud enough for the whole damn county to hear. “*Look who got himself rode hard and put up wet.”

Sean whooped, spinning around to walk backwards so he could wink at Arthur.

“Tired ya out, didn’t I, big fella?” he crowed.

Arthur glared daggers at him. “I swear to God, Sean—”

Then a shadow loomed out of the darkness.

Dutch.

Leaning casual against one of the wagons, arms crossed, cigar glowing at the corner of his mouth. He had that look in his eye — the one that made Arthur’s stomach sink and his chest ache all at once.

Dutch smirked wide enough to show teeth.

“Ah,” he said, voice warm and slow. “I see Mr. MacGuire has been… keepin’ you busy, my boy.”

Arthur groaned under his breath. “Christ Almighty.”

Dutch just opened his arms, that familiar, slow, knowing smile on his face.

Without even thinking about it, Arthur shuffled right into him, head ducked low, letting Dutch fold him up in a big, crushing hug. Dutch clapped him hard on the back, a low chuckle rumbling out of his chest.

“There he is,” Dutch murmured. “My good, hard-workin’ boy.”

Arthur grumbled something under his breath that might’ve been a curse, might’ve been a laugh — even he wasn’t sure — but he didn’t pull away. Just stood there a second, breathing in the warm smoke-and-leather smell of Dutch’s coat, the solid weight of him.

Behind them, Sean was catching hell.

Bill was cackling. “Took ya long enough, Maguire. Thought you’d die a virgin!”

Uncle wheezed, “Poor Arthur, he didn’t know what he was signin’ up for!”

Even Javier was laughing, shaking his head and muttering something in Spanish that made the others laugh harder.

Sean just beamed, throwing both arms wide like he was king of the damn camp. “Worth it!” he shouted. “Best damn ride of my life!”

Arthur made a low, pained noise against Dutch’s shoulder.

“You hearin’ this?” he muttered.

“I hear it,” Dutch said, chuckling deep. “Sounds like you’ve been properly appreciated, son.”

Dutch’s hands slid slow up his back, cradling him firm, one hand settling at the nape of Arthur’s neck.

“C’mon, my boy,” Dutch murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

Arthur just nodded into him.

Dutch led him without fuss into his tent — private, dark, warm — and sat back heavy onto his cot, tugging Arthur right down onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur straddled him without thinking, knees bracketing Dutch’s hips, heavy arms winding around Dutch’s neck as he pressed his face into his shoulder, just breathing him in. Letting everything else fall away.

Dutch smiled against Arthur’s temple, stroking big, slow hands up and down his back.

“Aw,” he said, teasing but fond. “Poor thing. Mr. MacGuire wore you clean out, didn’t he?”

Arthur grunted against him, muffled.

“Always yours,” Arthur muttered, voice rough and quiet. “Just say the word. I’ll do it. I mean… I probably won’t get it up, but I can still have you. If you want.”

Dutch huffed a soft laugh, low in his chest.

“No, no,” Dutch said, running his fingers slow through Arthur’s hair, so gently that Arthur practically melted against him. “That’s no fun if you’re half dead on your feet, son.”

Arthur breathed out a shaky little sound, almost a laugh, letting his weight sag even heavier into Dutch. Just letting himself be held.

Dutch tilted his head, thumb stroking slow over Arthur’s cheekbone, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, coaxing.

Arthur shifted, letting Dutch guide him, and kissed him back slow, open-mouthed and sweet, no urgency to it. Just lazy warmth, the two of them sinking into each other like they had all the time in the world.

Dutch kept petting his hair, slow and steady, like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of it under his palm. Arthur leaned into the touch, pliant and trusting, making little low noises against Dutch’s lips.

“Good boy,” Dutch murmured against his mouth. “You’re always mine.”

Arthur hummed, the sound low in his throat, fingers curling tighter in the lapels of Dutch’s coat.