villagelogs | 037-040 » the reason for time

Entry tags:

037-040 » the reason for time

WHO: Everyone.
WHERE: Eastern/Central Mathias
WHEN: Day 037-040
WHAT: The dead return and the living wake to changes within Mathias Township.
WARNINGS: Some explicit sexual content in threads. (PM this account to have a warning added!)
NOTES: Plotting post over here!

RECOMMENDED ♫ Kammarheit "Sleep after Toyle, Port after Stormie Seas"

DAY 037
THE DEAD RETURN
“The only reason for time is so that everything
doesn't happen at once.” —Albert Einstein
The dead return to Mathias forever changed by their experiences. Waking along the beach, near the tree line, or among the graves, they will find that their bodies are not as they remember them. They are whole again and not torn to shreds by the shadow creatures that cannot be described, but they are also not as they were before the Hunt. These residents will find, so strangely, that their bodies are in the physical state in which they first arrived in Mathias — any injuries or recovery they have made since their initial arrival no longer exists, as if their time in Mathias has simply been a horrible nightmare. Except they all now carry a last reminder of the Hunt with them: spiderweb-thin healed scars marking their injuries from the Hunt. Those who were injured by fire in the other realm also carry those burns with them.

The dead are not the only things that have returned to Mathias. Inexplicably, fall is back, with the temperature finally reaching above freezing and snow falling from trees to reveal beautiful autumnal colors. As the sun rises higher in the lightly cloudy sky and the day warms, the snow begins rapidly melting, puddles growing in the slowly revealed grass and little rivers forming in the streets. And with that snow comes the frozen blood from the deaths to the Hunt, tinting the street river on Phillips Drive a sickening shade of red.

Another oddity that residents will notice: houses with broken windows from the encounter with the fog on Day 015 have now been completely repaired, though any boards put in place are still there somehow. A small bit of good news, at least? And truly, how kind of Mathias to clean up its own mess.

Finally, alcohol is back. Enjoy in moderation, friends, for more will not be arriving the following morning.

THE NEW ARRIVALS
The newest arrivals to Mathias will wake up on the beach near The Grey Gull. It's quite chilly out with their wet clothes, but surely there's something to help warm them inside the restaurant. Indeed, their timing is perfect, for alcohol has finally returned to Mathias Township — and not just the cowboys' homemade moonshine.

DAY 038-039
THE CHANGE OF SEASON
The continued warm weather proves that the unseasonable shift of the previous day was not merely a fluke. Once again, the sun rises and brings with it a temperature that feels almost spring-like, save for the fact that each day there seem to be more and more leaves on the trees in hues of red and orange. For those who have been in Mathias for some time, this new type of weird may be almost normal at this point, but newer arrivals will likely find it quite odd.

The gently trickling river running along Phillips Drive is still somewhat pink in color as the snow continues to melt and refreeze each night. By Day 040, the bloody snow will finally be gone completely, though the relief will be... short-lived.

DAY 040
THE BLINDING WHITE
In the late morning of Day 040, when the sun is visible through patchy greyish clouds, the fog sweeps into town like a like a tidal wave. It moves in quickly and without warning, not from the waterfront but the forest, cascading through every street in a thick wave of white. Rather than a soft blanket enveloping the town, it is a heavy weight pressing down, blotting out the sky in a way that almost feels suffocating, for none can see further than their outstretch hand.

Those outside when it rolls in are left wandering blind, stumbling toward shelter as you're unable to even see your feet beneath you, let alone any obstacles in your path. Perhaps you call out for help, hoping for another voice to guide you toward shelter or simply another living soul. Or perhaps you were lucky enough to already be inside when the fog descended, quickly closing doors and windows to keep it from creeping in.

Unlike the last time the fog swept into the town, residents who encounter it are not immediately killed. Instead, they are simply disoriented, possibly losing their sense of time and place, and it is only after prolonged exposure that they will begin to feel off. A sense of being ill will cling to them if they are in the fog for too long, including dizziness, lightheadedness, or nausea — the time it takes to manifest varies from person to person, as does the duration it will last after leaving the fog.

By nightfall, the fog still has not dissipated.

CONDITIONS UPDATE

— THE WEATHER conditions are fairly typical for late fall: chilly "sweater weather" days and nights that can dip just below freezing. You don't want to be outside without a coat, but it won't kill anyone if they bundle up. Probably.

— THE FOG remains blocking the paths in the forest beginning a few dozen yards past the treeline, urging residents to stay huddled within the town proper, and it also now blocks the western section of town, beginning just past Hill Lane, before where residents know the chasm in the earth to be between Hill and Stine Road. Venturing into the fog blocking these areas is ill-advised.

— DISAPPEARANCES continue. Castiel and Sam Winchester have vanished, and Dean Winchester has not returned with the others after his death during the Hunt.

— THE GRAVEYARD has now seen around a dozen burials, both below and above ground. With the weather warming, though, something may need to be done about the handful of temporary graves aboveground...

— ALCOHOL has returned to Mathias! A small stock of beer and cheap wine may be found at the General Store, and some homes may have a small store of alcohol in the fridge or pantry. The Grey Gull has also been restocked with its lower-end offerings of a variety of alcohol types. Alcohol does not replenish in the same way as food.

— THE GREY GULL has been cleaned up and stocked with moonshine. Along with the newly restocked usual offerings, the place almost seems like an actual bar again.

— THE GENERAL STORE is in a bit of a state following the brutal slaughter of two residents during the Hunt. Cleanup on aisle 3, anyone?

OOC NOTES

— FOOD is now being mysteriously restocked as per usual, including inside homes and at the General Store. Alcohol is not being restocked. Use those rationing skills, friends.

— REWARD REDEPEMPTION is back and will soon have a new option for anyone looking to spend big AP and learn a bit more of the lore of the town.

— MADNESSES due to the Hunt have been earned by Klaus Hargreeves, Ellie, and Malcolm Bright and may now be claimed. Players may also claim additional sanity loss from the aftermath of the Hunt; only losses from the Hunt itself have been deducted from totals thus far.

— SANITY REGAIN is now available! Players will submit a form with some details of the progress their character has made and the mod will review and decide on the numbers of points that will be regained.

— MOD STATUS The usual reminder that it's mostly just Amy steering this ship for now, so things will probably be pretty slow for a while. Apologies in advance, and please don't feel shy about pinging me if you're stuck waiting for something.

navigation | faq | locations | report updates

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I can tell you what other people would say you should be doin' but you'll just do what you always do with them, no matter what anybody tells you. Same shit you been doing all along. Empty a bottle of shine to drown it all out and deal with it until you can live with your cowardice and shortcomings and pretend it don't bother you no more." It's not that Doc is deliberately giving bad advice. He is merely stating the facts as he knows them. The more trauma and stress Doc gets subjected to, the more he withdraws to where he feels safe, behind a wall of empty bottles and a stone-cold poker face. He is too stubborn to be broken and Raylan is more stubborn than he is. Doc doesn't see the point wasting his breath on advice that's not going to be heeded. These are coping mechanisms they have internalised since they had gotten slapped for showing an ounce of vulnerability. Raylan probably much earlier than that if he ever saw the wrong end of a belt. There's no sitting around talking about the smell of burning flesh and getting people killed for twelve sessions in some life-affirming kumbaya circle and emerging a better or stronger man on the other side. There's no magical pew that you can sit on and gaze upon the face of a painted statue, throw your hands up in supplication to erase what has happened. There's just no-... making sense of these senseless tortures.

He finds it much easier talking to the ceiling, so he keeps going, even lifting a hand and turning it over even though there is no reason why he should be gesturing into the darkness. Nobody is watching his soliloquy.

"You burned. He did not run. What could possibly make that better? You cannot 'unsuffer' the torments you have already withstood. The best you can hope for is the passage of time making the memory less bitter. And sometimes even that don't spare you. I remember, clear as day, my mother the day she died; forsaken and alone, emaciated with blood on her chin, one hundred and fifty years ago. The only thing that has ever mattered is what you do from here on out."

As much as some part of Raylan wanted the easy way out, it felt wrong to take it. Even when he was curled up in a tub with Malcolm, they'd barely touched on what he'd suffered. They'd focused on the troubles here. Malcolm's concerns. Raylan's inability to go home and put on a good face for people he wouldn't let behind his walls. He was still chewing over 'You're not hideously deformed' but he'd had a hard time of finding that opinion himself when he stared in the mirror later.

Doc was right, even if Raylan wasn't going to say it. Though Arlo had always preferred using his hands when he was too far gone.

Another long minute passed and Raylan heaved a deep breath as he rolled over onto his back, leftmost hand hanging lazily off the bed, only half reaching for the bottle neck just outside his reach.

"And you? You can't unsuffer anythin' either, not your mother or the well or having to bury my sorry ass." But at least he had come back. He wasn't sure if that was better or not. If that was enough to eventually soften the screams to nothing. "Since three bottles plus is off the table now and you got no guilt to carry in this."

"What about me? I wasn't the one who died," Doc deflects easily. He only relents and shares something because Raylan had done the same, and he knows it isn't easy for either of them to speak their minds. "I do feel guilty though. Should have tried other ways. The windows upstairs. Garage door. But then I... just wanted to make sure Malcolm couldn't get out. I just- wasn't in the right state of mind. Or maybe I was, and that was the choice I made, and I have to live with that." He felt put into a position where he had to choose, a position he never wanted to be in. And maybe there wasn't really a choice. Maybe the only choice was Malcolm at the time, because they had both happened to be indoors and none of the ways in and out of the house would have worked. But it had felt like a choice. Doc didn't try every possible way to get a door or window open, so he can never know for sure.

He turns his head partially towards Raylan but doesn't turn enough to look at him. His gaze lingers on Raylan's right leg and hand before he goes back to looking at the ceiling and closing his eyes.

"You have to hold yourself together before you can worry about anyone else. Don't worry about me, Raylan."

"There wasn't a choice. Y'all couldn't get out, we couldn't get in.. Bet if we beat on those windows now, they'd shatter like sugarglass." Just more facets of Mathis fucking with them and twisting reality's rules to keep them off balance. Confused. Messed up. Raylan really wished there was anything that refuted his idea of them being farmed for fear.

Raylan shifted a little with a deep breath, one leg cocking out a little, almost touching Henry's but coming just short of it. There was no world where Doc was allowed to worry and they weren't, even passively. No world were they wouldn't worry.

"It's too late to tell me to not worry, Henry. Kinda already on that train. Can't imagine survivor's guilt any easier to shoulder just because you got practice.. Malcolm's worried about you too." It also helped keep him from falling into the deepest pits of himself, having Henry and Malcolm to worry about. "Just.. if you need somethin'.."

He had an open door to him, should he want it.

Doc sighs deeply at the mention of Malcolm. He had been- needlessly harsh. And he feels like anything he says will just be interpreted poorly and will make things worse. So he hasn't really said much of anything, which in and of itself is probably making things worse.

"I don't know what to do with Malcolm," is what Doc eventually says about their current state. "We don't speak the same language." Often he finds himself wishing he annoyed Malcolm more, because he has been annoyed by him.

He needs time. More time for them to be around again. Settle into a new normal. Time to dull the edges of the sounds of those screams. Time for three meals in the house and porch drinking sessions until they don't look so anxious when he wants to leave the house for most of the day again. And then maybe he can share some of his burdens again.

"Will I see you on the porch tomorrow night?" he asks quietly. "Or. Behind the garage door, if you find the porch not agreeable." The place they had set up their little drinking corner in when the weather didn't permit them quiet time on their porch.

There weren't a lot of 'win' options with Malcolm, that was true. The proof in that was how personally and deeply the profiler had taken a non-rebuke. He was.. a particular flavor of man that didn't often know how to shut up. It didn't take a genius to see where their styles would.. clash.

"It'll be easier now that we're back. I'll take the next few days of station. Give you a break." There was a core to their house and it included all three of them. Raylan would do the in between work to make things better, advise where he could, help smooth the edges. Pretend until it was reality again.

"Told you I'm coming home," he answered, hand closest shifting over the few inches to rub a pinch gesture of his fingers against Henry's side. "Though the garage is probably better, for a few days. Door open though, since we're gettin' better weather. I'm lookin' forward to the summer. We can get some shit built."

"I would not leave you to shoulder that work alone. Though I do understand you two would want some time together." Because it's fine for Raylan and Malcolm to get some alone time. But Raylan and Doc don't exactly have the same kind of relationship, those same kinds of needs. At least, they don't really talk about it openly anyway, whatever they might be thinking.

"What- oop, sorry -" Doc started turning towards Raylan and almost crushed his hand. He halts mid-turn and shuffles a bit until he can settle down safely. "What were you planning on building? The converting the garage into a bedroom project?" There was a stretch of time where the house had been so quiet and empty while they were gone, he thought things might stay that way and they wouldn't need to.

But they're back now. Hopefully for the long haul. Maybe the idea is worth revisiting.

"Do ya now," Raylan quipped softly before his hand was almost crushed, pulled back to drape across his middle. "And what if I want to split that time with someone else?"

Say, the gunslinger next to him? No, they hadn't talked about, they hadn't even acknowledged it and Raylan knew that, left to his own devices, Henry probably never would. Raylan wasn't jumping into the deep end here, but something in him had to at least vent that jar, before it turned bitter on him.

But he'd asked a question, however domestic and mundane - they could all do with some of that, Raylan was sure. "To start, yeah. Even if its only used durin' our parties or when some shit happens that has our house filled with people.. Figure a shed or somethin' wouldn't go amiss either. Can't get too far with it, no concrete for foundations and all but.." It was something to do. Something to make him feel like they were going forwards instead of just spinning their wheels in the mud.

Doc hesitates, eyebrows rising and falling, a little more uncertain than amused although there's a fair amount of the latter too. He regards Raylan properly and lets his hand fall into that space between them before responding.

"I would not be so presumptuous as to guess whom you are referring to. But if it happens to be little old me, you ought to know, I have all the time in the world. Especially for you. Should you need help with the garage or. A shed you should like to kick me out to when I get too drunk and onerous, or. Anything else."

His eyes have adjusted to the dim ambient light by now and while it was not the first time Doc had caught a glimpse of those scars, it is the first time he is looking at them up close. Little cracks in that veneer that will leave a faint but indelible reminder of the horrors he had been through. Even if women seem to like their men a little scarred.

"Any lingering phantom pains or... how are you doing, Raylan?" Physically at least. He can't do much for the emotional scarring.

Raylan hummed non-commitally at the response before taking a deep breath. Sure, Henry had all the time in the world, except Raylan felt he didn't after all that had just happened. Like God was leaning on his timer, running his clock out sooner than it had any right to be. He didn't like that feeling. Besides, what he wanted in the moment wasn't included on the given list. Maybe it didn't belong there at all, who fucking knew.

"I'll be fine. My healin' gunshot wound hurts more in the aftermath that this and I know you know what those feel like." He didn't foresee his nightmares being painful, but they would be, an echo of it all that he couldn't quite let go.

"Guess I'm just back to one day at a time." They were supposed to be talking about you Doc. "It'll be fine," he echoed again a little more softly, like he was convincing himself as much as offering reassurance.

Yeah he's good at turning conversations around like that. Often he does it without realising, too. Raylan would have to keep him focused on himself if he wants to keep peeling back those layers.

"Mm." Doc reaches up to touch his own recent wound. It wasn't a normal gunshot wound but the dull ache of it had lingered and the risk of infection had been just as high.

"I've been shot, yes. Stabbed, slashed, burnt. But that was the world I lived in. Nothing compared to what you have been through, I assure you." It occurs to him that Raylan hasn't seen those scars. Nobody here has. He reaches over in the dark to take Raylan's hand and pull it over, sliding it under his shirt to touch one of his scars. Nothing and nowhere indecent, just a near miss in the side of his stomach.

"It's okay to have a few scars," Doc says quietly, trying to be reassuring.

The getting stabbed, slashed and shot - those things he could take without blinking. Being burnt was something on a new level now, and his features pinched a little at the mention of it. Malcolm was almost blasé about it, about the burning and Raylan hadn't been able to bring himself to elaborate on what it was like to be the burnt person instead of the profiler finding it.

His head turned towards Doc a little as his hand was grabbed, but Raylan let him move his fingers as he would and he moved them fractionally to gain a sense of the wound, Doc's skin almost hot against his palm. "These kinda scars I don't mind," he admitted. "I signed up for those..." He hadn't signed up for the ones now across his face and chest, the latter of which he hadn't explored.

"Where'd you get this one?" Reluctantly, Raylan started to pull his hand away, figuring that Henry wouldn't want it lingering there and shifted over onto his side to face him, coming full circle from when they laid down.

"No you did not." Nobody signs up for scars. "Unless you told me you paid a professional by the hour to cut and shoot you one night." Raylan doesn't strike him as that kind of adventurous guy. Also that is pretty far out there, even for someone like Doc.

He feels the absence of Raylan's touch acutely, the lack of warmth it left behind, flinching although he doesn't say anything. If a man doesn't want to, he doesn't want to.

"I won fair and square at poker. Boys at the saloon thought I cheated. We were drunk, it happens." Doc shrugs it off. "I just shot out a few kneecaps, poured what was left in the bottle on it, pocketed the money and carried on." Different times. Different laws, or. No laws, as the case was.

"I'd show you the one Wyatt gave me but then I'd have to show you my nipples and I don't charge you enough for that."

Raylan scoffed at the story and tugged up his own shirt, reaching over in kind and pulling Doc's hand over onto him. He wanted to, but they were both being cautious and unclear and chewing over a need he couldn't sate was a long, unfortunate pastime of the Marshal's. Henry might be able to feel the difference, but the wound was only a month or two old, not quite settled into the somehow harsh and smooth edges of all the many ridges.

"Wish I could say this one was that fun." So what if one of his legs shifted out a little further to bump against Henry's? "Decided to roll up on the Bennet Clan at a family get together. Thought I'd be able to talk my way in alone. Except it ended in a shootout with the Marshal's service comin' in without invitation." Though if they hadn't, Raylan would have bled out there, in the dirt.

"You don't charge me enough, huh?" His lips curled faintly. "That mean negotiations are open?"

Doc shifts a little in kind. It is the little dance they do. Raylan nudges in close and he makes room. He encroaches on Raylan's space and Raylan gives way. They are always aligned, in this way. Calloused fingertips scratch around Raylan's wound, exploring, reading his scar tissue like a blind man well versed in braille.

"You oughta know better than to interrupt family time," Doc chastises in his drawl, reaching over to brush his curled finger under Raylan's chin and pass his thumb under his lower lip. His hand unfurls and smoothes up over a bit of a stubbled cheek, fingertip stopping at that soft, sensitive spot behind the earlobe.

"You are who you are. I will take you as you come. No negotiations necessary." His hand falls away, landing on the bed with a quiet little thud. "I am who I am. Would you take me, or leave me?"

Eventually, in most any situation, a line was drawn that ended whatever kind of dance was happening, sending whoever was involved into a new dance with a new beat, however familiar that beat was. This was no different and Raylan had avoided drawing the line out of fear that there wouldn't be a new dance to follow. Mathis had promised no guarantees.

To hell with the Bennett's - they deserved no space free of rent in his head and he'd been satisfied with the resolution to it all, with no sympathy or guilt around it. He hummed in response but Henry's fingers against his lips that parted softly in response, against his face was more important, more distracting and frankly, where he'd rather focus his attention. Even if he was glad that it was the side largely unmarred by the newest scars.

Henry's hand fell away and Raylan studied the barely lit features across from him as the line was drawn. Raylan only let a beat pass, an inhaled breath before he took the step over it. Pushing himself up onto his elbow, Raylan leaned in and answered by brushing his lips along Henry's, the older man's mustache tickling his skin in a not unpleasant way, almost teasing for half a heartbeat before he was kissing him with a firmness that couldn't be argued with. His free hand slid over and up Henry's side with a soft pressure, a silent need to get them back to their stolen moment in the tunnels where there were very few problems to bother them.

"Like hell I'm leavin' you," he promised huskily after breaking it, heartbeat jackhammering in his ears again. Even if this all fell apart, even if something happened that fractured 1306 badly enough to send them all their separate ways, Raylan was entrenched. There wasn't much of anything Raylan wouldn't have done for Henry or Malcolm, if given the chance, wanted or not.

There was no right or wrong answer. He had asked merely for honesty, not to be placated. He would still stay the night should Raylan choose to leave him, out of what deceptively sounded like an ultimatum. He would still stay in the house. But at least he would know not to pursue this line with another Marshal. Not the other Marshal, like some kind of replacement for the one he had lost to the ravages of time. Simply another Marshal. Another kindred spirit. Flawed and scarred and angry as anything.

Honestly, their timing is still horrendous, but at least they have picked a better location now, ending up in a bed like they had wanted to last time. They might still not be much in the proper mood, but at least very few problems bothered them right now. The worries of the house were nudged to the back of his mind as he cups the side of Raylan's face again, cradling him gently, kissing him back as his legs shift, inviting Raylan to move in on top of him.

His free hand grips tightly in Raylan's shirt, a fist holding him there and reluctant to let him pull back. Eventually the hand on his cheek finds a stretch between Raylan's shoulderblade and the curve of his lower back, rubbing up and down in long slow strokes as though he needed the comforting. Even when their lips aren't touching, their foreheads are, and in that moment he doesn't feel like he needs to say anything. Maybe they can exchange unspoken words simply like this.

"We're gonna be fine," he promises, kissing the corner of Raylan's lips, still rubbing the side of his back that can be easily reached. He would have said 'you', but it appears they're in this together.

Taking the nonverbal invitation, Raylan's leg worked its way between Henry's as his free hand moved up and around his shoulder, elbows still bearing the majority of his chest weight as he breathed in smoke and moonshine and the gun oil that should have been on both of them. There was a deep relief to be found in the touches, the grips, the kisses - no more questions about if this was okay or if either of them wanted it. One less thing to occupy his mind when they were together. One less thing to avoid thinking about.

There was no telling from his side what Henry would have done if he said no, but anything that could of come from that wasn't the reason Raylan said yes. Placation was for people who were more happy with making others happy than honesty or a respect for the way things were. They were both too old for that kind of shit and Raylan refused to be that kind of disingenuous about his own feelings. Not around this and definitely not in a place as chaotic and painful as Mathis.

With his eyes closed, head tilted against Henry's, he could almost feel.. secure here. Like he didn't have to shoulder everything directly, like it could be set off to the side for ten minutes so that he could rest. Was this how everyone else felt when they were around, sans affectionate touching?

We're gonna be fine. For once, his brain didn't offer 14 reasons why they would, in fact, not be fine up for debate.

Raylan hummed again, face turning into the kiss fractionally before stealing one himself from Henry's jaw. Of course one turned into two turned into Raylan working his way up the strong line of it before stopping himself with an internal chastisement of 'Slow down'. He opted to rest his forehead back up where it was with a slightly more uneven breath than before.

"I can't promise it ain't gonna happen again," he promises with a soft mutter. "Place bein' what it is. But I can promise I'mma do everything to try to stop that from happenin'." To save them all from it. So that they could be fine, even for a minute or two. So none of them broke more.

He's a little softer tonight. More pliant. Less inclined to throw Raylan around. The poor Marshal probably won't take it as well as he could, having been made to fall apart and still trying to pick himself up again.

A small part of him thinks this isn't a good idea. He's never been able to successfully fondle and caress and fuck his own or anyone else's problems away. It always created more come morning. But right now he doesn't feel saddled with that familiar guilt of maybe letting his other head get the better of him. This isn't that. This is more than... whatever he can reduce it to.

He does feel a little self-conscious of the days old barely there stubble that Raylan's lips were brushing over, evidence he cannot hide that he might have let himself go while they were gone. He should have been a better man. Stronger than that.

"That is all you can do," Henry reassures him. He slips his arm under Raylan's side and tries to encourage him to roll over more on top of him, to take that weight off. It's okay. He can manage supporting them both. There aren't many people here who wouldn't be squashed under the weight of the law bearing down on top of them. He should indulge while he can.

Of course, if it means that a broad, warm hand gets to meander further down his back and finds its way down to the curve of his ass while they grind like horny teenagers, that is a purely incidental byproduct of their new configuration.

"You are who you are," Henry repeats, lips nipping at lips and jawline and the side of Raylan's throat where yesterday's five o'clock shadow tapers out into smoother, softer skin as his fingers thread through Raylan's hair, giving a testing sort of firm grip to hold his head still while hips move as much as their entangled legs allow them to.

"Don't apologise for being you. Doing you. I'm not," he drawls, a hint of playfulness creeping back into his voice after a long day of being Doc and trying to gorilla glue the house together.

Raylan would have almost preferred it. No reassurances or his own excuses, no more words to twist and pull, contorting and warping his guilt into some weird amalgamation of both their views on it. A little roughness to remind him that he was still full in all his nerves, drag him back to the raw line of senses.

But he would take the roughness of stubble against his lips and cheek, which didn't come close to even registering as a statement to Henry's state of mind the past few days, the sturdiness of the chest he relented a fraction more of his weight by the second, pulled and plied by the husks against his ear that sent heat through his veins and the grinding against him that he followed shamelessly. His hand tightened on Henry's shoulder, fingers catching and pulling his shirt a little as his hair is gripped, hot breath and teeth pulling a rough faint note from the back of his throat.

Raylan lifted his head and muttered a few simple words- "You're right but shut up." - before kissing Henry with a rough abandon, tongue and teeth breaking any more comforting reassurances. A second later, he was pulling back to claw off his couple of layers of shirts, displeased by the lack of range and skin to skin contact Henry's roaming hand was currently getting.

There was no stopping this now, not without direct words. They had a closed door. They had a modicum of peace and Raylan had always used sex, even when he was married, as a way to force himself to stop thinking about all the terror and death that waited for him on the other side of the door. It wasn't any different now.

He didn't even stop to think that Doc might pick up a bit of confidence in where this was heading that Raylan hadn't had before. Then again, Doc knew him well enough, it was likely the gunslinger would think up his own excuse for it.

Not needing to dispense the reassurances anymore is a burden lifted from his shoulders. He doesn't feel the need to juggle multiple roles. And it feels less like this is an excuse for distraction (even if it is) and more of what they want to do. A resumption of business as almost-usual, kicked off in the depths of the tunnels and left to fester like an infection he had tried to ignore until he is reminded why it all matters, why it had nearly broken him scraping the shreds of Raylan up off the snow now that he is able to hold a warm and very much alive body squirming on top of him.

Blunt nails scrape along the back of Raylan's head and a quiet noise of approval rumbles up Henry's throat when he can get his hands on warm, exposed skin. More skin than scars, still. He can feel that much even if he hasn't gotten a close look at the new lines on Raylan's body. It is a good sign.

They're probably the only annoying folk around these parts who would lie down with their belts still on. Henry with his preference for snug-fitting pants is probably going to end up regretting showing up in his usual attire when he finds himself suddenly overdressed. To be fair he is almost always overdressed, but he isn't able to put in a more coordinated effort fixing that, just tugging on his shirt before trying to unbutton with the one hand until too much frustration mounts and settles in, cutting through that hazy heat of desire to do something more about it.

Eventually he uses both hands to work his shirt buttons off from the last one to the first, leaving it hanging open barely clinging on to his shoulders. A freed up hand slips down the length of their bodies, rubbing over the tent in Raylan's pants, dipping in between their tangled legs. No point kidding themselves that neither of them wanted something tonight.

No decent man kneels steeped in sin and prays for bruises. But John Henry has never pretended to be a decent man. The marks they would leave on each other's bodies is the only way to soothe the sting of these indelible scars.

It could be both things. It was both things and in the dark tussle of it all, Raylan could find no shame to shovel onto it. A desired abandon that predated all the bullshit they'd just been through, setting them closer to the more carefree mindset of then. Not that there was any 'carefreeness' to be spared. No, everything was stolen, meal times, their moonshine or dinner party, any moment they weren't harassed with the realities of Mathis. It was all taken cautiously.

One day, at some point, either of them might feel comfortable falling asleep in something less then all of their clothes ever it seemed, but this week wasn't going to be it by any smart estimations. It didn't matter.

Raylan pushed up and gave Henry the room to tend to his shirt, one hand moving between them to tug his belt open, pulling it off in one smooth, practiced motion. Never mind that it was a two step process only because of how long it was, but as soon as it was done, he was tugging and pulling Henry's open. Something he only got halfway through with before the hand down his front blanked out everything for a half second before he was tugging it open more fervently, moving up to kiss Henry again with a muted growl of need, hips pushing into his palm as Raylan tugged the following button behind Henry's belt open, fingers fumbling for the zipper as his chest bumped and brushed against him in a tease of what was to come.

Once the zipper was down, he wasted no time in running his hand across, around Henry's hip before it ran up his body, fingers pausing to linger on the scars he might meet along the way, full with a stop by his nipples. Raylan couldn't help a playful pinch of the one between his fingers before they continued up to start pushing the shirts off. No, no doubts about where this was leading.

Let Mathis deal with herself for a few hours; the cowboys were busy.

A hiss and an undignified noise that no one in Mathias has managed to successfully get out of the sometimes taciturn, sometimes overly melodramatic gunslinger cuts through the noise of belt buckles clinking and fabric rustling between them as he tenses up at the pinch, trying to laugh it off lowly and breathily. He clearly hadn't been expecting it, but it wasn't unwelcome.

It's not going to be possible for him to lie there and try to shove his pants off and look in any way graceful for even attempting it. Still he sort-of-tries, lifting his lower body off the mattress and sliding his thumbs between his outer thighs and his trousers to try and shove the rough fabric down lower. He should probably let Raylan help but he isn't always as patient behind closed doors as he has demonstrated he is capable of being during the day.

Don't mind him just- lying there watching in the meantime, touching, tugging on what was left of Raylan's clothes to take off, panting lightly as his eyes flit from one scar and one patch of smooth skin to the next, drinking in a sight he could not see when they were both bumping and almost-giggling in the dark. No doubt Henry looks different too, without the layers to cover up the scars that the West had put on him. Even the freshest one under his collarbone looks like it had been made by an old gun. Or maybe he just makes everything look old and faded like a pair of worn jeans.

Verbal appeals to vanity, Henry tends to reserve for the women who end up straddling him. This is something else. This is him musing how it's too bad that Mathias got to Raylan first, marred his skin with her scars and the promise of more suffering in the days and weeks to come. He should have liked to break him in himself. At least Henry's company doesn't make for an unbearable kind of suffering.

The open zip bites into his skin but he remains undeterred, slipping his hand into Raylan's pants, pushing the open flaps down low enough to give him a few long, slow, testing strokes. The worry that Raylan might get cold feet has lingered in the back of his mind, drowned out by the reassurance that calling all this off would not mean outright rejection playing over and over in a broken record loop.

"...you never did tell me your safeword," he muses breathlessly. Men should probably establish these things before they go touching each other's dicks but sometimes they do do things ass backwards in the south.

There was something about they breathed and groaned, a slip of sound that gave him all the context and knowledge of doing it 'right', that stoked Raylan's fire hotter for every one he earned. It seemed the roughness Raylan was eager to get under went further than just some light bondage or restraints. He grinned devilishly at it as he pulled back, shifting onto his knees, helping Henry pull his pants off before tossing them to the floor with a heavy clunk of his belt.

His own were pushed down a bit and he'd been about to step off Henry's side of the bed to strip when Henry shoved his hands down his pants. The rough pressure of it, the fact that he was still half dressed - all of it - made his breath hitch, brain shorting out for a long second as his cock twitched eagerly into Henry's palm. A question on top of it was borderline blissfully, demandingly cruel. He didn't think well with anyone's hand on his dick.

"Wors- Wishti- Wres-" Worcestershire sauce was what he was going for but it was a pretty shitty word if he couldn't even say it, so he opted for something simpler. "Gun oil." His accent was heavier in the moment, stretching 'oil' to something more akin to ohall.

He'd never chosen one before; had he done it right? It didn't really matter to him, he had other ways of expressing him being done with something, but there wasn't going to be any cold feet unless they talked about Raylan taking anything. Possibly unbeknownst to Henry, Raylan had already taken the first few steps with being okay about this kind of contact. It was an idea their tryst in the tunnels had done nothing to dissuade, amid all the trauma of the past few days.

Too wrapped in his own need, he forced himself to pull away and to his feet, but only long enough to shuck his pants. Once he was free of them, a hand was reaching out for Henry's neck to pull him into a rough kiss as his weight came back down to where it was before, wriggling and alive on top of him.

Edited (Icon change) 2021-03-10 03:53 (UTC)

No, he hadn't really done it right. They're supposed to agree on one that doesn’t ordinarily come up in common conversation. Gun oil is cutting it dangerously close for men who love their firearms. But they can rectify it next time when Raylan doesn't have a hand on his dick and can say his words without stumbling over them. Henry thinks it's endearing and maybe there will be some teasing in the near future if he ever finds some Worchestershire sauce lying around in a vacant house.

His hands grip and linger on Raylan's hips as one foot slides a little further back, enough to dig his heel in so they can grind the hard edges of their bodies together and find a place they easily fit in against each other. Now there is only skin left, and heat, desperate rubbing and bumping against each other in the cool autumn chill wrapping around them in the room.

Rolling them around, the bed creaks in protest at their shift in weight as Henry tries to take over, stay on top. If they're lucky they'll manage to stay in bed all night. With his weight on his knees he slams Raylan's wrists almost too loudly against the headboard, pulling them close together so that one splayed hand can slip between two layers of fingers and hold those arms there. It frees up his other hand to resume the handjob he'd been trying to give before they both got rid of their clothes while he bites the side of Raylan's neck, hard enough to leave a mark before soothing the sting of teeth with soft nips and kisses. There's something deliberate, slow and almost calculated about the way he's using his hand, callouses on his palm scratching along the shaft before curled fingers rub over the head, thumb applying just enough pressure until Raylan looks like he's about ready to kick and buck before he goes back to slow and short strokes near the base again.

Henry's been thinking about them. Thinking about this. The idea of... blowing off some steam, with someone he trusts, it appeals to the primal part of him he has trained himself to keep under wraps. He hasn't brought any Gun Oil with him, unfortunately, the kind they would need to be wrestling for who gets gets to be closer or further away from the pillow whilst leaving a headboard-sized dent in the wall, but he hasn't thought that far ahead anyway. Maybe they can work that out once they bruise the shit out of each other.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject