Salt

by Amras

Summary:

"You're a curious kitten, ain't you? So devoted to doing every bad thing under the sun. You think you've reached the limits of such satisfactions, but like I keep showing you, I'm far ahead."

A story told in six arcs, set in the 1880s, focusing on a strange relationship between Micah and Colm.

Explores their different pasts and outlooks, the rise of the O'Driscoll Gang and fall of Colm's brother, the intrigues of Annabelle and Dutch, and how Micah went from bad to worse in the name of a deep and terrible love.

Notes:

Heed the tags, even if I've put warnings in individual parts. It's a darkfic, but it also meant to be a slow burn romance and a kind of twisted parody of sugar daddy tropes. After writing three out of six arcs, I feel like it's more slice of life than something very plotty, so if you wish you can jump in the story and see what looks interesting to you. If you're mainly here for Dutch & Annabelle, they're present in arc four and six.

Here is an overview of the arcs of this fic:
Part 1-4: Arc 1, Seasons in Waiting
Part 5-10: Arc 2, Wintry Visits
Part 11-19: Arc 3, Office Pet Days
Part 20-25: Arc 4, Blackwater I
Part 26-29: Arc 5, Cill Cháis
Part 30-33: Arc 6, Blackwater II

The chapter titles will be from songs that I've listened to while writing it, kind of like an indirect playlist. This first part here is named after a song by Tsuneo Imahori.

Chapter 1: Perfect Night

A splash in the darkness. 

Of the two barriers of night, only one was breached, rippling and bubbling above a man losing his shape. A pale face and hands, warping as the body sunk. Imagined, but still: the muted thud as it hit the bottom of the sea, the drowning body straightening - where a burning one would've curled up - among the forest of weeds, looking up as fish began plucking out the eyes. Did whatever consciousness that was left dream of revenge? Could revenge come after death? Was there some kind of justice, or some kind of damnation, some kind of – 

" – pain?" Micah finished, only then realizing he'd been speaking out loud. 

"Philosophizing, kid?" came a rasp from behind him. The click of a lighter. A smoky exhale. Colm was nothing but a tall shadow with a glow near his mouth like the lure of an angler fish.

"Not a kid," Micah said and rose from where he was crouching on the docks. He lowered the lantern and took a last look at the corpse that he'd shoved over the edge. He fumbled after his pack of smokes, turning around and nearly dropping the lantern. 

Colm had moved closer.

Micah leaned backwards because he couldn't step back without ending up in the sea. All Colm had to do was to put a finger on Micah's chest to push him out to a darker depth, but instead a hand was put around the small of his back, steadying him. On another night, he might've retaliated. But he was too tired to play Colm's game of making him react, particularly so after spending the night hunting and drowning someone – something – under his command. The loss of adrenaline was exhausting in itself, but Micah couldn't recall a time when he was well rested, not ever.

"Did Amos' sermons get to you?" Colm asked while exhaling smoke into Micah's face. "Or is it simply that you've grown lonely – and a bit crazier – after he left?"

"Don't mention him. You know how my … You know how he gets."

"Your daddy ain’t here. Kinda relaxing, ain't it? That why you lost control of your tongue, just now?"

"Nope, I just figured were goddamn deaf, being such a fossil," Micah sneered.

Colm showed his teeth in turn, making Micah hide his own from instinct. The older man truly looked like some kind of strange fish, teeth sharp and yellow, hair oily black, and a wide nose like he was trying to steal Micah's air. There were no more docks behind the spurs of Micah's boots, so when he wavered, the hand on his back dug in. He tried shaking him off, but the words stilled him.

"I like you, sweet little Bell, but watch your mouth."

"Nobody thinks I’m sweet," Micah said, and then hated himself for responding to the bait.

"You calling me a nobody?"

Micah's coat was threadbare, and he felt the flex of Colm's fingers through it and the shirt beneath, digging into his pelvis, at the edge of his pants.

Colm had gotten bolder after Amos ran away. Touching Micah more, standing too close, speaking low so Micah had to lean in to hear. In general, he was an ancient, creepy, invert bastard. He was a threat, but Micah's father was a threat in turn if he hurt his remaining – his true – son. 

Micah was trying to find his pack of smokes again, but he stilled when a cigarillo was put between his lips. He almost spat it out, but Colm craned his neck, sucking on his own to increase the burn and light Micah's. It was from one of the fancy brands, dipped in cognac, luxuries forbidden among Bells.

"Tastes sweet, don't it?"

Micah didn't answer, but he did inhale, almost coughing again because of the strength of the tobacco. After a few drags, he came to close to enjoying the sweetness, which startled him and made him throw the cigarillo into the sea. 

He didn't realize what was happening until he was pressed against Colm's neck. Breaching the smell of the sea and the sour woodiness of the docks, he took with him his own twist on it, adding a tinge of fur, soap, skin, alcohol and - strange, but there - ammonia. He smelled like salt more than anything, enough to dry out Micah's mouth. The lantern in his hand shook. It was nearly out of oil, the flame similar to the curl of arousal in Micah's gut. He'd eviscerate himself if it'd help but decided to visit a whorehouse once this was done. It had been a while. That was all.

"I think about death a lot," Colm said casually, like the previous exchange hadn't happened, letting Micah inch away before stopping when he absorbed the meaning of the words. "Most likely there's nothing. Can be good and bad, I guess. But it's possible to experience a bit of that nothingness, before dying for real, I mean. And make it intense."

All past and future plans vanished, even the pressure of a mere man – even one such as Colm – wasn’t much compared to the thought of death. Micah worked his throat before asking, "How?"

Colm touched his chin, making his face heat. He wished his beard was less disgustingly soft, able to cut like a more proper stubble did, more fitting for his age. Whenever he shaved and grew it out again, he hoped it would be coarser, uglier, manlier. He wished it would be hard to the point of protecting him from the intoxicating feeling of fingerless leather gloves against his chin, an old weakness that he'd tried to rid himself off by seeking it out, but that only made stronger.

"I could show you." Colm's thumb moved towards the knife scar underneath his lip, badly healed. "A little death for a little man. Barely in your twenties, yeah?"

"None of your business." 

In truth, Micah did not remember how old he was. After Amos left, and after the business on the Briggs ranch (because it was just business, even he kept the newspaper slip on him whenever he went and studied it on many a sleepless night), time had ceased to make sense. There were only sensations.

His teeth grazed Colm's thumb, but it was not withdrawn. 

"Oh, but you kinda are working for me now, ain't you? So that makes you my business." 

The hand stayed, and so did Micah. He told himself he was building ire to buy an old whore – as similar to Colm as possible – to whip bloody. 

"You did good tonight," Colm said. "Real good. Exactly as planned. I liked when you dragged him kicking and screaming out of his house, right in front of his missus. It was a nice touch."

Micah looked away. The retelling of the job did not make him react, but the praise did. He didn't trust praise, but it'd been lacking lately. His father wasn't … wholly present. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have rented out Micah's gunslinging skills to Irish fucks like the O'Driscoll brothers. Growing up, he had met them both on several occasions, seldom free of blood.

One was wide, the other tall. One smelled like a flower bouquet, the other like a mix of salt and ammonia. Both liked young men, adding them to their gang, but one was known for being generous, and the other, for darker tastes. One was also known for being the boss, where the other really was. It was similar to how it'd been with Amos, who was a few minutes older but weaker, and as such did not inherit the legacy of the name. 

There was an otherness to Colm. As if he wasn’t quite there, eyes blackish brown, sometimes dwelling on abstracts that interested Micah. He was not a father, a brother, nor a boss. Micah's only mentor was his grandfather, and he was dead. He didn't trust people enough to have friends, did not see the point of it, when having colleagues was safer. And he didn't trust Colm, but the worst thing about the man was that he sometimes took Micah seriously, as a gun, a thinker and –

(Colm's hand struck like a spider by hooking two fingers at his bottom lip and pulling at it, the sensation of being opened up shivering through him, making him feel like –)

– a goddamn boy toy. 

The last part he really could've done without, especially paired with the knowledge that he didn't mind all that much, although it was disgusting.

"That head of yours is working hard. Want me to show you how to turn it off?" 

"Is that a threat?" Micah asked, slurred until Colm let go of him.

"It's an offer. If you're a good boy, I could give you something more in return, afterwards. Could get you a leather jacket, instead of your grandaddy's rotten cotton one, yeah?"

Micah wasn't supposed to get excited at the thought of a piece of animal hide, as the man who once wore his coat had tried to shred the vanity from him. He tore himself away, and Colm let him, knowing he couldn't go far without his earnings. Three steps and then stop.

He breathed in the new, less used air, the slightly rotten smell of the sea. There weren't many thoughts in his mind that he could discern. White noise. And how he hated the sea for no real reason.

"Just pay me, O'Driscoll."

"Well, it's your work but it's your daddy's money. He told me he doesn't trust you with it cause you spend it all on whores."

Micah felt his face heat. "He's ly – exaggerating."

"Maybe so. I've known him for years. I also know how he gets when he drinks. I know there won't be many nice things for you left for you. Such a shame. Pretty boys deserve pretty things, yeah?"

He reached into his pocket. Micah tensed, expecting him to pull a gun.

But instead, he pulled out a palm filled with pebbles, shapeless and gray until Micah raised his lantern, too curious not to. They shone brightly in colors that did not belong in such a night. Emeralds, sapphires and rubies. Micah was no jeweler, but he knew how one of them – especially a ruby – would be enough to quench his father's thirsts and sate Micah's hungers for a while.

Colm picked up a small emerald.

"This one is on the house. Consider it tips for helping me out tonight."

Micah's fingers hovered above it before he could stop himself. Then he hesitated. 

Colm's smile was disturbingly sweet. No one looked at Micah like that except him. 

"What if you consider it blackmail? As if I'm paying you so you won't tell your daddy that there's another man interested in his boy."

Micah snatched the emerald up, putting it into his cigarette pack, flattened from where he'd clawed at and somehow missed a cigarette twice. When he put it away, Colm had not removed his palm but picked up a sapphire. It was worth more, and Micah waited to hear the price.

"For this one, I want a kiss."

He considered sticking a finger down his throat just to show what he thought about that, but he stayed quiet. It wasn't unthinkable that he had more sexual experience than Colm. The man was renowned for preferring men, but his gang was in its nascent beginnings, more of a troop than an army. But he still held power of a tactical kind, having seemingly planned the game with the stones, knowing too much about Micah's family situation. And he did need money. 

"Deal," he said flatly. 

Colm smiled. In an infuriating fashion, he tapped his index finger against his bottom lip, signaling that he wanted Micah to lean up. And he had to do so, because Colm was a lot taller. It was humiliating, leaning up on his feet, like a dumb girl in a dumber romance novel. The slight lack of balance made the kiss harder than he wanted to, their lips equally dry, no plump flesh and fatty lipstick, just a coarse stubble and the alcoholic smell of aftershave. Micah closed his eyes, then withdrew.

When he opened them, he saw that Colm's were half lidded.

"Oh, that's cute, Micah. You haven't kissed much, have you?"

Micah scowled. "It's meaningless."

"That's not true. Want me to show you how to make it meaningful?"

Colm leaned down, and when Micah gritted his teeth, the other simply showed his own, with some space between the rows, to convey what he wanted Micah to do. It took a few seconds of a staring contest, before Micah blinked, lost, and opened his mouth more. 

Colm spat into it. 

Micah caught it and swallowed. 

He hadn't meant to do it, it just happened. Shame bloomed, his hairs standing on end. It was a part of himself he was used to working out in bought company, the silence of whores as important as their skills. 

"Good boy."

Micah swallowed again, convinced he could feel Colm sliding down his throat and into his stomach, where he would fester and grow like a disease. And Micah already felt vaguely feverish, maybe from lack of sleep. The fever increased when Colm put the sapphire in the front pocket of Micah's jeans, the hand sneaking down as if to make sure it was secure, knuckles pressing against the inner fabric of the pocket, close to the sensitive skin between his groin and gut. When they withdrew, Micah was breathing hard.

Colm picked up a third stone, a ruby this time. He put the other stones back in his pocket, and turned over the ruby in his hand, studying it. No new terms were spoken. He looked at Micah, who could hear the soft rasp of his voice. What do I get for this, little Bell?

Micah squinted. 

"Lemme guess, you wanna fuck me? That'd make you feel powerful, wouldn’t it?"

"You got such a potty mouth. You ever used it for anything else?"

"No," Micah lied and grinned. 

"No? Put down the lantern."

Micah paused. Then he bent down slow, knew that it riled other people up, especially disgusting old men like Colm. He stayed on his knees, glancing towards Colm's front. It was covered by his coat, so Micah could not estimate on the size of his cock, but he still imagined it to be all wrinkled and sad like a dead larva, not worth his time if not for the ruby in Colm's hand.

"What are you waiting for?"

Scoffing, Micah reached out to open the lower buttons of the coat, only to have his wrists grabbed. He tried to yank them away, but Colm was stronger than he looked. It shouldn't have excited him.

“I meant stand up," Colm said with a smirk, making a move to lift him before Micah followed and yanked himself away. "You won't get to taste that just yet. Gotta earn it."

How? Micah almost asked before pressing deep into the fresh bruises on his wrists.

An old, idiotic shame twisted within him, a feeling that he ought to have outgrown entirely by now. He leaned over the docks and spat out a glob of tobacco-laden saliva. His problem was not the thick and yet barely-there fantasies of sucking cock and taking it up the ass, and vice versa, but the fact that it interested him as much as the discussions, doing those sorts of things with an O’Driscoll.

Usually, it gave him a degenerate satisfaction, to twist what others only associated with digestion into pleasure. It made him feel powerful, even while being taken, when he could take in turn by liking it. And although he didn't see himself as the sodomite that Amos had called him, he liked the lewdness and lawlessness of it. He had been with older men, but then the matter of payment had been reversed from now. 

He couldn't help but imagine that Colm's cock was small and ugly. That had to be the reason why he resisted getting his dick sucked, too scared that Micah would make fun of it, which he would. It was like a second nature to him, reaching for the spots he saw as weakness and digging his nails into it.

"What, you can't even get it up no more? Too senile? Too close to death?"

Colm laughed. It was the same smoky exhale at before, but Micah smiled when he heard a slightly forced undertone to it. His gut feeling - coming from the place not occupied by arousal - told him that he had been right, thinking Colm did not like to have his age made fun, even if he tolerated it.

"Someone ever tell you you talk too much?" 

"Someone ever tell you you smell like cat piss?"

"No. You wanna try?"

"Sure," Micah drawled. "You smell like c – "

He didn't get very far before pain engulfed him, so intense it took a moment to realize it came from Colm squeezing – busting – his balls. It felt like his pride leaked through his mouth in a high, undignified sound, until they became numb. He became loud again when the hold on them loosened, blood flooding back and increasing the pain. He almost went to his knees, but Colm wouldn't let him, using both hands to keep him standing. One hand became more intimate, finding his erection. Micah couldn't move. He felt distant to his own arousal, closer to pain, the engulfing nature of it. 

"Knew it," Colm said. He casually undid Micah’s jeans, pulling them down just enough to expose him. Around his cock, the glove was softer than callused hands. "No underwear, huh? That must chafe. You're such a pain slut, kitten."

"Queer piece of shit geezer."

"Geezer, huh? Sure. But you can call me sir, if you wanna."

"You haven’t earned it," Micah said, trying to parody Colm's rasp but just sounding like a whisper. 

And then that actual voice surrounded him in the form of laughter, moving in time with the hand around him, stronger than the presence of the sea. Micah stopped his hips from moving into it. He wasn't a whore, but he could survive a lousy hand job for a ruby. He was pretty sure Colm wouldn't get him to come, and if he did, it'd feel like nothing, as climaxes often did for him. Afterwards he would raise a brow at Colm, demand payment and leave the older man standing there. He imagined himself looking very good while doing so, proving that nothing could get to him.

But Colm must've felt Micah steeling himself, because the next move wrung an exhale of him. Colm tightened his grip, the pain like lightning. Micah had always liked standing in an open field, laughing at the storm clouds, daring them to hit him. And while he did not laugh, Colm was a storm, filling Micah's lungs with something akin to ozone.  A moan left him, close to a sound of pain but not quite. 

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" Without waiting for affirmation, Colm tugged a little too harshly, but this time Micah hissed. "So fierce, kitten. I know you can take it." He licked the inside of Micah's ear, like the worm that he'd imagined to be Colm's cock was inside his head. "Cause I know all about them whores, you see."

Micah twisted his neck to the side, face so hot it felt like it could slip off. When Amos left, Micah had imagined he took all of their shame with him, leaving Micah purified, but the shame was here, larger than ever. His ear felt cold whenever the sea breeze brushed against it, drying Colm's spit. 

"What, you suffering from dementia, you forget how to b-buy a woman, need me to – "

"Oh, I bought a few to tell me all about you. What you like. What you dislike. And they told me about the men you visit. And about the Madame, too. Never got the chance to experience her, but from the stories, you did so, often."

Micah's voice was gone, and all that was left was a small nothing blinking up at Colm, the haze that followed him whenever he thought about how the Madame was killed, found in bed with markings around her throat. When her colleagues had told Micah of it, he laughed so hard he cried.

"Dunno what you … " Micah began, but it was too obvious a lie, the drawl cracking at the edges.

"I know who killed her, too."

Micah's breath hitched, and he couldn't stop his eyes from widening. Colm smiled at him, then did something with his wrist that made Micah whine.  He didn't want to watch himself in Colm's hand, so he kept looking at Colm's face instead.

"Tell me," he forced out.

"Maybe later. Let's just do this for a little while longer, yeah?"

Micah hated how Colm made things that weren't questions sound like them. He also despised the thought of steeping low enough to beg Colm to stop, as if he was scared of coming. He wasn't. He was just ... closer to it than he'd assumed he'd be. He still hadn't moved his hips a single time, but his thighs were twitching.

Without warning, Colm stopped. Micah was left in the sounds of his own panting and the slower waves lapping at the docks, no longer in sync if they ever had been. 

"There's someone behind you," Colm said while looking over Micah's shoulder.

For a split-second Micah thought it was his father, and it intensified the shame, despite it being a stranger on the docks, holding his lantern up, slowly backing away from them. 

"Kill him," Colm said. 

Micah didn't hesitate, pulling his gun and aiming at the stranger. Colm choose that moment to start jerking him off again. The bullet hit the stranger in the mouth, and while the kill was swift, the gurgle was not. The thud of boots – quiet due to the distance – ending in a splash of water. In the same moment as the thing began to drown, Micah came all over Colm's glove. 

Like always, it felt like nothing, but this was somehow larger, the relief specific to after a kill somehow distorting the downwards spiral left after sex. The grip around him lessened, and the few remaining tugs were lazier. Colm wasn't only milking his spend, but his daze, too. 

Sliding a thumb over the head of his cock, chasing a sensitivity that was new to Micah. 

Holding his gaze, crinkled at the sides, almost no light in his blackish brown eyes. 

Leaning in, so close he could feel Colm's breath, slow where his was fast, soft where his was harsh. 

And he almost gave in to it before he realized that it would upset the balance of three stones against three favors (the kill included, a second kiss not). And then he regained his scowl. 

"If you ever try touch me again," he said against Colm's lips, "I'll gut you like a pig."

"Sure," Colm said, always smiling too much. 

He reached out – with the clean glove – and removed Micah's bandana from around his neck, only to use it like a napkin both on himself and on Micah. Afterwards, he shut the zipper and button of his pants with a fast and skilled hand. Colm wasn't a bad gun; he'd never survive this long if he was. 

"See? All fixed up. And now your daddy won't know his son's an invert, on occasion."

Micah felt rage like a bucket of burning coals thrown over him. He reached for his holsters. 

The other stopped him by holding out an open palm, its simple contents gleaming like a red eye, seeing through his ire. He snatched up the ruby and turned on his heel. 

It felt good to get away, following the light of the lantern left by the weakling who spotted them. There were no traces of the body otherwise, even if Micah felt as if someone - something? - was still looking. He took the stranger's lantern anddiscovered that it was filled with more oil than his own had been. 

The old one, which was still out there on the tip of the docks, ended up betraying him. Because when Colm walked towards him on the docks, it made him into a large shadow, hiding his expression and making the whole of him more predatory and somehow more appetizing.

Micah felt himself hunch but couldn't stop it.

"Thanks for waiting up," Colm said, and Micah gave a curt nod as if he'd been meaning to do so.

They fell into step beside each other, and it soothed Micah a bit, because when he was out with his father, he was always made to walk a little in the back. He expected Colm to put a hand on Micah's back, like he sometimes did, but it didn't happen. Had the measly little hand job changed it, somehow? Made him less interesting? Or had the other, against all expectation, decided to listen?

"You see, there was something I wanted to ask you about. Ah-ah," he said when Micah made a sound of protest, "Don't worry, this ain't got nothing to do with your sweet ass. You'll give that to me when you're ready." 

"Like hell I - "

"This is something else," Colm cut him off, making Micah seethe but listen. 

Curiosity flared up, and he startled when he realized how close they were to their horses, before Colm started checking over his saddle. His horse was a skinny, red mare whose name was Dug Dug (or Dearg Dubh, Micah remembered but couldn't be bothered to pronounce it).

Micah checked the saddle bags of his own stolen, unnamed horse, a bluish gray stallion with an easy temperament. He paused when Colm began speaking, before resuming the aimless search.

"I need a strong gun for a couple of jobs I wanna do down south. Owen doesn't know. He doesn't need to know, cause he never thinks about the future. Maybe some traveling would do you good. Like your daddy used to do back in the day, with his daddy, just like you’ve been bragging about."

Colm waited as if to let Micah get whatever crude response he had out of the way, but he managed to keep his mouth shut. Traveling? He hadn't done so since his father was in better health. He liked it alright. Liked riding, setting up camps, shooting small prey as exercise. 

"If you help me out, I'll pay your daddy well, and you, even better."

Colm had always paid well, that was true. But to do work behind the backs of his father and Colm's brother? A few years ago, it'd been unthinkable. Now it was tempting. 

"I'll also tell you who killed that old whore you liked so much. Hell, I'll take you on a vacation to visit him, somewhere down the line. How does that sound?"

"He's still alive?" Micah asked, whatever resistance he had had left vanishing. He could barely think about the Madame without his mind smoldering at the edges, worse than it ever did no matter how much of an ass Colm was to him.

"Course he is. Men who kill whores often get off easy. Especially if they have contacts within the law, and got themselves all nicely set up, with a business and a wife and kids and all."

"Gross," Micah said, more so at the mention of a wife and kids, having suspected the rest.

Colm mounted his horse, and Micah distantly hoped all the bones in his body hurt from strain. He climbed up on his own horse, not wanting to be that much shorter than Colm. They rode side by side away from the docks, along the shoreline, too close to each other. Micah had to do so, or he wouldn't catch Colm's words.

"What do you think? Wanna come with me on a work trip, kitten?"

The new nickname helped put things into perspective. 

"Go fuck yourself," Micah said in the politest tone he could muster for the occasion.

"You don't have to decide now," Colm answered as if Micah had said nothing. "I - I mean me and my brother - still have some jobs we need you to do around here. I'll leave a year or two, I think. Those properties ain't going nowhere. Lemme know if you wanna join me before then."

Whatever game he’d thought Colm was playing until now, a bigger one had begun. 

But Micah could still resist it. 

To make his point, he took the ruby from his pocket and threw it away. 

He wasn't as intent as he would prefer, faltering last minute, something he rarely did when wielding a gun. Without it, he was weaker. He expected some sort of splash in the darkness, at least a plop, but then realized it must've hit the rocky beaches, gray and shapeless once more. 

"Pity," Colm said, but he did not sound surprised or hurt. "Well, there's more where that came from, if you change your mind. See you soon, little Bell. I'll come pick you up next Sunday."

Without waiting for a goodbye, he rode off. Micah saw him disappear, merging with faraway shadows. 

Micah waited five minutes before he dismounted. He could've waited longer, but they were too close to the scene of a crime so he couldn't use the lantern. He walked over to where he'd thrown the ruby. On his knees, he combed through the grass and sand. Small hisses left him. Nasty promises of what he'd like to do to Colm. Ugly words, the ugliest ones he knew.

And then he found the ruby. It didn't feel like winning. It felt like holding a shiny eye, more black than red in the darkness, still staring right through him. His palm closed around it, its edges cutting into his skin, but it felt like a larger hand had closed around him.

Chapter 2: Careful What You Wish For

Summary:

Micah decides to just let Colm have him, thinking he can control the encounter. As implied by the chapter title, he can't.

Notes:

Warning: Dubious consent and CBT is a blanket warning for this work, but this part here also contains elements of consensual non-con.

The chapter title is from a song by Coil, of which I prefer the remastered version :)

The first time Micah let Colm fuck him was in a ditch in a rocky terrain at night.  

They were camping after completing another hit, another man who Colm wanted to see expire from behind Micah's shoulder, bullet holes among wrinkles stretching out in horror.

Micah had deduced that he was part of a plan of eradicating loose ends from previous partnerships of the O'Driscolls, but it didn't worry him when his fresh blood was necessary where the old wasn't.  

Colm had set up his tent, rolling out a thick bedroll for his old bones, not saying a word before he went inside. He left Micah on his own shitty bedroll outside by the fire. Nearby, in front of a pile of hay, stood Dearg Dubh – Dug Dug, he mentally corrected himself – and his new, stolen horse, a nag as dumb and nameless as the one before he'd had before it.   He laid under his grandfather's coat and a foggy night sky, the fire flickering nearby, warming one side of his body. He was too tired to make himself pretty, but not too tired to slick his fingers up with gun oil.  

After their exchange at the docks, Colm had, unexpectedly, backed off. He still spoke low but touched Micah less. He always made sure they were well fed before doing a job together, but he ignored Micah's abstract questions, his smile secretive, and he did not seek out conversation, not even when Micah found himself missing the jabs if only to be able to return them. Most of all, he hated the smile. " You ' ll give it to me when you ' re   ready ," Colm had said and Micah had disagreed. The tension never went away, because Micah would frequently catch Colm staring at his ass.

What he felt the strangest about losing was the understanding between them, which arose from how   aware Colm seemed to be that they were both predators of men, yet able to take that knowledge into language. Micah had a similar awareness, but he didn't manage to ooze it from the essence of his being like Colm did. He wasn't averse to using violence but had rarely used it on Micah, not like he'd done on his boys, making them come close before backhanding them.

Micah wasn't one of the O'Driscolls, he was a living legacy.   And he rarely messed up. In those few times when he got too violent and in the aftermath stood panting with blood up to his elbows and gore dripping from his chin, Colm's smile would be honest in its appraisal. "Good job," he'd say, and Micah would breathe deeper, somehow relaxing, with or without cognac-dipped cigarillos.   Like many things, he didn't notice the m before they were gone.

Waking up with a mirror rising beside him every morning, the same face and the same gait, back and forth to Sunday school and the shooting range behind the house, before the mirror cracked. The cracks were shaped like seventeen small crosses, killing their bond like the weapon of execution that the cross once had been, before it symbolized faith.

Amos had left and Micah was alone.  

It didn't matter.  

Colm mattered. With his information, his growing troop of men, his power.

So, after some thought, he'd decided to just let the older man have him. Let that smile become woozy, let him think he ' d won, as if a five-minute fuck could somehow undo Micah, the ancient bastard huffing and puffing and screaming his own name as he came, and then …

Maybe things would go back to the way they were, before the exchange at the docks?

Micah hadn't used the whorehouse as much after   she   died, the bitch. The needs were there, but the common whores didn ' t manage to negate them, and when he let himself be picked up in seedier places, the men were less rough than they looked, cooing over his  rump   and tutting over his   tummy , saying sweet nothings that made him want to throw up.

(Maybe he preferred saltier nothings. But this thought was muted under the noise in his head, a constant stream when he wasn't shooting something).

Twisting to the side so he could look deeper into the fire, he lowered his hand into his pants. They had gotten a bit too large and barely hanging onto his hips. He didn't bother to stretch himself that open, he just pushed as much oil into himself as possible, until he was leaking with it. Colm wouldn't be able to think straight anyway, would lose himself in the darkness and heat and thinking he was taking something from Micah, not the other way around.    

And then he went back to feigning sleep on his stomach. Made his breath heavy like he did when he was a child, matching his breath to Amos' when a shadowed figure lingered in the doorway, making sure the twins got all the rest they could get for another day of gun training.  

Minutes passed.   Had the old man fallen asleep? Had n't he gotten the message?  

Because there had been a message , earlier that day.  Micah frowned, because it'd felt so obvious he didn't need to think about it afterwards, but he supposed Colm might've been too senile. The way he had caught him staring at his ass as usual, while he was looting the corpse for valuables, the knees of his pants dirty from crawling in the mud and blood.

He had looked behind his shoulder at Colm, and instead of glaring or turning around, he'd simply let his own eyes become half-lidded. He had arched his back, pretending to double check the pants pockets. After, Colm had tilted his head, and Micah had looked at him from beneath his lashes with a smirk he hoped looked more inviting than spiteful.

It should've been obvious, and   it was.  

The rough fabric of the tent moved against the fabric of a coat, and   pebbles were crushed under slow boot steps. They came to a halt a small distance from Micah . He surpassed a shudder, his instincts telling him to get up and protect himself. He was resting his head on his arms to hide his face, but it wouldn't be hard to reach for his revolvers or his knives.  

More pebbles were crushed, implying that the man was kneeling just behind him,   praying to the divinity of Micah's ass.   Micah rolled his eyes thinking about it, but due to his lids being down it gave him the feeling of losing his pupils, floating around in his mind.  

That dark burst open when he realized h is revolvers were being unholstered and flung away in the second before Micah reacted. His hand went for the knife in his coat, arranged in a way so that the pocket was close to his hand, but Colm wrung his cover away from him and rubbed a handful of coal into Micah's face. He shouted when his eyes stung.   The shout got a panicked edge as Colm removed the second knife from the sheath, a part of his gun belt.  

To keep his legs spread, Colm widened his knees between them, and Micah yelled again as Colm somehow found the third knife, the one hidden in his boot that he had never used around the man. It was supposed to be a last resort. 

"There we go," Colm said as if he'd been mildly inconvenienced.  

He put himself on all fours over Micah, grabbing both of his wrists and holding them above his head. Colm's coat engulfed him on each side like a sky of marine blue leather and pale fur. Micah tried his best to fight him off, sharp inhales making the smell of him more apparent, encapsulating him in the other rather than that of his own mind. 

"Easy boy, easy."

Micah snarled, but said nothing in case the strength of his words could make the other back off. He kept on fighting it was more like wiggling. He regretted laying on his stomach, even if he hated doing this kind of thing face to face.

The hands around his wrists collected them in one. The other hand was free was to roam, dragging down his pants just like he guessed he'd would do - without removing his weapons first. The bare skin never got the chance to be cold, pressed against Colm's clothed groin. It wouldn't stay clothed for long.  Whatever came next, Micah could survive it. He was good at it, surviving, especially if the traps were of his own make. 

Colm started feeling him up, getting bold er . Micah gritted his teeth, having no interest in being fingered. It was too weak and feminine. Colm wasn't even wearing his gloves, which he told himself didn't disappoint him, but it'd at least add some thickness to the index finger tracing the line of his ass, before slipping inside. The sensation was invasive, but not bad. 

Fine. Let him think himself nice, opening him up, before entering him properly.  

But the finger stayed still.  

"Huh. You're all lubed up. Why'd you go ahead and do something like that?" 

Micah held his breath.   Colm wasn't supposed to question him.   He should be grateful that Micah had gotten that stuff out of the way, not disappointed.

"Haven't you heard the rumors?" Colm asked, his voice soft like cobwebs seemed to be until one poked them with a stick and all the little eyes woke.  

"The ones were you're an invert ?"  

Colm laughed, making him shiver. No fire could provide warmth from that kind of cold.  

"Oh, I've missed this part of you, kitten. But no, I was talking about the specifics."  Colm put his stubbly face on Micah's shoulder. "They say I like to fuck boys dry."

Micah faced him then, heart beating faster.   Colm was smiling at him, but the smile had gained back its honesty, even if it was honest about cruelty more than anything else .

" They're right, you know ."

Micah didn't know which of Colm's eyes to look at, both brownish black, no light in them.

Shit. Was it possible to do it dry without permanent damage? Micah wasn't scared of blood, of course he wasn't, but all the people he'd ever gone this route with had used grease or oil or something to make it easier. He'd heard horror stories from whores of what could happen if one went without it, torn assholes getting infected, swelling up and hindering digestion, resulting in shameful deaths that even priest would avoid giving the final words to due to the smell.   S hit , indeed.

"Shh. Don't be scared. I know what I'm doing," Colm said, and kissed his grimy forehead, lips slightly black from the marks left by the coal.

The kiss angered him enough to make him start fighting again, getting one hand loose in order to elbow Colm in the side. But   he never got that far, because had to use both of them to braze himself when Colm pushed two fingers up his ass.

He hadn't made a sound, but pride couldn't silence him when those two fingers started   scraping   oil out of him.   He'd never felt anything like that before, the stretch an afterthought for both him and Colm.   All that sensitive skin made more sensitive.   It hurt.   It hurt good.  

"If I wanted to do it wet, I'd get a girl. But right now, I wanna fuck a boy, and he's gone and messed it up. So, I gotta do some extra work. But I'll be gentle. It's our first time together and all."

Micah absently wondered what Colm was like when he was rough, if this was him being gentle. The fingers continued probing inside him, sometimes pulling out to rub the excess at his thigh or the fabric of his pants, mostly moving around as if to - yuck - absorb as much oil as possible or make him absorb it in turn. Micah didn't get it. It stung, but the pain was more tolerable than the humiliation of the newness of it.

Not fully conscious of it, his hands were scratching at the ground above the bedroll like Colm was doing inside of him.

The stinging began to burn. It shouldn't be possible with how cold Colm was being.   He did not tut, and did not coo, which surprised Micah. It'd be easy for Colm to say something humiliating, but he was serious about it, as if it really was necessary.

Micah was aware he was someone with preferences. A lot of people didn't know that about themselves, repeating patterns laid by how they'd heard or read about romance, thinking they could conjure arousal, where it was about seeing what was there from the beginning and working it.   Hearing another person - and one such as Colm - acknowledge and seek out his preferences, it made him feel ... something, despite being at the wrong end of it.

"It'll be ready soon," Colm said, as if talking about developing a photograph. "I won't accept you spacing out like this when we get going, you know."

If Micah truly wanted to, he could still get away, using his arms, even if it might tear him up a little.   Nothing like those horror stories, anyway. He found safety in knowing that he wasn't expendable, and that he was protected by both his own resume and his father's.

"Stop," Micah said, and told himself it was to see what Colm would do.

Colm paused. When he spoke, he sounded more surprised than irritated.   "Really? You wanna play   the   stop, please no - game with someone you ain't never been with before?"

"I'll never beg you, you creepy fucking fossil."

"Now that ain ' t nice, Bell. But I'm gonna be nice, since you ' re such as little thing. If you truly want this to stop, say it now. I won ' t mention this to your daddy either way. What'll it be?"

No answer, just heavy breathing.  

"I'll take that as a   go ahead, sir ," Colm said, making his voice all high and shaky at the end.

Micah began to curse him, before he heard the sound of a belt being opened. So, this was it, then. It was happening. Just a little different from how he had planned, that was all. 

He briefly recalled thinking that Colm's cock was shriveled up like a dead larva, because it   wasn ' t.   It wasn ' t that big, either, but certainly not small enough to slip inside dry without being noticed. The stretch was most intense around the rim, swallowing the head of the cock, but the lack of slick provoked a heated feeling of intimacy. 

"Been a while, hasn't it," Colm said, and it sounded like it was directed at Micah's body rather than at him as a person.

That made it easier to dive back into his mind, feeling the pain grow dimmer.

It felt a bit like being taken for the first time. He barely remembered it, probably a whore with a toy coated in slick, an experienced voice easing him through it. It wasn't easy for Micah, but he wouldn't have sought it out if it was, proving himself to himself.

The slap against his ass made him yelp. His hip was gripped hard enough to bruise, sharp in comparison to how Colm was inching himself inside .

"No no, stay with me, don't space out."

"Fuck off." But it did bring him back to the pain inside, the steady intrusion.

Halfway in now, Colm taking his time, waiting for the muscles to relax rather than to fuck his way inside, but never relenting the pressure.  

The hand that wasn't gripping Micah's hip snuck along on the other side. Feeling the flex of his thigh, trembling slightly from being spread for so long .  Finding his soft cock, squeezing it in greeting, before his balls were palmed, then gripped. The hold increased until Micah whined. Colm rasped a laughter, and it held an odd note of delight. Then the laughter ebbed into a long exhale and the hand found the trail of hair at his stomach. 

"This is where I need you to try to relax, Micah. Breathe into my hand."

It was a strange request, but he tried to focus on the palm on his stomach, getting it further away from him. It caused him to cough, as if there were dust in the bottom of his lungs, and as if he only ever gulped air high in his throat. The coughs jostled the cock inside him and made him clench around it.

"Oh," Colm said fondly, "Try again."

And he did try, and there were more coughs, tasting like cigarettes. He'd smoked too much tonight. Nevertheless, he finally managed to feel his stomach swell against Colm's palm, in and out.

And like the fiend he was, Colm copied the movements with the sway of his hips. Micah prepared himself for the pain of tearing, but instead there was a deep, coarse stretch. He tried to space out, which apparently made him tense, because Colm dug his nails into his stomach until he focused on breathing deeply. And then there was the tickle of pubic hair, balls pressed against his ass.

"See? You're taking it well. Just keep breathing."

It wasn't usually like this, slow and deep, making him sweat. He preferred it hard and fast, grabbing at whatever he could get in order to yank the rhythm from his partner, or fucking them on the floor, holding them down, not letting them grab at him. But Colm had never been a partner. And there had been a fight, ending in red marks on his wrists, which he'd use later by rubbing them while jerking off, as he preferred to do alone.

Again, his ass was slapped in warning, and he went back to the tedious task of filling and emptying his lungs. 

The stretch grew more tolerable, and it was like he had done some dusting in his respiratory system, enough for his breathing not to require as much focus. Colm took it as a cue to increase the speed. Not fast, but a little harder.   Micah felt cornered. He struggled, and Colm could feel it, responding immediately.

"You're not gonna tear. Your body is resilient. Just stay loose for me."  

Micah grunted. The part of his body closest to the fire burned. There was sand under his fingernails. His erection was back.   He didn't really notice the last part before Colm was giving it a few tugs.  

"Don't."  This time the word held more truth to them, arriving unbidden.

"What, you don't wanna come?" 

Micah hadn ' t expected to be asked that.

He shook his head and knew that if he was asked why, he'd stay quiet. 

"Huh. I don't care about it all that much, either. I like this better. You seem to do so too. Throw in a little pain, and you get all easy. Good thing I like slutty boys."

"No," Micah said, trying to crawl away before   Colm grabbed him and dragged him back to his cock. 

"Yeah."

He shivered, and Colm laughed, continuing to move within him.

What did it mean for the fuck, if none of them cared about what was normally the end of it? Maybe it meant the two of them, without end.   Just this - forever.

His eyelids fluttered at the thought of it. Colm had already pushed against the spot inside him a couple of times, but he was looser now and felt it better.   Less like he had chalk inside him, more like a massage, hard and dry and good.

A moan left him. His eyes flew open, especially when Colm adjusted himself, bucking into him as a response. The slap of his balls was wet from sweat, noticeably different from the dry slide of his cock, making Micah moan once more – this time, long and brokenly. He sounded like he belonged to Colm.  

"Stop," he said, tried to make it into a hiss, ended up sounding weak.  

"I'm not gonna stop just cause you like it too much," Colm replied, voice a little shallow whenever he moved.

"Irish fuck."

"Aw, are you running out of," a slight groan, "bad things to say?"

"Do you, uh," he tried to parody Colm's sound, "fuck your brother like this?"

A pause. Everything stopped up. All Micah could hear was the crackle of the fire. 

"What was that?" Colm asked lightly, fingertips dancing against Micah's stomach, going lower.

"N-Nothing."  

They avoided his erection, stayed in the crease between his groin and thigh, where he was rarely touched. Despite the softness of it, it was threatening.  

"You sure? I could've sworn you just insinuated some pretty bad stuff about me and Owen just now. If you did that, I'd have to assume you were talking from experience. Must be nice, fucking yourself. But I guess it gets lonely in the prairie. Did the whole family join in?"

Micah frowned, before he got what Colm meant. Before he could help it, he pictured it and blanched. He twisted around, shock and fury in his voice.  

"We   never   - "

Then Colm locked his hand around his balls, just like he'd done at the docks. It wasn't agony, but it was more than enough to shut him up. While biting his lip until he tasted blood, he clenched around Colm's dick, making him more aware of it. He seemed content to use Micah as a cock warmer, while he took the time to get better acquainted with Micah's body. 

"Just you who's into this sorta stuff? Then let's not talk more about them, yeah?"

Micah nodded . The hand stopped its ministrations, but not before stroking up his shaft to assess how hard he was. And he was hard, the throbbing pain in his testicles making his erection throb in turn. It had somehow survived the talk of family or been brought back by what was supposed to be a punishment, unless Colm knew it shamed him more to like it .

"Think you can take more?"

"Sure, old man," Micah said, a little high in his throat. "I'm not as close to dying as you are."

Colm was mean, pinching the skin just to see Micah tremble, scratching at it. Then came one of those long, awful squeezes, building in strength, before it ended in a sting. He gave them a few slaps and waited just long enough to let the ache break forth in between them.

"No more!"

"One more time," Colm informed him, and then got to work.   His next motion was simple and cruel, squeezing so hard Micah thought he would burst. His mind went white at the edges, and he couldn't hold back a whine.   From the whine, there burst forth a word he'd trying to hold back.

" Sir! "

Colm immediately decreased the pressure.   " Good boy. I'll get you to beg properly someday, but that's good for now. Lay down on the side for me, would you."

He administrated the change and took most of the bedroll, for Micah to lay halfway on it, halfway on the rocky ground. Colm adjusted his cock, fucking it inside and then going back the slower pace, the angle new and just as uncomfortable as it'd been in the beginning.

Micah, who was still recovering, could only shut his eyes tightly as Colm lifted his shirt, exploring his chest. He touched his nipples. Micah closed his eyes and tried to breathe, knowing that Colm waited until his lungs were full to hurt him.

H is nipples retrieved the same treatment as his balls had done, but more concentrated.   Colm pinched them, rolled them between the tips of his fingers, and putt his callused palms against them and drag it around. They felt like sandpaper, and soon, the slightly protruding flesh was red and sore on both sides. The pinch, which had first been annoying, was painful.

"I think you ' d look pretty with some jewelry, here. Silver or gold, I can't decide. "

When Micah spoke, there was too much spit in his mouth, "Do I look like a, uh, exotic dancer to you?" 

"Nah, but it'd sure make you more sensitive. I wouldn't have to do this. Or not as much, anyway." 

He ran his fingers across Micah's chest, and now it felt like he imagined having tits to feel like, a constant awareness of excess flesh.   It disgusted him.

"It ' s about as nice as stepping on a needle," he stammered out between breaths.

"Is it? Look down."  

Micah did and his brows shot up.   His dick was hard, his body getting off on what disgusted him.   If he wasn't sweating already, he would have started now. In the course of what, fifteen minutes, Colm had thought him more about his body than he'd learned in months, almost as much as she had learned him, back in the day.

As if noticing that he was spacing out, Colm   put his palm on Micah's groin.   Not stroking him, just keeping it there, covering him up. Micah's eyes closed , as if he didn't even get to look at himself twitching and leaking precome as if his arousal could be owned. His head fell to the side, accepting it as a necessary lie, for now. Colm hummed, sounding pleased, and kissed his cheek. He tried not to react, but he felt his face squinting up, and he heard the chuckles from the other.

"We're gonna have so much fun, you and me. I won't force you to come. Some times I might feel like it, but I'll let you know. Anyway,   I thought we could move this someplace nicer."

He pulled out slowly. Not just to be careful, but to see the dry slide of it.

Micah sighed at the loss, struggling to get up to all fours. His wrists and legs hurt. His balls hurt, his cock hurt, his nipples hurt. His hole felt bruised, if not torn. And Colm sounded like they weren't done yet. In defiance, he put his pants back up, feeling strange in how he felt wrecked from so little.

It should ' ve ended outside, by the fire. Colm should ' ve fucked Micah and left him there, facedown, not pulling him to the side and grope him, and certainly not dragging Micah towards the tent.

Micah tried to reach for his coat - and revolvers - but Colm wouldn 't let him, his arm hooked under Micah's armpit.  

"Leave it. There won't be rain. Driest summer in years, I reckon."

"Is it?" Micah mumbled, disoriented. "Summer?"  

"Don't you notice that kind of thing?"  

"It's all the same to me." Except winter, sometimes. When everything was all nice and quiet, somehow muted and clear at the same time. Like his head felt right now.

"Hm," Colm said, as if he'd learned some interesting information, but wouldn ' t pursue it yet.

Micah echoed his   hm , the daze continuing.

He was pushed inside the tent. He fell on his back with a wince, despite the bedroll being softer and of far better quality than his own. He already felt like he'd been smelling like Colm for a while, but here his scent was stronger, the ammonia and salt, trapped even more when he closed the tent flaps. 

Darkness, then, except the slight golden shine through the line in the flaps.  And more darkness as Colm crawled towards him and blocked the line. Hands felt their way forward, and they found Micah leaning on his elbows, his shirt was grabbed, shook and pushed down. Micah's eyes widened, trying to seek as much light as possible, before they fell shut when Colm's mouth sought his nipple, sucking at it through the fabric. If his palms were sandpaper, so was his lips, the stubble sharp and good.

Micah tried to push him away, grabbing after his hair, but the other simply ducked and grabbed Micah's wrist so he could continue to drag his face lower.   He lifted the shirt up to get a chance to taste skin, pressing against his ribs as Micah heaved for breath.  

"I gotta fatten you up. Won't be hard. I already know you have a sweet tooth."  

When Micah tried to hit him, his arm was caught and shoved aside. Colm used the hold to flip him over on his stomach. He buried his face in the mattress - almost like a pillow - and shouted into it, frustrated at it all. He couldn't help feeling like he'd somehow failed, but the night had spiraled so far out of his control that it was useless trying to stop it. He'd let him have this night and no others. After this, they were done.

He didn't even flinch when Colm slipped his hands lower in what felt too much like a massage, except in the way he frequently spread his ass cheeks through the fabric until it stung and continued doing so. It was hot in the tent, and Micah stretched his upper body again to work the buttons of his shirt, which it was difficult because of how it was twisted around his chest. As soon as Micah was completely nude, Colm pushed him back down, before going back to the main course. The massage - if it could be called such - was so intense it jostled Micah up and down, and his sore chest hurt, making him unable to stay quiet.

"Pretty thing," Colm said as though he could see in the dark.

The thumb digging into him wasn't pretty, stretching him a bit. Micah whined, and Colm shushed him.

"Yeah, I know. Too sore. I'll be generous."  

Micah heard Colm spit and felt hit his hole, thumb returning to it when he was deemed wet enough, and his mouth fell open,   salivating as if offering more of it, an offer that was not taken. He remembered the nasty kiss at the docks. He hardened when he remembered it. His head fell forward as Colm lined himself up, but then he turned to retrieve something - lube? - in the dark ness along the edges of the tent walls.

"Bite down on this if you need to. And try to breathe through your nose."

Some kind of plate was shoved between his teeth, and he bit down, expecting it to be wooden.

It was a bizarre feeling as the plate came apart between his teeth.

Colm pushed himself inside.   Micah yelled as incoherently as during their fight;   his mouth filled with sweetness . Almost choking on it, he realized he'd been fed the chocolate that Colm promised him.

Everything hurt, and everything tasted sweet.  

Notes:

So, dry anal is perfectly possible irl as long as the disco stick isn't huge. Never seen it done in erotic work before, but it kinda fits Colm's style of sadism, idk. Something something about how it parodies how it's usually done slowly, yes, but also between lovers who trust each other.

Chapter 3: Bis zum Hahnenschrei

Summary:

Micah enjoying some snow, Colm being his strange self, and Papa Bell entering the scene!

Notes:

I accidentally posted this part, unfinished, last weekend because I hit post instead of save as draft. Sorry about that. Anyway, this was a joy to write! Finally getting some direction.

Chapter title comes from a song by Sopor Aeternus & The Ensemble of Shadows.

Micah hated waking up, the disorientation of it, and so the first thing he felt was hatred. It was accompanied by the old soreness of his body that had begun with his training, and a fresher kind he kept failing to put an end to. His hatred cracked open, breathed and was chilled.

The tip of his nose was cold, but the rest of him was swaddled in blankets. His face emerged with a squint. The canvas of the tent was thick, heavy at the sides from snow, with lines of white light between the flaps. It illuminated the saddle bags at the side of the bedroll underneath him, and the man sleeping beside him, responsible for the dryness left from alcohol and the worn feeling at the edge of his cracked lips.

Last night he'd gotten drunk.

It was his last hit before winter came, ending in a corpse sprawled crimson in a thin layer of new snow, with a shovel buried in the throat like a big spoon in a bigger smile. Back at their camp, Colm gave him bottles of sweet liquors to celebrate the quickness of the kill. He had noticed that winter was arriving, because of his preference of that season, and he did not hold back on drinking. It resulted in vomiting from too much sweetness at once, and Colm holding his hair back for him, unafraid of bodily functions.

He did not remember much of the aftermath, but he knew some of what had happened from the feeling in his lips and throat. His skills in that area were intended to be a show of power, a triumph card, which he let fly out of his grip.

"I know you've wanted this.   Just look at you go, not choking.   You get all the cock you want when you're such a good boy. I'll even come, imagine that. No, feel it."   An exhale above him, and then warmth in his throat, on his tongue, on his chin - before the hand smeared his face in it, stinging in his eyes. "Disgusting, and so pretty, little Bell."

Micah shuddered. He reached for a nearby gift bag of fried almonds, coated in heather honey and dried lavender, according to the note from the luxury shop. He snacked more, these days. Wasn't his fault Colm kept giving him fancy chocolates, candied nuts and creamy caramels. Like with every foreign taste, he sought to numb it through continued use. He managed decently, eating the almonds without complaint or noises of pleasure. Whenever he thought he'd figured out Colm's appetites, the man would surprise him in some way. For an example, he never touched any of the contents of the gift bags despite their numbers.

It did not surprise him when he felt a coarse, skeletal hand on back. It followed the line of his spine, thumbed his pelvis, before closing around his ass cheek, squeezing it in greeting. He glared at Colm, the sleep in the corners of his eyes, the more pronounced wrinkles, the white light bringing forth the few grey hairs among the black ones in his hair and light beard. The light made him appear more human than when he moved about in the dark. 

"Morning, kitten. What are you munching on?" The voice was the same as always, a soft rasp, but curled at the edges like the gift bag was.

Micah put it away and opened his mouth as an answer, not bothering swallowing, before he began coughing. The dryness combined badly with the almond pieces and crusted honey, scraping up his throat like Colm's cock had done last night. He coughed more.

"Poor thing," Colm said, sounding more smug than sympathetic, but he revealed a long, thin arm from his own mess of blankets and clothes, giving Micah a silvery canteen of water.

Micah drank while staring ahead, fingers cold around the canteen. When he put it away, Colm beckoned him closer, but he just wrapped the blankets tighter around him, like a cocoon to ward off creepy geezers.

With a sigh, Colm gave him a small round tin container, like he was raining presents.

"Beeswax. Your lips look cracked. Dunno why."

"Is it the dementia?"

Nails dug into his flesh, and one of Micah's eyelids twitched. Dutifully, he put the grease over both the cracks in his own lips and the pinpricks of almond shells not washed away by water.

"You wanna play so early in the morning?"

"Didn't think rotten corpses could get morning wood."

When the nails dug in again, Micah accidentally left a sticky line of grease on his chin. Hissing, he sat up so Colm would stop groping him, shrugging off the blankets. He instantly regretted it. His sweater - once black, now gray - was worn so thin he couldn't untangle it roughly without risking it coming apart. It exposed his chest, which was where Colm struck next. 

Micah tried to ignore the hand cupping the flesh there, handling it like a woman's breast. One of his nipples was more sensitive than the other - had it gotten pinched last night? - and he ended up twisting away. He rolled down his sweater, careful. A blush rose on his cheeks when he saw Colm watch him dressing himself with as much interest as he did when he undressed.

"Just let me piss, O'Driscoll," he said, watching the dust in the lines of light, coaxed forth by the thick canvas of the tent and wool of their clothes. 

"Maybe not on the bedroll," Colm said after a pause, like he had thought it over.

Micah decided to get the hell out of the tent as quickly as possible. He found his pants and another sweater among the pile, put on his boots, rolling around some more before dragging open the flaps. 

Outside, there was a great white silence: the camp site, covered in snow, the surrounding trees heavy with it, bending to its quiet will. It'd snowed more after yesterday evening, when white petals melted on his cheeks and tongue, and he had barked a laugh like he was doing now. The cold resonated within him, tightening his veins and quieting his head. But he also could not help liking it for its beauty alone, the stillness of it, as if all the messy shit in his mind became buried.

The moment was broken by Colm groaning and turning towards the darker area of the tent.

Micah sent him a shit-eating grin, feeling like he had weaponized light itself and won. He did not bother closing the flaps after him, nor did he go far. While pretty, the snow reached up to his ankles. It rasped and creaked under him as if his steps cracked open the ground. His breath was all smoke, tickling in his nostrils, prickling in his lips.

He pissed for what felt like ages, the alcohol lingering in the cheapest kind of gold. His fingers turned a lighter shade, like that of a corpse, because he had forgotten his gloves in the pursuit to relieve himself. He shook the last drops off and realized that that part of him was not the only thing that had grown smaller by being outside. His hatred, once so fresh, was somehow soothed by the temperature, the relief and the strange instance of beauty, even if he shouldn't care at all.

 

Despite being an old bat, Colm had managed to close the flaps. He did not groan when Micah wrenched them open, too busy dressing himself.

"Shit, that was cold." Micah dived underneath the blankets and breathed in the scent of dusty sheep, emerging on the other side.

The light faded as Colm closed the tent flaps behind him for a second time, and fixed the sleeves of his sweater, covering veiny arms.

"I'd give you some new clothes, but you'd set them on fire."

"Damn right I would," Micah said. His fingers were too stiff and his jeans too tight to get the packet out of its pocket. Colm, as usual, put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. It was a fancy, flavored kind.

"I'd burn them and I'd - " he shuddered at the exhale, the taste of mint making the cold worse, but he tried to disguise it as laughter. "I'd laugh."

"Really? Even a leather jacket?"

"That too," Micah forced out. He didn't need a jacket, even if he had admitted to himself - in times away from Colm - that he wanted it. His grandfather's coat was stored on his horse, but he felt naked without it. Had felt naked without it for a long time.

It'd been a while since Colm first refused him to have it in his tent.

He said it reeked of old man.

"Look who's talking,"  Micah had replied. And then, just in case the point was missed: "If you're looking for something old and rotten, find a goddamn mirror."

"Why look in mirror, when I can look into your eyes, and see my true self in your fear and adoration?"

"I won't fall for stupid as shit poetry, I'm not a girl."

"No, you're not."  Colm, standing behind him, grabbed the collar of his coat and wrenched it off. He did not fight, but he should have. He did not fight the shape that forced him to bend low, nor did he move when a hand started massaging his groin through the denim. "You're hard." A kiss to his neck. "Have been ever since you killed him."

"It. Killed it."  

"No, it was a he, alright. Or he wouldn't have begged - prayed for - you to stop. That when it happened? Or was it the light leaving his eyes?"

It'd been an hour before they fucked the second time, the one he had told himself wouldn't happen. The adrenaline made him shake as it left, blood on his face and in his hair and under his nails, and soon Colm was a warm presence at his back. He remembered the tent being hot and dark, darker still when he had been forced to wear a blindfold, with his wrists and ankles tied. Colm had brought him to the edge again and again, ignoring his curses and snarls and sobs, until he called Colm sir. The memories made him shiver.

"Is it the hypothermia?" Colm asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Micah scowled. It was not that serious, he just needed to wait it out. He was fully expecting Colm to suggest warming him, but the suggestion never came.

Colm had stretched his legs in front of him underneath the blankets, and was staring off into space. Did he also feel hatred when he woke up? Or was there simply a brownish black numbness, like that of his eyes? Or had the magnetism of Micah's ass - which he seemed to worship - destroyed his mind? But no. He seemed to be thinking, and where he was thinking, it had to be dark. Micah wanted to crack his skull open with the strangest feeling that it consisted of air rather than blood, not in terms of foolishness, but like an insect's spiracles. As if Colm O'Driscoll was a vacuum of a person.

"What are you thinking about, old man?" Micah asked faux sweetly.

"I   think that always wanting new things, experiences and feelings, strips you to the bones in the end," Colm answered without blinking.

Micah felt deflated. And then he filled his lungs and disagreed. He could not articulate it, but these new things, experienced and feelings – as Colm put it – did not only derobe existence, but also robed it, afterwards. Surviving Colm … Dying, deep inside, and waking in a cocoon of dusty memories … Maybe it could give Micah wings to get away from all that he was, and begin anew somewhere else.

He studied his own hands, then hid them in the blankets.

The light made Colm paler, though not as pale as Micah. His tall body was hugged by thick gray sweater in a fisherman's pattern, full of intended holes, where the ones in Micah's sweater were not. He also wore a bluish green scarf, and leather gloves without fur trimmings, the ones that Micah liked the best. They felt nice when they moved over his body, when they wrapped around him, unless Colm saw fit to edge him until he screamed.

He blinked hard.

But was it really so bad? He'd said no to the leather jacket. He resisted that one, couldn't he allow himself to admire a pair of gloves? He didn't know why he liked leather so much, he just did. The hide of an animal, stained black, the texture of skin that was not skin. It put a barrier Micah needed to continue doing this, even if it was coming to an end.

He did not like the thought of a soft ending, of being forgotten and weak. He wanted to leave the feeling of icy water in his wake, a sort of erosion. 

Warmer now, and meaner, he took the blankets with him as he crawled towards Colm. He arched his back, feeling like a predator challenging the one that was about to lose his throne.

"What are you doing?" Colm asked in a neutral tone.

The hides were falling off Micah. Less so than a snake shedding itself, he felt like he was escaping from a shell with rougher skin and larger appetites. Colm continued staring at him as Micah touched his shoulders, feeling the flex of the shoulders beneath, tense but less so than his own.

"Scared?" Micah asked, trying to read him, seeing a flicker of curiosity. 

"Intrigued."

Micah could read him better these days, but he did not like the thought of being read in turn. The idea of becoming a form of erosion was also to become an untouchable form of destruction. So, he did the most unexpected thing he could think of - he kissed Colm.

Colm did not appear startled, but his head fell a little backwards, letting Micah relish the control. The kiss tasted of beeswax and mint, a hint of salt and sleep breath. He tilted his head to the side, but his beard was not good enough, it brushed like his lips did rather than scrape like Colm's. Only when Micah tried to push him further backwards did he resist, keeping them at a balance. He opened his mouth slightly, but Micah only pushed harder, as if willing it to close. He felt the smile against his lips, then teeth, and he withdrew, somehow out of breath.

Colm's smile grew wider.

"Oh, I'd forgotten how sweetly you kiss. All claws and teeth, except for this. Think we'll need to train you. Maybe let some of my - " he paused, a crack of light in his eyes. "Or not. I think I'd like to keep this part of you. Save some of it, just for me. While I train you at other things."

A hand under Micah's jaw, cupping his chin, shaking it loose and open.

"I didn't get to fuck you properly yesterday."

"You fucked my mouth," Micah said, slurred. 

"Kinda sloppy though. I had to wipe your face while you laid there snoring and belching and farting. Real cute."

Micah grabbed Colm's wrist, wrenching it away. "Fuck you."

"Nah, you're too weak to take me."

"Shut the fuck up."

"You're a little copy-cat, ain't you? I say a bad word, you eat it up only to spit it back out. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mumbled while tapping over Micah's ribs, and he twitched for each touch. "Sour cause you're freezing, I'm guessing. Didn't think you'd want this, until you came on to me."

He was grabbed, a handful of flesh on the side of his stomach, before Colm dragged him on top of his lap, the boniness present in the softness. Micah's pants were dragged to his thighs, every muscle in him tightening at the cold. The hand stayed, groping him like it had done that morning, except that it was covered in a pretty black glove.

Micah closed his eyes tightly.

"You're fattening up nicely. A few weeks ago you was all skin and bones. Remember?"

Micah shook his head.

Then he allowed himself to think back. He did not remember feeling any skinnier, but then again it often felt like he didn't feel his body at all, except as a sore flesh machine. But he had noticed how it had hurt his bones less to sit or ride - or stay in the positions that Colm wanted him in - recently. How he had more energy, especially when he was around Colm.

But it had been like that ever since he started working with the O'Driscoll brothers, getting to eat filling meals, but he did not like to think about that, because Amos had been there, too.

"Spacing out already? Damn. Anyway, thought I'd finger you, today. We haven't done that before, yeah? Just that?"

"What, and spank me if I'm bad?" Micah drawled.

"If you were so bad I'd have to spank you ... Well, I don't think you'd like it, my style of doing that."

Micah did not see how spanking could be a meaner punishment than getting fingers stuck up his ass. That was where they were headed, circling his hole. But they were gloved, and Colm rarely took them off due to the season. The few times he'd felt Colm's bare skin on his, like this morning, it had felt a bit like sandpaper, and if his hand was as callused, getting spanked by him might stand a chance of hurting Micah. He hissed at the feeling of a thumb stretching him open.

"Still feeling it, after two weeks?  You didn't have to suck me off, you know, there are other ways to have fun. I appreciated it, though. You did good for someone who had just emptied their belly all over a fire."

"Put it out though, didn't it?" Micah muttered.

Colm sniggered, and Micah forced himself not to smile.

"Yeah. I guess it did. Good thing, too. Fire would make us more noticeable to whoever could be creeping about."

"Like who?" Micah asked, genuinely curious. "Thought I'd killed all of your old enemies."

"All of them? Then we wouldn't have time for much else. No, I was talking about your daddy."

Micah froze. "Don't."

Colm paused, and Micah knew that he was expecting a follow up. 

"Not ... Not now."

Not when Micah was leaning over Colm's lap, kind of relaxed despite the thin legs and many blankets, like the main character in a childish fairy tale visiting a giant spider. He disliked how relaxed he felt around said spider.

"Alright," Colm said after another pause, while he busied himself with getting something out of a satchel. It was just an ordinarily looking tin, seen in a flash. Micah heard the lid being screwed open, a brief pause, and then shut. A cold and sticky feeling at his rear. It was more than he expected, Colm smearing him all over. It felt disgusting.

"Thought you liked it dry," he mumbled.

"Oh, I do. But don't forget all the times I've had you spit on it cause you like that."

"I don't like it. Just don't wanna tear. Heard some stories."

"There's a learning curve," Colm said slowly, like he was remembering without losing himself in it. "Lucky for you, I've done my share of learning."

And with that, he pushed a finger inside as if it belonged there.

Micah's ass was pretty numb from being exposed for so long, but the knuckle warmed as it came to rest against him, and so did the other hand, spreading him to get a better look. The touching was one thing, but the looking? Even the whores averted their eyes, their attention never prying, at least not if they were any good at their job. And like the eyes, the finger was prying, making sure there was enough slick before adding another. He was searching, and Micah knew he'd found it when he felt like he had to piss on an empty bladder, strange and stinging, kind of nice.

Colm started sliding his fingers in and out. Sometimes he brushed past the spot. It felt like concentrated lighting, making Micah bite a blanket not to moan, even if biting fabric made his teeth feel strange. Other times Colm pressed on and held his fingers there. He did so until Micah shook all over, the top of his feet drumming into the bedroll. And whenever he could not hold it in anymore, sighing into the stretch, Colm pushed his thumb against his balls as a reward. 

Even if he knew he was damned and had known it since he was seventeen, this felt like a sliver of paradise.  

A brief pause: more slick, sliding down the back of his thighs.

"What do you get out of this," Micah mumbled.

"I get a pretty boy bent over my lap, wiggling his ass whenever I want him to."

Micah's face fell forward like a sleepy cat's, mumbling something incoherent and nasty. He stayed with the sensations, didn't space out, knew what would happen if he did. Those slaps could be brutal if aimed at his balls or cock. He felt warm, hazy, a bit mad. But there were no slaps, only the memory of them, making him clench around Colm's fingers as if trying to keep them away from more sensitive areas.

"I hate this," he said, more as a reminder to himself.  

"Hatred is a passion," Colm said, never ceasing to move inside Micah, "which can   mean both love and suffering."

"Are you giving me a language lesson?" Micah asked, offended. 

"You could use a few. Pottiest mouth I ' ve ever - well, fucked."  

Colm laughed, the usual rasp, sounding like he could enjoy himself for hours, and Micah hid his small and insignificant slip of a smile.

The hours were cut short.

"O'Driscoll, you in there?"

Micah was startled up from his haze, feeling more awake than he had all morning. At the bottom of the deepest valley, at the top of the tallest mountain, in a tent while being fingered by the O'Driscoll in question ...

He would recognize his father's voice anywhere. 

 

It couldn't and shouldn't be, but it was. 

Micah held his breath and turned his neck. Colm seemed pensive. Maybe he had heard the approach - the rasp and creak of snow - or been too busy. Either way, he did not seem thrown off, even if he could get shot if their activities were discovered. Colm O'Driscoll was a dangerous man, but nothing compared to Micah's father, whose blood ran hot in them both.

"Colm," Micah said as quietly as he could, the name foreign like a round stone in his mouth, before a palm   was pressed against it to silence him.

"Yeah?" Colm answered in a loud voice.

Then he shoved his fingers deep inside Micah's ass and smirked at his bulging eyes and the hum.

"That you, Bell?" he asked, even louder.

"Who else," came the answer, groggy and unused, way too close.

Colm was careful when he pushed Micah to the side, still inside him.

Micah used all his concentration to press his lips in a thin line, as the fingers moved out a bit, but remained bastards. Blood was thundering inside his ears, but the scent of leather in front of his nose made him calmer.

"You seem to have caught me sleeping there, gimme a minute ..."

"What, sleeping without a guard? You getting sloppy?"

"Ain't the boy returned yet?" Colm said, eyes never leaving Micah's.

"Returned from what?"

"Hunting," Colm answered easily.

Micah used his teeth as knives by trying to cut through the gloves.

"Hunting," came the repetition from outside.  

Micah grew smaller at hearing the distrust in it, even as Colm let go of his mouth and regarded him for a few moments. Then he   pulled out and wiped his hand – the one who had been lodged inside him, three seconds earlier – on Micah's face.   The resulting rage was snuffed out in the moment Colm pressed the index finger to his own lips. He truly seemed to have no disgust over Micah's body, and it made him feel weird.

"He spotted wolf tracks on the ride back ...   I think he wanted to prove himself ...   Show that he's a man."

While he spoke, he was making more noise than usual, throwing his fur coat over his shoulders while focusing on getting his riding boots on. They were tall and shiny and lovely. The feeling of Colm rummaging through him was present, more so because Micah could not move.

"Idiot boy, going after a wolf," his father snarled, followed by sounds of snow being forcefully flattened, ruining the untouched landscape.

From whatever emotion was from Micah's face, Colm pushed out his bottom lip in fake sympathy. When he mouthed a promise of revenge, I'll kill you, Colm pulled the blankets over him. If all went according to this stupid and spontaneous plan, his father would not peek inside the tent, and if he did, dismiss Micah as another lump among Colm's possessions.

"Come now, don't be so hard on him, he ain't so bad. Did his job well, and all."

The blankets made the conversation sound muffled.

"Course he did," his father answered, and Micah's heart swelled with pride, among the mix of less warming emotions, until it burst. "Doesn't excuse wandering off, thinking himself independent."

The tent was opened and exited through. Outside, the snow creaked.

"Well, you remember how it was, being young, having all that energy." 

"He ought to use that to do his damn job, which includes watch duty."

A sigh, a cough, and then a spitting noise. A brief pause, then the sound of matchboxes; an exchange of cigarettes? Colm letting his father have one of the minty ones? No, he would never accept that. It went against his philosophy. Their philosophy, Micah corrected himself.

"Red Apple?" his father asked, sounding appreciative.

"Of course," Colm said. But he disliked Red Apple Tobacco, Micah had seen him wrinkle his nose at it. So why keep it on him? Fear of Micah's father? He should be afraid.

"Want me to help you go looking for him?" Colm asked.

"I'll do it myself. But ... Did you pay him, yet?"

"No. You changed your mind about that?"

"No. Never. I just ... I need the money now, Colm. Need them bad."

Micah rarely heard his father sound that small. Not since his grandfather was alive, and when Amos ... He was overcome with a desire to protect his father, maybe distract him from it, even if it meant risking a beating.

"Debts?" Colm asked. 

Micah was getting a headache from focusing so hard to hear every word. He heard some birdsong, far away, and water melting, maybe due to its proximity to the heat he was radiating. Shit, he was sweating himself dry.

"You're not going to count them up in front of me, are you?" Colm asked, and Micah realized there had been a missed exchange, maybe through gestures. "Damn. You Bells sure are a charming bunch. I'll put on some coffee for when you return. Put something strong in it, too. For the road."

"I'll be back," his father said, and then there was creaking next to the tent.

Micah could barely breathe, and it sounded like his father was the giant he knew him to be, making the universe come apart. It was like being a child, unable to fall sleep, hoping - but never praying, never ever - that the shadow standing in the bedroom's doorway wouldn't notice. 

The steps were at their closest to him, now. Although there was canvas between them, he swore he felt fingertips ghosting over the hairs on his neck. The shadow in the doorway was right behind the bed, dragging his hair up - but no, his father never did that stuff silently, and so it was his grandfather he recalled, the wretched breath as he whispered into Micah's ear not to wake Amos, "Why ain't you asleep, boy?"

But then the steps faded. 

Micah did not move for several minutes. Nor did he move when he heard a fire being made, the tent being opened, a weight on top of him. He knew it couldn't be his father or his grandfather, but he could not move, not even when his cocoon was opened, face hot and then cold.

He squinted towards Colm, the onset of fresh air, and tried to hate him with all his might. But the relief was too strong, almost beautiful. 

"C'mon. Gotta keep up appearances. You're going hunting." 

Despite Colm's expression being gentle, his hands were not. They lifted up his sweater. Micah tried to worm away, but Colm leaned down, capturing the sensitive nipple in his mouth and sucking on it. It was intolerably feminine, and Micah imagined black milk dripping from the nub, because the only thing that would ever grow from him was death.

As if noticing that he was zoning out, Colm bit him. Hard.   Like needles in the flesh, the mouthparts of an insect,   drinking.   Micah whimpered.   Colm withdrew, a smear of blood on his bottom lip, gone as he sucked it up.  

"We're together in this, ain't we?"

Micah hesitated, then nodded slightly, feeling dazed.

"Good," Colm said, teeth having traces of blood on them. "Good kitten."

A minute later Micah was stomping off in the opposite direction of his father, a vermint rifle across his back. He stumbled and fell but was covered in snow instead of dirt. It would melt away soon enough, leaving no traces behind except icy water, like he wanted to end one day.

Notes:

Coming up next, Micah will have a tense breakfast with both his daddies.

Chapter 4: Under Giant Trees

Summary:

Micah takes a walk in the snow, Colm opens up a little, and then there's a tense breakfast and a battle between three wills.

Notes:

A special thanks to the reader who told me that Drisbell - my makeshift ship name - sounds like the word for diarrhea in Ukrainian. I laughed so hard I nearly, well ... It fits, as Micah and Colm are such poopy people.

Also, Micah's memory in the beginning was inspired by Sins of the Father by JupiterCosmos, an excellent take on his past, which I recommend!

Title comes from a song by Agnes Obel.

Like on a white piece of paper, a black dot walked across the landscape like a moving ending. As Micah sucked almond shells from his teeth and beeswax from his lips, the solitude felt like a smudge of independence. 

But his father could've taken a turn and could be walking towards him over the hills and valleys, among trees with hats and cloaks of snow and ornaments of ice. The whiteness was broken by the sun peeking forth from behind the clouds, blinding him. Yet there was a sort of silence where no one could sneak up on him even when he was blinded.

Here the sun was cold, but back home it had been scorching.

Their main hideout, that damned house on the prairie, the shafts of light with their glittering dust and buzzing flies. Their father's shifting moods set the table like a dark cloth, ready to pull their bowls of porridge and glasses of milk to the floor. The house was too warm for keeping milk fresh. Micah drank it before he ate to get it over with, but Amos waited until after, eating while staring at the glass as if praying for it to vanish.

One morning Amos simply refused to drink. 

"There's a dead spider in it,"   he explained, face a childish grimace. 

"You'll sit there until you drink it, boy. You and your brother both."

Amos' guilty look was met by Micah's scowl. They sat there, as the shafts of lights moved like bizarre stage lights, the milk filled to the rim of the glass, souring while the small black body floating in it began to decompose. Their father was cleaning his guns on the table, and for each passing minute, the motions grew less efficient. If not properly cared for, a gun could explode in one's hand, and that was how their father would react sooner or later.

Sick of waiting, Micah grabbed Amos' glass and threw it down without swallowing. The milk tasted like lukewarm fat and its origins from a living animal. He swore he felt a crumb or a pill among the liquid and imagined his gut growing full of webs.

"You stupid, wretched, useless -! "

Micah closed his eyes and opened them. Because there was no shout, no scrape of a chair against floorboards, no backhand that sent him to the floor. There were only his own footsteps, the rustle of snow and the whistle from his clogged nose. Efficient, he pinched shut one nostril and cleaned the other, then reversed the motion, and walked on.

The plan was to go back in his own tracks, to not be too suspicious, a single line from Colm and then back to him.   Thinking about him made his ass throb. It burned hotter than the sun, similar to but lesser in his throat. As if Colm was inside him every time he walked and swallowed, putting webs over cobwebs, fresh and sticky rather than old and dusty. 

He stopped in front of a large tree with a cloak like a king's, a slit in it revealing the black trunk. Craning his neck down, he went inside. He took his gloves off, and put his   hands on the cracks, the steadiness, the age. He remembered Colm saying that Micah   wasn't so bad .   He leaned his head against the tree, wanting its cold to extinguish the flicker of warmth in his belly, from where he took a deep breath, somehow clearer from the focus Colm put on it when fucking him dry.

Something moved in the corner of his eye.  

Tension rose, and he walked away from the tree, slow as if not to startle an unpredictable predator.  

But it was not his father, but a bunch of hares with winter coats the same color as the landscape.   They were playing in the snow, long legs elegantly stretching before becoming balls of fur, squeaking noses bumping each other like kisses. They were shot one by one, bodies twitching before leaking blood into the ground, no nice farewell kisses for prey. 

Micah blew away the smoke from the end of his rifle and grinned.

 

He returned, standing on the edge of a hill and looking down at the camp.   Colm had pulled out a few ox furs to sit on, staring into a fire, drinking a cup of coffee. He was wearing a charcoal gray parka whose hood was all light gray fur, as if it was the messy end of his straight black hair, making it appear as though he had aged in reverse.  

Years ago, his hair had been fully black, and Micah had admired its length, one his grandfather refused to let him wear.   Colm had never directly acknowledged Micah until he saw him kill a man, at seventeen, during a joint robbery.  "Beautiful shot, boy,"   he'd said, and Micah had startled, nearly missing his next kill.   No one had called his skills beautiful before. And because he considered his skills an extension of himself, a weapon incarnate, it felt stranger to be called beautiful.

Slowly, Colm moved his – more silvery , now – head in the direction of Micah. 

Micah did not startle, even if he disliked being caught staring.

He held up the hares, shaking them, then felt awkward. 

Colm poured a second cup of coffee with a bottle of Micah's favorite caramel liqueur, before raising it up as if in celebration. Recognizing the brand of the bottle, Micah had to stop himself from walking faster than normal, retracing his steps back to Colm.

No matter where he went, it always seemed to lead back to him.

 

Sitting on the other side of the fire, Micah skinned and butchered the hares.

He liked the way the gore steamed, the pelts staining, the crows cawing in the trees nearby as if egging him on to be as messy as possible. He also liked the patterns the blood made in the snow and on his skin, finding the cracks and filling them. Most of all, he liked the breaks, slurping up the spiked coffee, eyelids fluttering before becoming alert. 

What he didn't like was the feeling of his father could turn up any second.

He felt calmer once the hares were roasting over the fire, turning the skewers, greying the flesh. The smell of the meat sizzling was soothing, building on the white lie Colm had created for when his father returned. At the same time, Micah missed occupying his hands. As it was, they only turned the skewers. He shifted his legs around, more lounging than sitting, not quite finding a comfortable position on the hides.  Fidgeting like a child and yet unable to stop.

There was a slight commotion beside them: two crows having dared coming close enough to peck at the remains of the hares, dragging it off before the second one snatched it from the beak of the first. A mess of cawing and oily black feathers, and then they were gone, resuming the fight in the air.

"Do you want your tips now, or next time we meet?" Colm asked. 

Micah went taunt like wire and looked towards the distance. He knew that his father wasn't crouching behind the tent, because they would have heard him coming, but he couldn't bring himself to answer. If Colm had called it whore money, he would've replied something nasty, but there was a certain neutrality about tips, as if the sex was wholly connected to murder. There was a connection and a kind of theatricality in both that Micah preferred, and Colm encouraged. 

"From what I'm guessing, I won't be seeing you before next spring, yeah?"

Micah shrugged, hands falling back into his lap. It wasn't like it was his decision. 

"Too bad," Colm said with a sigh.  

Micah blinked at him, then – but although he'd sounded disappointed, his expression was unreadable as usual. There was movement in it, but that was only the hot air above the fire.  

"Say, you  know where The Flying Dutchman is?" Colm asked.

Micah hesitated, then nodded.

The Flying Dutchman was disguised as an ordinary saloon, but everyone with half a brain knew it was part gambling pit and part whorehouse , with a large warehouse at its back reserved for dog fights and rat races. The O'Driscoll brothers had taken control over the establishment a while ago, and somehow managed to disguise it as legal.

Micah had never been there, but his father had, losing many a pretty penny and coming back cursing the existence of   "those leprechaun fuckers" .

"You could ride by sometime, pick up your tips then . Could stay a couple of days, too." Colm blinked lazily, somehow staring into Micah's silence. "What, scared he'll get mad?"

"He will," Micah said, finally finding his voice,  a little cracked.

"How about a night or two? We wouldn't need more than that. Got all my gear, back in my rooms."

"Whips and chains? Or like, a tonic for old men to keep it up, or extra cushions for your bony ass knees?" 

Colm sniggered. "You respond well to rope. So, I think I'd like to do a variation of that."

Micah breathed more shallowly. He kept glancing around, listening intently for the creak of footsteps, and though the idea made him uneasy, it also made the talk feel sort of exciting. Colm had never done or said anything that distracting until the job was done, preferring to keep a distance, making sure his face was the last thing the hit saw before dying for real. And they weren't in the field now, but in some strange liminal space, not committing a crime exactly, but ... 

"You like leather, don't you? Imagine being all wrapped up in it, unable to see or hear or move."

They'd never fucked in a room before. It was always outside, on the ground or in the tent (or one time bent over a barrel with Colm kissing his neck, crooning at his moans, fucking him harder when he tried to hold them back). Would a floor or a bed lessen the impact? Or would it heighten the contrast between civilization and the stuff they were doing together? Micah had never been "all wrapped up" in leather, didn't really know how that would work. But with the echo of Colm's words darkening his imagination, he could feel it, the lack of seeing and hearing and moving. 

"After a while, you'd be all meek and quiet. I'd make you come, and you'd actually enjoy it." 

Fuck, that voice. It was never gentle, but when it went to its lowest pitch, the softness sounded so soothing. Colm liked talking to him, keeping him grounded, never letting him forget who was doing it to him. Never letting him fade into himself, but rather into Colm's hand, and he hated how good it felt, those old sensations shuddering through him.

"Think you'd like that?" Colm asked, the smugness in his voice making it clear what he thought was the answer.

"As if I'd let you," Micah said, swallowing down drool.

"As if," Colm said. Then he cast a look over his shoulder, and reached down into his pockets, drawing forth a bundle of bills with a golden clip. "Do you think he'll take it from you?" 

Micah knew who he was talking about and shrugged with one shoulder. 

"I don ' t gamble all that much, I go by the numbers. If there's a chance your daddy will take it, the smartest thing is to be to split it up." He split the bundle in half, reattached the clip to one half and gave it to Micah. "I'll keep the other part safe until we meet again. I'll even add the interest. Sound good?"

When Micah took his half, wiping the blood on the snow beforehand, he counted through it, making Colm roll his eyes. Micah tried to look like he hadn't seen it, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.   It felt good, reminding Colm that he was a Bell.   Like he had tried to do during the kiss.  His eyes were drawn to Colm's lips, thin and shiny from beeswax, surrounded by the black stubble with flecks of silver in it. A grin grew like a maw, and Micah went back to gazing at the bottom of his cup; the dregs of coffee and the suds left after the liqueur, the bittersweet remnants of the year they'd had together.

"I'm kinda glad you don't kiss as sloppy as you sucked me off," Colm mused. He took up a piece of cheap plate tobacco, which he only seemed to use when he was in a good mood. "I'd have to taste those almonds you keep eating."

"You don't like them?" Micah asked, considering running into the tent to get some more.

Colm paused, like he was considering whether to answer or not. He chewed some more, then spat it out.  "All that stuff, they're gifts from Owen. He has our men fill my saddlebags with them. He thinks cause he loves his little presents," he parodied his brother's stronger Irish accent and higher lilt, "I, too, must love them. Thinks they'll keep the score clean."

"What score?" Micah asked.

Another pause. Colm was quieter, blinking with one eye and then the other.  

"I keep saving his life."

Micah sat up, failing to disguise his interest. Somehow, it felt like it was one of the most personal things Colm had revealed to him so far .  He briefly remembered Owen, the larger brother in a purple suit, hair curly and moustache well-trimmed, laughter coming from the pit of his belly where Colm's came from high in his throat. 

"Why?"  

"Cause he's too soft. Wants to split himself in two, a good man and a bad one. He's the one who keeps insisting we run the gambling pits ourselves. He keeps stressing about keeping up appearances. You might've seen him in the papers once or twice. Anyway, it interferes with our work.   Gotta get good at one thing, or nothing. It's like with you. You're good with a gun, but maybe if you hadn ' t spent so much time on shooting, you ' d be less shit at talking."

"I talk just fine."

"You call me a faggot while you're whimpering on my cock. It's kinda refreshing, all that passion, like a cute paradox."

"I'm a Bell," Micah said as if that explained everything, even if he didn't exactly know what a paradox was.

Colm took another bite of the plate of chewing tobacco. He offered Micah a piece . Micah declined with a glance towards the horizon. He kind of wanted to try it, but he wouldn't be caught dead with some of Colm's stuff if his father saw. 

" So, you don't like luxuries?" Micah asked. It felt weirdly casual. Maybe knowing that the thing between them would come to an end, at least for a while, made it easier to say thing without expecting repercussion. 

"I don't care for most of the fancy stuff. But I do enjoy quality weapons, clothes, necessary stuff, you know." 

Micah nodded, because he did kno w . He didn't mind relating to Colm's more practical ideas - even if he was a leprechaun fucker, he was good at his work. 

"I suppose I also like pretty stones," Colm continued, quieter, like how he'd spoken when talking about his troubles with Owen.   "Back in my office ,  I got a ruby about the size of a chicken's egg." 

"You're lying," Micah said. And then, in a fonder tone he'd meant to use:  "You're such an old crow."

"Intelligent birds, crows." Colm threw a look at the trees nearby, where the birds had retreated after their meal. All that was left was the blood in the snow, and those strangely shaped footprints, sticklike but sharp. "Good thing, too, or they might've mistaken your pretty eyes for cloudy sapphires and pecked them out of your skull." 

"Nothing about me is pretty," Micah spat. For emphasis, he accumulated some spit from the inside of his cheeks andlanded a thick glob in the snow. The honeyed almond taste was nearly gone, as it should be. "And I'd kill myself if that happened."

"Why? You think it's easy, killing yourself?" 

"I know it ain't easy," Micah said, then regretted it, in fear that he had given too much away. Too much laid in his statement, so much that he did not want to go deeper in himself to see what it was. "But it'd be the ..." not the right thing, nor the good thing ... "It'd be something I'd have to do," he settled on.  "I'd be useless w ithout a gun. I mean, without my eyes."

"Really? Not a lot of boys have the courage to admit that."

"I'm not a boy. I'm a Bell," Micah repeated, finding strength in it. 

Colm looked away, behind the tent.  "Sadly, you're not the only one."

Micah's father was standing on top of the snow hill, his silhouette a smear against the bright gray of the sky.   Like with the voice, he could've recognized that stance and gait anywhere.  

Hunching with his hands inside his pockets. Making his way down the hill with more will than balance. Teeth gritted underneath his impressive horseshoe mustache. 

His presence remained as large as it ever was, larger than Colm's, but somehow harder to consider. Looking at him was like looking at the sun, which could not be seen directly without squinting - in a mental sense - and could not be wholly considered, not when it had given life to the world as Micah knew it. His blood, his heritage, his will.

Bearing his father's name, and his grandfather's, despite his face being Amos'. 

Micah copied his father's hunching form, but instead of fierce, it made him smaller. He twirled the skewers around and around, the metal whining and the meat crisping.   Colm was looking between the father and the son, then gave the latter a secret smile, which made him stop for a moment. If his father was the sun, Colm was a large tree, shadowing him .

 

Not many words were exchanged before the beginning of the meal.   There was the sound of cups being filled, skewers removed from the fire, three set of crooked teeth digging into chewy flesh. His father only addressed Colm, eyes like steel whenever they traced Micah, making him look down at the skewer encrusted with the meat that'd gotten the most blackened , as was proper.

"Sure don't taste like wolf. Tastes more like a rabbit to me."

Micah did not look up, tongue working out a piece of meat from behind his front teeth.  

"You look like hell."

He heard the shift of tone, knew he was being addressed, and his shoulders climbed even higher.   "Wasn't good hunting grounds, sir. Wolf must've heard me coming and hid. As it should."

"And yet you wandered around all night, huh?"

"Found a big tree, slept under it."

"Fool. You could ' ve died in your sleep like a," his father shook the skewer, "dumb animal."

Micah had dared looking up as warmth bloomed in his chest at the rare indication of care beyond the insults . His father's expression had none of it, all wrinkles and scars and sunburns, the skin around the deep-sunk eyes purplish and swollen, a hangover glaze to them. The jaw worked underneath the mustache and sharp stubble, and the nostrils widened as if to sniff out a lie. And yet it hurt to consider him, so close and so far away, burning cold. Micah knew he was a dumb animal compared to his father and his grandfather, or at least who they were in his father's stories, stories that were almost dearer to him than his own life. 

"Did you run away?" his father asked, an odd note in his voice, the paranoia he often had after drinking too much.  

"Never," Micah breathed. "Job was done, and Colm can handle – "

"Why do you never learn, boy? Address your elders as sir."

Micah's face became hot. He had only called Colm sir when his balls were about to burst, and one where he demanded – not asked, never begged,   never ever   – to come, because Colm had brought him to the edge too many times.   He could not look at the man in question but noticed his smirk. A tongue escaped it, licking up animal grease.

"Sorry, sir," Micah forced out.

"Oh, it's alright, young Micah, I know you meant nothing by it. Let us just try to enjoy ourselves. As your father no doubt told you, it's the last job I have for you in a while. Of all of these particular old associates, only the Bells are left."

Micah nodded, then froze at the last part, which sounded too much like a threat. His father did not react, busy gnawing each piece of hare from the skewer, maybe his first meal in all morning. Micah considered his family near invincible, but for the first time, he had the feeling that he had to protect his father from Colm, in the way his father had protected him from the man in the old days, or hadn't he?  

Colm's  unreadable mask was tighter than it'd been when there were only the two of them. Micah couldn't help some of the old mood leaking into his voice, quiet and ironic. 

"Is that a threat?" And then, a little too hastily, he added, "Sir?" 

"Shut up, boy. It's not a threat. What O'Driscoll here has done goes way over your head." His father leaned back, made himself more comfortable. "He's trimmed the weeds in his garden. But we were never a part of that garden, were we?"

Colm laughed, but did not answer. If he had, his father would've maybe spun a story around it, about the good days, the bad days, the all or nothing days. He frowned slightly at being denied the opportunity, and Micah's heart beat quicker. 

"I haven't eaten hare meat in years," Colm said, further distancing himself from the previous exchange.

"Why, you grown too fancy for that kind of stuff?" Micah's father said, bemused. "Food is fuel."

"Oh, I remember your philosophy around survival, old friend. A creative take on the whole waste not, want not kind of thought." Colm nodded, and his father nodded back, accepting the comparison. "But you know how my brother gets."

"Wants to be pampered, that one."

"Aye," Colm said, falling into a parody, "Ain't no sweeter place than between the legs of a wife, hotter than the hearth."

His father chuckled. Only then did Micah allow himself to chuckle, too.   However, his father cut himself off rather abruptly, which made Micah's chuckles louder in their loneliness. And then, a moment too late, they too were gulped down with an abruptness that made his already sore throat hurt.   It was as if his father's mood darkened the sky, the moment of light having expanded the dark of debts. Micah knew from his father's way of moving that he was eating the last pieces of his hare and getting ready to leave, and Micah hurried to finish his own.

"We should get going. You go ahead and ready our horses now, boy. Grown-ups need to talk."

"Yes sir," Micah said, trying to sound less wary than he felt.   He nodded a farewell to Colm, who only smiled with the confidence someone who held all the cards. 

 

Afterwards, when his father reached the horses, he grabbed Micah by the collar with no warning. Ignoring Micah's hiss, he searched through and emptied the pockets. Cigarette paper, two large tins of tobacco and a small one of beeswax, and a rock he found that was shaped like a tiny skull, all falling into the snow. And then his father found Micah's tips.

"Gotcha."  

The backhand, when it came, was expected.  

Micah had already made his body loose, knowing from experience that it helped soften the fall more than the snow. He stayed down, looking at his father's boots, knowing their way of kicking should he try get up too soon. His cheek stung, but he'd intentionally fallen to avoid another hit. He was good at faking submission, had gotten lots of practice, recently.

"Don ' t try to keep things from me, boy. Just be glad you ' re about as good at keeping secrets as your mother was at staying alive, or I'd have you collecting branches for me to flog you with." 

Micah dared looking up at the mention of his mother, and although he swore he felt nothing, his father's expression clouded at whatever was on his face. The change was somehow worse than the threats. It reminded Micah of how his father been when Colm had delivered a veiled threat, and it was a special kind of pain, seeing him paranoid of how Micah acted - as if he'd ever run away! - and not of Colm's, who'd just made Micah kill a bunch of old associates.  

"I don't like hurting you, you know. I don't like doing it. They're my father's ways, and even if they work - and work well - I don't like them." An exhale, like his lungs were full of ghosts where Micah's were full of webs. His voice was quieter, but their blow was worse than any backhand, "Why can't you just do as you're told, Micah? Why do you force my hand?"

"Dunno, sir."  

It sounded so damn weak, and he cleared his throat, crushed some snow with his gloves. He looked at Colm over by the fire. It was embarrassing, both the lecture and having a spectator, but also sort of soothing. The man had no shame, observing them like that. Deep within himself, Micah acknowledged how he also wanted to exist without shame.

"Get up," his father said, then moved to mount his old fox trotter. "And go give it back."

 

The humiliation grew weaker for each step. Taking the money, walking back in his father's footsteps, not looking up until he was standing in front of the dying fire. He heard the creak of Colm moving around it, felt a mix of trepidation and hatred - never at his father, or even Colm, but himself - like he'd just awoken by the hit to his cheek, stronger than the soreness elsewhere in his body. Colm smelled like smoke, coffee and salt, and it was enough to disperse the hatred.

"I guess he found it, huh."

"Yes sir," Micah said loudly, as if to put the cloak of his father's rage over their conversation. It had the opposite effect. Colm moved closer, holding his palm so close to Micah's chest he almost stumbled. He got out the money, slapping it down into Colm's palm, seeing it vanish back into the pocket of the fur parka. It felt off, but not terrible. 

"Think he'd stop me if I gave you a matching bruise on the other cheek? To make this look more realistic and all."

Micah shrugged. His father wouldn't stop it, even if he might not like it. He made his body slacker, made sure he wasn't holding his breath. His attention was too centered around his unhurt cheek, so that when the hand came, it startled him like it'd done when he was a boy. Fingers, brushing through his hair, sending tingles through his scalp. And then tightening, more playful than painful, shaking him. He grunted, forced to the side so Colm could grin at his father, then back at him.

"This is the part where I insult and thrash you around, before I tell you I forgive you for being a stupid boy. But you're not all that stupid, are you? Cause all I can think about is how good it'd be to have your mouth on me, kitten."

A memory - those fingers in his hair - it was how Colm had held him when he'd sucked him off last night.

"Don't," Micah hissed, arousal growing despite his father seeing them, no tent canvas or night to hide them. The hold on his hair hadn't been as tight as it was now. It hadn't needed to be, because Micah had acted like a starved man. 

"What a sight you'd make, in broad daylight. Swallowing around me with tears in your eyes. Maybe you'd even choke?"

"Colm."

"Not a lot of boys dare to say my name like that. Come see me soon, eh?"

The fingers scratched as they left, leaving more of those tingles, almost electric. Micah shuddered. At least he could think clearer without Colm touching him.

"If you threaten my father again, I'll -"

"Best come see me, then," Colm interrupted him, turning away. "We'll talk about it, I promise. Among other things."

 

His cheeks were still burning as they rode away, his father in the front, leaving Micah free to look behind him. Colm was hidden behind snowy hills, but Micah swore he felt him there, standing and watching them go, even if he was probably taking down his fancy tent by now. The temperature rose, increasing the dripping noises all around them, until rain began to fall. Autumn reclaimed its lands one more time, before it would collapse by winter's feet, grinning like a skull.

"Don't look so sour, boy. Let's stop by at a saloon. If you behave, I'll buy you a woman. Won't that be grand?"

"Don ' t need no woman," Micah muttered.

"It shouldn't be about   need , but about taking what's yours," his father said and ended the conversation.

But it felt like a need, those slivers of paradise, Colm's doing. The landscape was raining away, vanquishing the great white silence and the morning alone with Colm, leaving nothing but its wake but a feeling of hatred giving away to apathy.   But even in his apathy he knew he'd return to Colm no matter the whore his father would throw at him.

His teeth were growing. Already they were starting to drip, along with the landscape. If hatred was a passion then it was present, because he would suffer quite a bit that winter, trying to resist the pull of Colm's threads.

Notes:

Whoo! This is sort of end of an arc, because the next parts will have a different focus, which I mentally refer to as "Christmas with the O'Driscolls". It will be about as merry as it sounds. From the looks of it, the two next parts will be from Colm's perspective, starting dark and then getting lighter.

Thank you, as always, for reading!

Chapter 5: Girl In A Fishtank

Summary:

Colm has a headache. Micah visits him at his hideout at The Flying Dutchman, the first night among many.

Notes:

Warning: Mutual forced orgasm (lol these guys), asphyxiation, nasty threats, improper use of a pen

Chapter title is a song by Kreng.

A spider ran out from behind the inkwell. Light caught the thread between them. 

Colm spun his pen around it, forcing the insect closer, until it tore itself off and hurried away like a black shooting star. He squinted, wished for quietude, and rose from his desk to stretch his legs.

His living quarters were in the basement of The Flying Dutchman. His thoughts grew nicely among the soil, a cocoon for sore legs, but too noisy. Above him were the saloon, the gambling halls and Owen's attic rooms, all that noise and heat on top of him like a headache. A headache, bettered by the candlelight, worsened by the coal stove, which left black grease on the basement windows, in the ceiling and the roof of his mouth. He fed the stove a coal bar, wiped his hands on a purple silk handkerchief and returned to his desk to write the letter.

Greetings. Questions about the recipient's moonshine distillery. Threats, like a knife beneath a white barbershop cloth, like how the brother of the recipient had tried to assassinate Owen a month ago. Colm moved to dip his pen to add more threats in between the words, by inquiring after the remaining family in case traitorous blood ran in it.

A knock on the door caused him to spill a blot, and he raised his head slowly.

"Yeah?" he said, irritation more from his headache than the barely noticeable spill.

After a few seconds had passed, a burly man in his thirties opened the door, with a look of fear that told Colm that he didn't need to know his name.

"Sorry to disturb you, boss. It's the Bell boy."

Colm nodded. He had wondered when Micah would return to him. Seemed like he had chosen the evening, in the middle the darkest month, a week before the sun turned. It fit what Colm had planned for him, when his bedroom was close, a black door next to the bookshelves to the right. But good things could wait.

"Let him wait have an hour."

The nameless man nodded, bowing his head on the way out.

And then Colm was alone with his work once again. The ceiling creaked like feet walking across his skull, and it hailed on the windows like fingers tapping behind his eyeballs. But the darkness was pleasant, dripping into his shoulders from the shadows of the room, allowing him to concentrate. Beneath the letter was an old, brown map of the larger region. It pleased him to write threats on top of maps, the sharp pen making dents, felt but not seen, like blackmail was his way of making his mark on the world.

And now, he thought as he dipped his pen in the inkwell, came the crescendo: The congratulation that the man's youngest son had begun his schooling in Blackwater, while the rest of the man's sons and nephews worked for the O'Driscolls. Truly, the only one that'd gotten away; but Colm didn't write that. He wrote that Blackwater was a nice city, but that it could be unsafe for boys who wouldn't be missed by anyone but his father, busy making moonshine, miles away. Shame if anything should happen to such a bright young thing …

There were webs, all around Colm. In the corners of the ceiling, hidden behind the bookshelves, behind the words he put on paper. And a single thread, having been worn tight, suddenly slacking.

The door slammed open.

Micah stormed in, looking like a drowned cat with a Cheshire grin. 

Colm did not spill ink again, busy holding up a hand, stopping the man behind Micah from blowing his brains out with a loaded shotgun. Water droplets splattered everywhere instead of blood. Micah, shaking them off, glancing at the man behind him.

The man glared, then sent an apologetic look at Colm.

"Leave us," Colm said.

"Yes, boss."

"Yes, boss," Micah parroted. When he turned around, some of his bravado pooled off along with the water underneath him. There was a flamboyant streak under the toothy bluster and his grandfather's foul coat, far too thin for the weather,and his cream-colored shirt was clinging to his skin, turning transparent where it wasn't dirty.

"Is it raining outside?" Colm drawled.

"Hailing."

"I don't care. Get that thing off."

Micah sneered, but dropped his coat and saddlebags near the stove, then walking closer. Despite his shivers, the feline sway remained to his body, and the aware look that suited for the evening. His soft, blonde stubble had grown into an adorable, ghostly beard. 

But he was thinner. He had a square body shape, one that looked best at a higher weight than now, even if the fat clung on to his thighs. Most of Owen's gifts, made worthwhile when caught in Micah's system, were lost once more. Colm clicked his tongue in annoyance. 

"What," Micah said, walking towards the desk. It was a curse as well as a gift, how quick he was in noticing shifts in Colm's moods no matter how underweight he was. Craziness lingered too; as if Micah were to be stripped down to his essentials, all that would remain was wide, blue eyes, the veins in them showing, lids twitching but never closing.

"You hungry?" Colm asked, then gestured towards the bonbonniere filled with wrapped chocolates (Owen made sure it was filled, the nosy bastard) with a matching crystal ashtray on the other side. 

"For a job, yeah."

"A job," Colm echoed, pulling the letter to the side, leaning his chin on his knuckles.

Had Micah's father spent it all, that quickly?

Micah ignored the chair in front of the desk, stepping around it while eyeing the letter with the freshest sheen of ink. He was rather feral, this evening. Running on adrenaline. Had he ridden all the way without stopping, through the hailstorm, forgetting or losing his hat? Trouble at home, maybe. Or just sick of living with a dangerous drunkard.

"Sit," Colm said, motioning towards the chair.

"Is it blackmail? That's your thing, yeah? Information?" 

"If you don't sit down, I'm going to take you over my desk. Then it won't be blackmail, it'll just be you screaming like a stuck pig."

Micah backed off. Colm knew he would. He wasn't really in the mood for that sort of fuck, not with his head throbbing from the noise above. Ever the little shit, Micah did not sit down in the chair as much as he lounged, legs spread as if taking as much space as possible. He eyed the bonbonniere on the desk but made no move to take one of the chocolates. Like they were back to square one with him refusing Colm's gifts. 

To test the waters, Colm opened a drawer and found the bundle of money held together by the golden clip. He laid it on the middle of the desk.

A pause. And then Micah took it, counting through it before pocketing it. The exchange did not alter his demeanor, but next words came as if shuddered out.

"You said we'd talk."

"The little Bell I'd like to talk to seems replaced by a messenger in his father's shadow, obsessing about work. Maybe Micah Bell the Third froze to death on his way back home?"

"He's right here," Micah replied, strangely serious. It was a glimpse of how he'd be when older, more experienced. But then he trembled at the edges, "Was it serious? Are you gonna kill my daddy?" 

"Not really. Just curious if he can still be trusted. Man has a lot of debts, which just got transferred to us."

"What does that mean?"

"Means you ought to do some work for us, come spring."

Micah hesitated. Then he patted the pocket where he'd laid the money, "Would this help?"

"Barely. Maybe if we spent a hundred nights together," Colm joked.

"A hundred nights?" Micah did not ask for specifics around the debts, fearing the answer, maybe fearing to reveal how little he actually knew about his father's exploits? He feigned disinterest, but he took the tips back out of his pocket and put it back on the desk, "Ninety-nine."

Colm picked up the tips, sniggering at the back and forth. One hundred nights was a nice round number, not meant as any real calculation. It sounded like something from a storybook.

"You got any jobs for us right now?" Micah asked. "Like, actual jobs?"

"I guess there's always something," Colm said. He pointed at the map. While speaking, he gestured to the trail, "There's a coach of jewelry coming through next week. Getting into the city, here, just in time for husbands getting a last-minuteChristmas gift for their wives, ready to pay anything. You and your father should be able to pull it off. Our only requirement is that you leave no witnesses."

"Bells never leave witnesses."

"So say the tales." Colm pulled out a piece of paper and wrote down some coordinates and notes, before handing Micahthe note; saw it vanish into the pocket of his pants, where the tips had gone before returning.

Silence fell. Micah was fidgeting less, like that job had been for his father, and now only he and Colm remained in that same space as they'd been whenever a hit was done. It hadn't really been planned, this thing between them. In the beginning he'd just liked making boy uncomfortable. That was all.

He'd gotten info on the Bells ever since he began dealing with the Second, having heard the tales of the First and seen him in his later years, disciplining two lanky grandsons with their hair cut short to avoid lice. The twins were near identical, but their gazes were opposite, one looking towards the heavens with eyes like question marks and the other one glaring at the ground as if there were no answers.

The easiest way to keep a family like that under one's control was to get them by the balls. Wives and whores and side adventures, they all talked, whether because of a tip or a gun. Micah Bell the First only ever sought out cheap whores. It was why Colm imagined his coat by the stove threaded with gonorrhea and chlamydia. Micah Bell the Second was better, liking the expensive ones who powdered their faces and tits with a fake flush. The twin who'd run off had been noted as hesitant and apologetic. The twin who stayed, however, had stranger tastes than all of the Bells combined.

He'd begun early in what would've looked like an addiction hadn't there been a strange, almost militant escalation, only visible to those keen on connecting the dots. Seeking out any kind of pleasure and pain, requests rarely repeated, until he started going to the Madame. He went to her for eighteen months according to the whores who worked with her. The Madame herself could not tell of his activities, because she'd been dead for a year, killed by a john doe who broke her windpipe.

Micah broke the silence by reaching for the bonbonniere, plucking off the spear-shaped lid. He frowned at the crooked shapes of the chocolates, made so because of the dried fruit within, an expensive delicacy among the upper classes.

When he took a bite, his nostrils flared.

"Ever tasted pineapple before?"

"Once or twice," Micah said, clearing his expression but eating too quickly.

"You're a liar, ain't you?" And to gauge the mood, Colm added, "Kitten?"

Micah grabbed a handful more and ate with an open mouth.

Colm smiled at the confirmation of where the night was headed. He picked up a small silver bell from the desk and rang in.

The man from before appeared at the door.

"Bring us something to eat. And coffee. Strong coffee. Oh, and get a blanket for young Bell, he'll freeze his tits off otherwise."

"Yes, boss."

Micah was busy staring at the man, the two clearly not having struck an accord in the waiting room. After he was gone, silence arose once more, but it was comfortable for Colm, more so at seeing Micah's discomfort, among the pleasure of sated hungers and the growth of less sugary ones, sweet in their own way.

 

Owen had a thing for breakfast food, and as such, so did the whole establishment. But as the staff only had the saloon kitchens and middle to lower class customers to work with, the meals weren't as luxurious as his brother preferred. He often left to visit restaurants with that wife of his, leaving Colm – or more often, his men – to walk through the kitchens and sample whatever was left behind.

This evening, there was a tray with plates and bowls with various breakfasty things. Peppered omelets, smoked salmon, charred tomatoes, some kind of cheesy potato mixture and spicy sausages cut in a way that made them resemble octopi with tentacles in both ends. A can of coffee and a glass of foamy, black beer. And as a treat, a saloon snack of assorted nuts covered in hardened molasses.

Micah stabbed his fork and fingers around with manners that would've made Owen grimace. Colm hid his smile behind his rim of his cup of coffee, slurping out of habit because it would've made Owen weep.

Colm associated food with his brother, who had always found a comfort there that he never had. But he did like coffee, and observing someone who was doing his best at disguising hunger, and as such, not using the energy to disguise other habits. In particular, Colm liked how Micah lowered his head to the glass and sucked up beer from the rim like a child afraid of spilling milk. He also liked how Micah had drawn the blanket tighter around him, the gray wool making his eyes look a similar color.

"Is there anything you don't like?" Colm asked. When Micah looked suspicious, he gestured towards the food, "Here, I mean."

"It's just fuel."

"You've eaten all of the salmon and eggs. And the beer is half gone."

"Got a dry mouth. It's the ..." Micah pointed in the direction of the coal stove.  

"Have some water, then. Remember what went down last time you got drunk near me."

Micah blinked, and then his eyes flattened. It was always interesting to see, how he opened like a door slipping due to a rusty mechanism, only to be shut when noticed. But then it was opened once more, a ray of light shining in his expression. "You said you appreciated it."

"Guess I did. Got me wondering what it's like when you're sober."

"I'm sober now," Micah said, and the door kept on opening, bit by bit.

"No, you're not. But it's not too bad." Colm shoved his chair back, lounging like Micah was. "Wanna show me just how not-bad you can be?"

"Ninety-eight," Micah said slowly.

It took a few moments before Colm understood what Micah was referring to.

Colm decided to indulge him.

"Ah. Sure. This will be the second night, with ninety-eighth left."

Micah nodded. When he rose, the feline sway was there, but slower, more subdued. Colm let him come close. Let him grab the armrest of the chair. Let him brush their lips together.

Truly, his way of kissing was the shyest part of him, but even that one he weaponized whether he knew it or not. Because it made such a lovely contrast to how determined he looked when he kneeled and began undoing Colm's belt buckle.

 

Minutes later, Colm was sitting like he had been when alone, except that his legs were spread under the desk. He felt good, he felt relaxed, he had his cock in a mouth who sucked him off like it'd been starving. A little it, a little he, more of a shadow of a person than a man or a boy. But whatever Micah was, he was making sloppy noises like someone eating a stolen dessert under their bed covers. 

He had an excellent technique, building it up with licks that parodied shyness, secure in how he followed it up by taking Colm all the way to the back of his throat. The space was warm and somehow curious, wetter than it'd been when he'd been drunk. The sounds were a bit more secretive, but the little thing just couldn't help himself, lapping and suckling with wet pops of his lips. 

Colm felt good, yes, but he had experienced these things enough times to stay alert. The pleasure was there, but so was the dull ache in his skull, neutralizing each other somewhat. The coffee had heightened his energy, but not his senses. He appreciated it, though: the enthusiasm at showing off when more sober, this scene likely imagined for weeks while Micah laid on his bedroll and jacked off, drooling like he was now.

The blonde hair was darkened by moisture, showing the trails left by fingers. As a child, Colm had feared that other people could read his thoughts through his hair patterns but they chose to say nothing. It was not easy being of a philosophical nature in a family of fools. 

It wasn't easy to be Micah, either. Sometimes he had to withdraw to catch his breath. His cheeks were res, and they grew redder as his eyes widened with awareness of what he was doing. He'd descend, then, trying to chase away the shame by seeking more of its cause.

"Eager?" Colm asked, and the responding growl made him laugh in delight. He was content to let Micah guide the pace while petting his hair, putting strands of it behind his ears. He had a lovely throat, the outside of it covered by soft stubble and the interior tight. Colm pressed harder and deeper, wanting to feel himself through the skin, but was distracted by the moan.

"You like being strangled, huh? "

Micah sucked deeper, trying to throw Colm off balance but only getting more laughter, albeit shakier. His climax was approaching slow, and then quick, like a sun in the horizon. He might've considered letting it through, but not with a headache, when the orgasm could leave an empty head ripe for more pain. 

"I think that's enough. Not bad, but I have other things I – " (- want to do to you tonight.) 

He inhaled sharply, because Micah just sucked deeper, hollowing his cheeks. Micah growled around his cock like it belonged to him. His hands, who had been resting as Colm's thighs, dug in.

"Off."

But even when his hair was pulled, he twisted his head down, sucking with a vengeance. Colm couldn't see his eyes, hidden by blonde hair and his own stomach, but he swore he felt the triumphant glare when Micah went for the kill: gagging with intent, sounding choked enough to make a whore go get the town doctor.

Colm hissed as he came. It wasn't that good. It rarely was when it was over that quick with no real impact. After the explosion of nothing, there was silence, before his headache came back tenfold. 

Micah went pliant enough for him to be wrenched away and held up by the hair. His eyes were near slits from how wide he was smiling, breathing hard through his nose. A trail of cum dribbled down his lip and chin only to be licked back up. 

Anyone else might've found it delicious, but Colm only felt achy as his irritation warped into rage. His thoughts were clear on the outside and black within. 

You thought that was desert, but we haven't even started yet.

 

Paper flew, a cup of pens fell, the inkwell spilled all over the map and floor. 

Micah was slammed down into the desk on his stomach. The air that remained in his lungs after the blowjob vanished at the impact, leaving him panting. With one hand twisted in the tangles of his hair, Colm descended over him, pinning him down.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you?" 

Micah fought him, but his legs were useless, spread around Colm's, and his hands wrapped around the one in his hair, trying to yank the wrist away but only hurting himself. To get his shirt up and his pants down, Colm had to pull his hair hard to make him get up. He dragged the denim to his ankles, uncaring that skin got caught in pull.

Micah was erect, his stomach a mix of boyish plumpness and a future gut like his father's, and his ass and thighs made a nice smacking sound when Colm hit them, a slap on each that'd bruise well, before reaching underneath to grab his balls and twist.

Micah yelped, letting go off Colm's wrists, arms falling at his sides. Another twist, and the whole body reflected the pain, like a worm at a fishing hook. Colm's hand was so deep in the hair it felt like he had that thick skull in his palm. 

"Stop fighting me, boy."

Micah kept on wiggling, making a few pens roll to the floor. Colm let go off his balls to grab one of the pens before it fell. He stabbed it towards Micah's fingers. Micah flexed them just in time; he hadn't been playing with his knife so much for nothing. But he wiggled a little less.

"Think you'd be any good at Five Finger Filet while I was inside you?" 

"As if you ... can get it up again."

The reminder irritated him, made his head hurt more somehow as blood pumping through it.

"I like my pens sharp," he said, remembering one of Micah's old fears, so often coming through his nagging. "Maybe I should tear you up for real."

He yanked out the pen, turned it mid-air, and cut a line into the skin of Micah's inner thigh. It was so white and unmarried, he couldn't help continuing. The tip was sharp, creating lines, white with pinpricks of dead skin and then red as the skin opened further some places, oozing blood. The pen was clean, with no ink to brand him permanently, but Colm tucked an idea away for the future.

Micah tried to get his legs away, spreading them even wider in turn with Colm's smile. It was a mirror of Micah clutching his knees earlier, but more than that, he felt like he was writing secret letters to Micah. Despite intending to cut clear, thin lines, it became a scrawl when Micah moved too much. As if Colm was writing a letter that could only be read if Micah responded to him. And he was wonderfully responsive.

The current position showed off the flesh of his ass, squeezed beneath him. And he did have an excellent ass. Colm poked the skin with the pen, scratching along the mess of blonde hair, the places where the skin got beyond sensitive, nearing the opening. It clenched in time with Micah's squirming, because he always hated being stared at like this, spread open with his most vulnerable parts on display. It'd been easy to stick the pen into him, rasping him up inside. 

But the position was rather bad on Colm's back, which didn't help the pain in his head, a pressure around it like a vice.

"If you want me to fuck you with this, just continue squirming, boy."

Finally, Micah went still. 

"Don't," he said, chest heaving. 

"Then stop fighting me."

And as if he finally got it, he went still. He was really afraid of it, then – tearing. Afraid of infection? Of succumbing slowly, rather than going out quick? 

Colm put away the pen – the tip of it stained crimson rather than black – back into the cup. Then, he ran his hands over the cuts, looking like an eldritch cat had done them, the bruising skin of the thighs, the clenched hole. He received no refusals, just a shudder. And now, he thought, came the true crescendo. 

He wrapped his hand around the half-soft cock. With his other hand, he had to pull back roughly to get it out of Micah's hair. Micah hit his forehead on the desk and groaned.

Colm was jacking him off gently, because he knew Micah hated it. Colm pulled the shirt - still damp, sticking to his skin - up to pinch his nipples. The pinching resulted in louder whimpers.

"Be quiet. Don't want my boys to run in here and find you, huh? All I have to do is ring that bell over there, and the one outside will come running. Maybe I'd lay you out on your back, like this," he demonstrated it, twisting Micah around so he could see him in full, "and let him use your mouth, slapping his balls against your eyes until you go blind from the force. "

Micah was breathing shallowly. Then he inhaled as if shocked at his own response. He seemed to like Colm's dirty talk, which was funny, because it was really just threats.

"You'd actually like that, wouldn't you, being used from both ends?" he said, some of his anger evaporating, some of it greasing the atmosphere like coal. "You ever paid whores to that to you? No? Too shy? Too scared they'd tattle? They do tattle, you know."

Colm was breathing harder, too. His cock was taking interest faster than usual, even if it would take a while longer for it to be usable. He got more pleasure out of how Micah was watching him over his shoulder. The anticipation in those baby blues egged him on.

"I could help you out. Drag you upstairs, tell the boys you're tonight's entertainment, tonight's free cum dump. You'd pass out belly down on the floor, then wake up on your back, a new boy inside you every time. Could let you come back to me and apologize for getting fucked a hundred times and liking it too much."

"Ninety-eight," Micah corrected him in a whisper, almost like a reflex.

"Sure," Colm said, but then he shook his head, so a few black strands covered his eyes, because he knew it made him more difficult to read and he was becoming too indulgent with the boy. "But when I tell you to stop sucking my cock, you stop, get it?"

Micah's pretty Adam's apple nodded beneath the soft stubble, and he nodded. But he couldn't help himself, "But you ... do that sorta shit to me all the time. Ignore me when I refuse, I mean."

"We're not equals, Micah. We don't have to be for this to work. You got that?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," Micah mumbled. 

"Good kitten. And good kittens get treats …"

Colm used the hand that wasn't working Micah to squeeze around his throat. He looked good like that, face a grimace with some of the flesh beneath his chin pushed upwards, giving his face a fuller and more colorful look. There were a few tears in his eyes, but not enough to lick up. A shame, but they'd get there.

"Here," Colm said, as if he was doing him a favor by strangling him. 

If he had been less experienced at this, he might've gone for the windpipe, but knew how quick that could go wrong. He had no interest in Micah dying like the Madame had, not yet anyway. He held on to the sides of the neck, constricting theflow of blood rather than that of air. He imagined Micah's mind going quiet, in the same nothingness he had promised the boy on the docks, more pleasant than what Micah had done to Colm, earlier. As his grip tightened, so did his hold on Micah's cock, increasing the pressure until Micah tensed up.

"Let go," Colm said, using the tone of voice that Micah liked. 

Micah let go, a tremor going through him before he succumbed, coming in Colm's hand.

And only then was the boy allowed to breathe fully. Colm did not bother working him to completion, letting him stay the edge of the orgasm, hips twitching as if missing the friction. 

Colm grinned, dried his hand on Micah's pants and stepped backwards, admiring the sight. The clothes dragged away to expose him from his chest to his ankles, the red marks on his body from being on the desk on his stomach and then his back, and the bloodied scrawls from the pen. When he realized that Colm wasn't going to stop him, he quickly finishedhimself off, wincing and avoiding eye contact as he did so, spilling the last drips over his own stomach.

Colm lit two smokes, before handling one of them over.

Micah accepted it with a weak thanks, hand wet and shaking.

 

The desk was a mess. Papers all around it, ink stains on the map, but Colm was willing to forgive it all, because of how subdued Micah had become. The awareness of what had transpired had already begun shaming him. Balls throbbing, back and legs hurting, all those cuts and scrapes felt better when he awkwardly tried to pull his pants up. 

"Ready to start the night?" Colm asked, gesturing towards the door leading to his bedroom. 

"What," Micah said, sounding genuinely confused. When Colm simply raised a brow, he stammered, "I thought you said you had better things to be doing. When you ..."

He was right in not finishing that sentence, giving Colm some room to dwell on what came before. Had it not been spite, but fear of not proving his skills or paying the debt, that had made Micah determined to suck him off? It could be a mix of all three, or simple manipulation, but Colm had spotted a shy part of him before, like during his chaste kisses. 

"If the night was over, I'd tell you so," Colm said, opting for honesty. He walked around the desk, beckoning at Micah to follow. "No, I was planning to take you to my bedroom, show you some interesting things, before you messed up."

"I don't make a mess, I swallow," Micah boasted, finding strength to get up and walk towards Colm.

"Should we add that to the tales of Bell family?"

"Shut up," Micah said, trying to put on a brave mask. "Sir."

"There he is," Colm said.

The Third one. The little Bell. Kitten. 

Micah was an interesting creature, filled with an interconnected web of a strange lineage and strange tastes, pretty when light caught it the right way. Colm licked his lips and wanted to wrap all his own threads around him like a cocoon, just to see what would emerge. When the two of them were alone together, there was no ceiling, no windows, just focus.

Colm opened the door to his bedroom and slipped inside. 

He heard Micah linger at the threshold, before he followed him into a greater dark.

Chapter 6: Black Mesa

Summary:

Colm takes Micah to his bedroom for the first time. It begins well enough.

Notes:

Warnings: Heavy bondage, cages, accidental re-traumatization ...

Guess who had to split this chapter in two 🤘😭🤘 I feel as if I, the writer, am being narratively dommed by the characters.

Title comes from a song by Biosphere.

To Micah, the room must've seemed impersonal. Owen had called it a cloister cell, before he asked what kind of god Colm prayed to and forced a bellowing laugh at his own joke – Colm, believing in something – rather than to hear the answer.

He did not believe in much, and did not find the room impersonal, but pure. It was made of dark stone and a bed taking up most of the floor. When Colm lit the candle on each bedside table, he guarded the tiny flames with his hand despite the lack of wind. On one side of the bed was a narrow, locked door into a long, thin closet room. On the other side of the bed were wardrobes like burly servants, good at keeping secrets, but not as good as the locked closet room. The frame of the bed, the candle holders and the knobs of the door and the wardrobes were in twisty black iron, which together with the stone made the room look colorless.

Micah's eyes were very blue, scanning the room for weaknesses and weapons. 

It was quiet. Above them was a poker lounge, where Colm had made his men place extra thick carpets. The windows were hidden by the wardrobes.

"Smells like old man in here."

Micah startled when Colm's hands came to rest on his shoulders.

"I tolerate a lot from you, but in here I'll expect you to be nicer, boy."

A squeeze, feeling his vigilance, stronger after an orgasm. Micah inclined his head, gauging how lenient Colm was going to be, before nodding once.

But the little thing just couldn't help himself: "It sorta looks like a jail cell."

"Don't worry, I'll let you leave afterwards," Colm said honestly.

He had no interest being charitable with his space. 

Until now, he had lived an existence like a winged ant, either in tunnels under the earth burrowed by other creatures like him or flying far above them all. Even his childhood bedroom had been in the attic, though that one had been colorful, made up of lighter wood and embroidered fabrics - curtains, covers, cloths - in beige and pink rather than a simple charcoal bed cover, and with fresh flowers his mother put everywhere instead of dust. This room was stripped down to its necessities, like he wished to be but couldn't, and more like he did to the ones he took here. Those things fit better here than in a room of light, with excess items or just an excess personality, no good for a bad man who dealt in information. 

Micah spotted the Bible, lying in the open drawer in the bedside table, spine pointing outwards. "You believe in that shi -" he corrected himself, "stuff?"

"Not really. But some of the passages are interesting. And this book has survived so far, and will most likely survive you and me, so there's gotta be something in there, yeah?"

"I don't believe in that something," Micah said, as if it wasn't obvious from his tone whenever he mentioned religion.

"Me neither. But that doesn't necessary mean that our idea of nothing is the same."

"What do you mean?” Micah asked, sounding curious, maybe too curious.

Colm grinned fully, lips not just hovering over his lips as they did when he sneered but curling back. Owen had told him he looked like a skeleton when he did that.

"Clever kitten. You got me talking philosophy when what I want is to show you." He stepped backwards. "Sit down on the bed and take your boots off."

Micah did as he was told, not expecting the softness of the mattress and bouncing, resulting in a split second of embarrassment. He had a hesitancy now that hadn't been as present in the office, putting one and one foot on his knee and pulling the boot off rather than to put the sole in the bed (too disrespectful) or bend down to untie the lace (too respectful). Here, there were no bonbonnieres, only a crystal carafe of water and a glass beside it, no room for superficial appetites. 

Colm felt Micah looking when he reached into one of the wardrobes, deeper than it appeared to be. Despite the low light, he had a mental catalogue of where everything was. (Owen collected lamps, the more ornamental the better, with embroidered screens and tassels like dripping gold. Colm paused for a moment in the darkened space, relishing in the lack of his brother. Although he was curious, he wasn't allowed in Colm's wardrobes, and especially not in the locked closet room. He probably wouldn't have liked what he found there.)

 

It didn't take to find a black bundle that probably looked like a wrinkled leather jacket, judging from Micah's expression. But then his expression came apart together with the jacket, Colm dropping the five pieces to the side of him.

He sat down on the bed with them between his spread legs, and the frame to his back. He beckoned with one hand Micah while organizing the pieces with the other, feeling the shift from the mattress as Micah moved ahead. He looked up to see Micah on all fours, glaring at him. Colm stared back until he moved back into his hinges. Then, Colm picked up one of four bracelets in leather and steel, and putting a palm on the mattress.

"Your ankle," he requested.

"Why?" Micah asked, moving his weight back and forth on his hinges.

"Why I like this? Cause I'm a bad man." It sounded like a joke, but it was not.

"No … Tell me why I should …" 

He so rarely begged, but Colm had learned to hear it. And information like this was his forte. He considered lying, then decided being frank, with his way of doing so.

"You're a curious kitten, ain't you? So devoted to doing every bad thing under the sun. You think you've reached the limits of such satisfactions, but like I keep showing you, I'm far ahead." He grasped Micah's chin, thumbing the scar beneath the soft, blonde beard. "A story is only as good as its villain. Want me to be yours?"

Micah seemed to drink Colm's words like water in a desert. He wasn't unintelligent, and even if he could be brash and malicious, he was interested in Colm's experience, his grasp of the world through language, and what some would call cunning and others, cryptic charm.

"Yes, Colm," Micah said quietly.

Very few would dare use his first name. But Micah wasn't being uncouth, just serious, and a little scared. He also said it in that nicer, American way that Colm preferred, unlike Owen, who was one of few that used the unpalatable Irish pronunciation.

Micah seemed to do a lot of things that Colm preferred with instincts that made him nicer to him in turn, despite Micah calling him a horrible geezer most of the time. He could have said so much worse. Colm had been called so much worse things in this very room alone, by the boys he took here, not all of them as experienced with pain as Micah was. This was almost new in its carefulness, but it might've just been Colm's mood, this year.

He went back to stroking the slightly jagged inner edge of the bracelet, saw how Micah's eyes lingered on the material, nostrils flaring like he had when eating the pineapple chocolates.

Micah awkwardly repositioned himself, so that they were mirroring each other, except that his legs were less spread than Colm's. Micah's ankles were thick, but the bracelet went over it nicely enough. They repeated the ordeal with the second bracelet. Using the steel mechanisms, Colm snapped them together, and Micah tried in vain to yank his legs apart, knees falling open before he tucked them towards himself. 

"Your wrists, now," Colm said as if nothing had happened, picking up two more bracelets.

"I dunno if ... That's not ..."

"You scared?" Colm asked, knowing the lie before it came because the bravado was part of the appeal.

"Never," Micah lied, and yielded. Like his ankles, his wrists were thicker than Colm's, but Colm had worked with bigger bodies than his, so the bracelets went on, clasped together.

As soon as Micah's arms were secured, Colm moved into the next phase: sliding the remaining leather piece – for Micah it must've looked like a shapeless bag – aside to get Micah to sit between his legs, with his back to Colm's chest. Micah struggled, but it seemed like a curtesy, like he was fighting because he thought he had to. But there was only so much damage he could do when bound. Micah hissed, lower body twisted to the side, like he wanted to roll off the bed. He had a lovely spine, which Colm could feel every time he breathed, and Micah was stretched outwards so Colm could lean his head on top of the younger man's.

"Now, we get you used to this."

"Been tied up before."

"I know you have. But not like this."

Colm slid his head down to Micah's shoulder. He could see the side of Micah's face, the red cheek, the twitching lid, the way his jaw grinded until he spoke.

"What do you get out of it?"

"It's cute that you're always so worried about me. But if you insist ..."

Colm began unbuttoning Micah's shirt. The angle was nice, like he was undressing himself. One of the higher buttons was torn off, and Colm snuck in a hand, running his fingers through the fuzz of chest hair until he found a nipple. Micah twitched.

"Never scared, huh?" Colm said, choosing the moment when Micah steeled himself to press a nail deep into the nipple. He imagined the soft, pink flesh giving in to his finger, all those nerve endings letting him in, engulfing him like a cunt. As if punishing it for not letting him deeper, Colm moved his nail around, utilizing soreness that was there from pinching it earlier.

Micah choked back a whimper. The steel mechanisms made a slight scraping sound when he pulled at them, until his wrists fell back to his stomach and he drew his legs up, spreading his knees while his ankles remained bound tight together.

"You want more?"

"I'll kill you," Micah mumbled, sounding almost lazy.

"Yeah, you want more." Colm kissed the skin between Micah's cheek and ear, then finished the remaining buttons. He tugged the fabric to the side so that he could kiss the naked shoulder, until the hunching made the collarbone jut forward. It looked delicious, and Colm sank his teeth into the bone until Micah whimpered again. It left a nice, bloody bite mark.

He put both his palms on Micah's thighs, feeling the flex and the intent to close them, an intent that was thwarted by leather and hands. Micah hissed and squirmed in discomfort, because his cuts were still fresh, and Colm wasn't gentle. He scraped and pressed around the folds of denim, not touching the crotch. Soon enough, there was a bulge, but Colm kept his touches harsh but teasing.

Micah tried to use his bound hands – so close they were like a single fist – to remove Colm's hands, but Colm simply grabbed the bracelet and held it over Micah's head, letting his other hand continue touching him all over.

"I know it's hard, but try to breathe."

If he heard the innuendo, he ignored it in favor of trying to heed the order. Because he was trying, and Colm appreciated it. For all his insults and threats and fighting, Colm sometimes saw bursts of something that others would've called weak, but that Colm found sweet and intriguing, an instinct to please. Remembering these moments, he brushed his fingers through Micah's hair, still damp. He went lower, massaging his hairline, and then the spots above the brows. It mirrored where his own headache was located. Maybe Micah had one, too. When he put the palm on the temple, knowing that his temperature was low, Micah sighed.

And then blue eyes widened. Colm smiled. He knew that these parts were scarier for Micah than penetrative sex was, because they had no clear objective, seemingly no end.

"Relax, Micah." He only ever used the name, heavy with its inheritance, for special occasions and with special results. Like a little treat, better than any chocolate. Micah's jaw loosened. He sank more into Colm's front, his spine like the ridge of a reptile, although the spinal bones made him think of eggs, ready to birth black liquid. There was a black oil well within the boy on his lap, and he wanted to see what kind of fossils that oil had been made from.

Slowly, Micah stretched out his legs more, kept them between Colm's, and was nearing the calmest he would be tonight. Colm put their cheeks together, their mouths inches apart.

For a few moments, they breathed the same air – Micah's breath, fatty and bitter from smoke, salmon and beer – before Micah initiated the kiss, the brush of the sides of their lips.

Nervous, oh so nervous, but wanting it all the same.

Colm patted his thighs, then made him bend forward, so that he could lift one leg over him and get out of bed. The joints cracked as they went over him.

Micah rose, tense, but not as tense as he'd been in the beginning. Towering over him, Colm picked up the last leather piece. He stretched it out to its proper shape between Micah's legs.

"You know what that is?"

"A mask?"

"I suppose you could call it that. Think you'd fit?"

Micah's breathing turned shallow. "Why ... Why the fuck would I ..." And then it was as he discovered the bracelets anew, around his wrists and ankles. He looked like he'd done after his little sigh; as if caught by himself, feeling something he shouldn't be feeling.

"Cause you'll like it, just like you liked those," Colm said, admiring how fast Micah's attention snapped to him despite the discomfort. "But just consider it while I get the last thing. The biggest one."

He walked towards the locked closet door on the other side of the bed.

As his hand touched the knob, he heard a sharp inhale from behind him.

"I'm not leaving you," Colm said without turning around. "You'll hear me."

No reply, but that was an answer in itself. Colm had experience with boys like that, their rugged exterior, their soft interior. It was no wonder Micah came to him so willingly.

 

The closet space had no light sources. Colm preferred it that way, because he could find all his things by the texture and the slightly different smells, like how his favorite coat smelled of wolf fur and rain, or his favorite pair of gloves, of beeswax and blood.

What he was pulling forward was the least subtle object in this room. It was covered by a gray blanket, not unlike the one Micah had covered himself in when they had eaten together. Colm it forward using his boots and hands, clicking his tongue at the weight, but the blanket kept him from getting any splinters. This was supposed to be of fine make, but not too fine, or it wouldn't work as intended. He took his time, imagining Micah staring at the leather hood.

There had been desire, there, from the moment Colm showed him the pieces, packed into layers of denial and unease. Colm imagined wrapping those layers off him, stripping him clean, finding a kind of purity that he had given up on finding in himself ...

And then he shoved the construction all the way into the bedroom. To make it easy to walk around, he let it remain halfway into the closet space. When Micah looked up, Colm removed the blanket, revealing the wood reinforced with iron around the corners and sides of the top.

"It's meant to cage a dog," Colm said. "But it's never been used by a dog."

He opened the large, square door in the front, made up of thick iron bars. It was just large enough for a human being to crawl inside, never to stand.

Micah was blanching. Colm walked slowly towards him not to startle him.

He sat down on the bed, and noticed how Micah drew his legs to his chest to keep some distance between them, even if he was still staring at the cage. Only when Colm lifted the hood and spread his fingers inside it, did Micah look back at it.

"Have you thought about it? You won't see anything. You won't hear anything."

Micah's eyes closed and it was as if the descriptions shivered through him, but in the end one cracked open. The cage clearly made him uneasy. And it did look foreboding, especially with the dark around the last half of it, like a room within a room.

"Is this a punishment? For earlier?"

"No," Colm said, voice soft to try to make it sound warm. "This is an experiment."

"Inside the ... that thing?" 

"Won't it be nice, all dark and quiet?"

A pause. "It's already pretty dark." 

"Let's make it darker."

Colm curled the neck section of the mask outwards, a bit like a mother urging her child to wear a woolen hat to ward off the cold, and yet nothing at all like that.

Micah swallowed a few times and then bent his neck.

Colm drew the hoodie over his head, having already slicked the damp hair backwards, making the blonde darker like its roots. The leather wasn't too thick, but it had been sewn into the shape of a face, thicker near the ears, thinner near the eyes, with holes near the nose and mouth. The pretty mouth, whose breathing hitched when Colm fastened the clasps near the neck, making sure the hood wasn't too tight. Only he was allowed to asphyxiate the boy.

"Is it dark enough, sweet little Bell?" 

There was no response, just shallow breathing, a prey's pulse against Colm's knuckles. Micah looked good like this, like a head with only two holes, leaving him in a world of smell and taste and touch, but not sight or hearing. It was so black against the golden hair that ran out from under the hood, the pale flesh of his neck and the cream color of his shirt.

Colm hooked two fingers inside the hole near the mouth, brushing it over Micah's lips. They opened, and his tongue slid across Colm's fingertips, probing. It must've been the only new sensory experience that Micah felt. After a few moments of tentative licking, Micah began to suck, scraping his teeth along the nails. 

There were two wet pops when Colm removed them to taste Micah's spit, sourer than his lips had tasted, but mostly consisted of what he had come to recognize as his aroma. 

He took Micah by the back of his neck, pulling to let him know that they were getting up. Those muscular, denim clad legs were not tied together as tightly his wrists, making walking possible, but not running, and especially not running away.

Colm guided him towards the cage, before bringing him to a kneel in front of it, standing with his hand still around the leather on his neck. He twitched as if dizzy, and Colm steadied him by letting him rest his head near Colm's legs. The neck twisted, maybe feeling the outline of him against his pants – a nice, tranquil arousal, not one he cared to relieve anytime soon – and seeking it.

"Maybe later," he said, even if Micah couldn't hear him.

He made Micah go on all fours and crouched beside him. He didn't care that his own pants became dusty from the floor, because most people who cared about the state of their pants shouldn't deal too much with dogs. Dogs were not too dissimilar from cats, both predators, with sharp itchy teeth and killer instincts wrapped up in play. Both could be weaponized against different sorts of pests. But it required some training and some care.

Colm was careful so that Micah did not hit his head on the small door frame, and he enjoyed seeing him crawl, or more like doing a digging motion due to his tied hands. He had to scooch forward, and his fingers touched the wooden floor. Colm took a few moments to himself just to look at Micah's ass. As far as he knew, his own scrawl was still present there, hidden by tight denim. He really had a great ass, and Colm's eyes had their usual fill until it slid slightly to the side, trying to get into a comfortable position. He shivered. To be sure he wouldn't get sick, Colm tucked the gray blanket over him, wrapping the end around his feet.

"Poor dog. Good dog. Nobody's been taking proper care of you, have they?"

At last, Colm closed the door and locked it. He could still see him through the bars, though the upper part of him eaten up by shadows. Now all that remained was to see if he could find something in there, caged and bound, forced into his mind. Colm hoped he would find nice things in there, and bring back even nicer things, maybe even prettier than his gemstones.

 

For a while, Colm was reclining on the bed, drinking water and reading the Bible. His headache was still there, but somehow it helped having such a complete control over another human being, the key to the cage a satisfying weight in his pocket.

The book was not directly in his possession, and never had been, not even when his mother had put one under his pillow as a boy. But it would often pop up in various saloons, like the bad conscience he did not have. The Bible had been here, too, when he first took over this room at The Flying Dutchman: one of his men had asked him if he ought to burn it, and Colm had calmly taken the book and slapped him with it, explaining that it was no use burning written words that already lived in their own.

He had, as many people did, preferred the Song of Songs in his youth. He remembered it fondly, in particular the section of the lover knocking on the speaker's door, calling, For my head is filled with dew, My locks with the drops of the night. And then, when the speaker opened the door, the lover had gone away, leaving the speaker to wander the streets, sick with love. Colm had wondered what that felt like. These days he thought he had an inkling of it.

As he had grown older, his attention moved to the Ecclesiastes. It had been a strange experience, seeing the origins of certain phrases, although their true origins no doubt ran out beyond even that, in the nameless and faceless people that made up folklore, like shadows stretching around known history. Truly, he would have to underline the whole of the Ecclesiastes to fully capture it, though he preferred the second part.

He knew some passages by heart, but it was always interesting to actually read them. What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun. Had he not quoted it to Micah, indirectly? It wasn't new, nothing was, but it was something that the boy seemed to enjoy the more abstract exchanges so much. 

Colm looked over the top of the book, wondering what abstracts Micah saw currently.

 

Minutes had passed without a sound from the cage except Micah sometimes shifting to lay down in a better position, more in the beginning and then less and less.

So, it was quite the contrast when the keening started. It sounded like held-back screaming, before the banging began, limbs hitting the side of the cage like he was trying to kick the walls down.

Colm shotted the last drops of water from his glass and took long strides over to the cage, calm despite the ruckus. He couldn't be too slow though, because Micah was hitting his head against the walls, too. Colm unlocked the cage and wrapped a hand around Micah's ankle and squeezed hard, but the internal fighting continued as if he hadn't noticed him.

Without further prompting, Colm dragged him out of the cage.

On his back, he kept on writhing, until Colm kept Micah's wrists by his groin and sat down on them, keeping him still with his weight. This way, he could have both his hands free. He put his fingers inside the mouth part of the hood, but the teeth were gritted so hard using the pressure points of the jaw didn't get him to relax it, only resulting in another high keening noise, like he wanted to scream but couldn't.

Colm undid the clasp of the hood.

"What's this all about?" he asked before it came fully off.

Oh. It was panic. Micah's eyes were the widest he had ever seen them, looking around, seeing nothing, like the gaze of a drowned ghost.

Tutting, Colm took hold of the sweaty face and pinched the cheeks together. Usually, it would've made Micah snarl and claw, but he simply kept his wrists at his chest as if guarding himself from a more omnipresent force. Even when Calm undid the bracelets, he didn't really move, remaining on the floor. Colm had to lift him, putting more strain on his aging body. After being dumped into bed, Micah simply curled up, no real awareness in him.

Colm had expected him to be sleepy, blinking up at him with an expression that did not understand, but trusted him.

Instead, Micah was in a fetus position, trembling, a distance from where Colm laid down beside him on the bed beside him. Their current states were eons away from when Micah had sat on his lap earlier. It seemed he had gone too far into the dark inside himself.

This happened sometimes. There was nothing to do but to wait.

 

The eerie silence forced Colm to reflect at length, which he rarely did anymore, especially not after his headaches had gotten worse. He had spent years creating a kind of philosophy around purity and excess, only to have it falter in the face of certain events, leaving him sick of reflection altogether. He only ever felt like he remembered, as if all his underlying critical mind could do was to show him pictures of his past. Few managed to provoke a similar reaction in him as he provoked in the boys he took to his room.

Maybe that was why he liked watching them, afterwards. Seeing something in their eyes die. No matter what Colm had done, he was still alive and strangely whole.

Nothing ever reached him, but he could reach them.

To say that most of the men who began working for him and his brother had baggage was an understatement. So, he had dealt in this sort of panic and daze before, not comforting it as much as gathering information and cataloguing weak spots.

But he was not Micah's boss. Micah received special treatment due to the circumstances connecting the Bells to the O'Driscolls. But mostly, he took Micah to his room because he wanted to see how far underneath his skin he could get with old and mastered methods. See if he could flay away all but the pretty white bones, to carve his name in them, without causing permanent damage.

"Grandpa," Micah said suddenly, voice like crumbling leaves.

An insult? Now? Colm raised an unimpressed brow and poked Micah in the back. The boy straightened, and it looked funny, going military straight while in a bed. Maybe he had gone so far inside himself he'd found a traumatic memory. A good man might've left it alone.

"Yes?" Colm said, trying to make his voice as neutral as possible.

"Please," he mumbled. "Not again."

His fingers curled around the long, blonde hairs, lightly pulling. "Not again, what?"

"Not the chest, sir." For a single moment, he looked over at the cage, before collapsing back onto the mattress.

Some sort of memory about a chest, ignited by being inside the cage?

And the use of sir had been cute at first, funny when demanded by his father, then bitter for the same reason because it was the father who instilled respect in the boy and not Colm. The ambivalence grew as he realized that it had something to do with the grandfather as well. The Bells were a bag of mangy cats, inflicting a level of hurt on each other that Colm found unsophisticated. Too bad the kitten was intriguing. Too bad for the kitten, that was.

"What chest, Micah?" Colm asked, edging even closer.

Micah inhaled sharply, and then slowly let it out.

With the room being as purified as it was, it was easy for Colm to see in his mind's eye how the Bell family's secrets began to spill out through that slightly oily breath. 

Chapter 7: Beautiful Child / Blackmail

Summary:

The first night in Colm's bedroom does not end well for Micah.

Notes:

Warning: manipulation of subspace, bad aftercare, descriptions of past child abuse, murder attempt, non-consensual flogging and spanking

After some thought, I've added the rape warning to Salt. It will still mostly contain dubcon (by fictional standards) with instances of noncon. As always, please take care of yourself while reading.

This part is named after two songs by Swans that comes after each other on the album. Gira sings the first one and Jarboe the other, but together I think they capture the shifts in mood.

The boy had gone quiet again, like the bed was a sea at night that he sank through. But he had already reached the bottom a little earlier, in the form of a dog cage reminding him of a treasure chest.

Colm imagined a small and wooden treasure chest at the bottom of an ocean, or just the sort that one bought at a junk shop, to accommodate order in the house or the play of children. But it must have been bigger to fit Micah. His grandfather had ceased to show his grimy face around their property - their hideout, as his father called it - when Micah was a teenager, but the old man lived on longer than that. Colm could guess when he had expired, because suddenly the hair and beards of the family grew out, where it had been cut short before.

Like he was flipping through cards in his mind, he considered different approaches. Pretending he was the boy's grandfather (which was kind of insulting, Colm wasn't that old; but some part of him noted the irony of Micah managing to insult him even when half comatose) seemed to have failed.

So, he tried something else. 

"Hey," he said quietly, scratching the sweaty hairs at the back of Micah's neck, "You're safe here."

In letters among his associates, he often uses a simple code of reversing statements. If he wrote Everything is forgiven, nothing was. So, what he truly said to Micah was: You're unsafe with me .  Or maybe even: You ' re unsafe with yourself .

Giving Colm information about his childhood … It was not smart of the boy. 

He would take it anyway. He pulled a blonde lock, not hard, but firm.

"But it's important you tell me what I wanna know. Or I'll have to put you back into the cage again." A sigh, like Colm would regret doing so, when he would only regret the physical strain of it. "Or chest. Whatever it looks like in your mind."

"Please don't," Micah said, the leaves of his voice rustling prettily.  

Colm sighed in pleasure, this time. It was nice to hear Micah beg. The night wasn't entirely wasted, after all. "Tell me about the chest. Come on. Can you at least tell me where it was?"

"In the cellar," the boy stuttered, making him say cell twice, as if describing a worse prison cell than the one he had said Colm's room looked like. "It was in the cellar."

Colm wormed closer, and the boy stiffened, until he curled more up so that his back hit Colm's front. Like they were worms ready to mate like human beings. His lip quirked at the thought. It helped him offer a smidgen of gentleness to be boy, as he was filing everything away for blackmail.

It wasn't the first time he had heard of children being locked in basements, or attics, or a closet, punishing them with the natural fear of the dark, letting them imagine the horrors themselves. A chest sounded cramped like the cage had been. Colm had not been punished like that, nor had Owen as far as he knew, but he imagined it was unpleasant.

"The old man put you in there when you were bad?"

"When I didn't shoot good enough. When I didn't wanna shoot ..." Micah's lips became a thin line.

"Shoot what?" Colm asked, imagining a small furry animal, like the hares Micah had caught when they were out camping. Holding them up, grinning and shaking them, until his face became ghostly pale as if he did not trust his own joy. It had been cute. Like a little boy showing off, expecting a reprimand for being too prideful, receiving a cup of coffee with his favorite caramel liqueur instead, puzzled and wary. 

"Or who?" Colm continued.

Micah shook his head, ending the motion by hiding his face in the mattress, obscured by hair. Rubbing his head into the charcoal-colored wool, more violent than when seeking mere stimulation, like he was trying to erase his own face off. Colm would get his secrets out of him sooner or later. He snuck an arm around Micah's head, keeping an elbow in front of his eyes, because though not conventionally attractive, he liked his face without rug burns.

"Shh. I got you," he said, pressing his head to Micah's, while keeping him blind. "How long did he put you in there?" 

"Dunno." The autumn leaves of Micah's voice had grown wetter, ready to return to the soil. The deprivation of sight helped him a bit, because he had seemed to like the leather hood. "Minutes, sometimes. And other times... the light changed. Outside. Afterwards."

Hours, in a cramped space, inside the basement. Sometimes minutes. It must've added fear, never knowing how long it would last. It meant the cage was off the table, for now. Colm did not blame himself: he had no way of knowing, and Micah had responded well to bondage. He had been scared of the confinement, but also curious. Most likely he did not know that it would trigger such a reaction. There was no one to blame except a man that had been dead for years. Funny, how one could say that about so many problems, but Colm did not smile.

"Did you share the chest with Amos?" he asked, imagining the two of them, curled together like they were.

There was another one of those head shakes ending in the equally violent facial rubbing, if Colm had not stopped him. He pressed himself against the boy, forcing him to be still. It looked like a hug. It was more of a crush, Colm swinging a leg over his, pushing him to his stomach, like a dog mounting another. He'd look good with a collar. Micah turned his head to the side so he could breathe more easily, and Colm liked his red cheeks, the proof of fast, young blood. 

"Just you? Special brand of punishment, for the eldest?"

"I'm not ... He is ..."

"Wait," Colm said, frowning. "Amos is the oldest?" 

"By minutes."

"Then why did you inherit the family name? Your name is Micah, isn't it?"

The facial rubbing began a third time, but he also nodded. It seemed desperate, as if the answer was something he had to confirm. So maybe Micah hadn't been his name, originally.

Now Colm had to use more strength to keep him from hurting his face, and it lasted longer. Colm let the question go, lest the fighting would worsen his headache. 

Micah's childhood had always been held back, and not much could be observed, with their stoic faces becoming implemented early. But Amos and Micah had been identical twins, and it must've hurt, seeing a mirror image walk away. There had been no birth certificates, mostly rumors, in the papers and in saloons. Had Amos been born as weak as he turned out to be? He hadn't looked weak; he had looked exactly like Micah, but with sadness instead of insanity.

He supposed he should have been content with the new information he had gotten tonight, but he was not. He felt like he had been eating a nice evening meal, and then halfway through discovered a wad of human hairs in it. All of them blonde and greasy, with an aftertaste of gunpowder and madness. Colm wasn't easily disgusted, nor did he require flavorful food, but he would prefer to eat food without human parts in it. Sex without pain was like meat without salt, who said that?

Pausing his thoughts, Micah ceased struggling. With a sound like a dying whale, he sank back between the mattress and Colm's body where he belonged, small and powerless.

"Three of four more questions. And then we're done. Alright?"

A slight nod.

"When did you meet your grandfather? How old were you?"

"Eight or nine," Micah answered, so exhausted he seemed emotionless.

"And your father?"

"Nine. Maybe ten."

"Alright," Colm said. He knew information needed time to settle into knowledge, and he would think it over, later. For now, he only had a silly question left. "Last thing. That stuff that's been going around the saloons and campfires about Micah Bell the First's treasure chest, it ain't true, right? I mean, I like legends, and I like metaphors, but I just gotta check."

Micah did not answer. But he had gone very taunt. 

Colm's brows climbed. He kept his tone light, because this could not be serious.

"Really? Was it the same chest?"

No answer. 

"Maybe I should take some of my boys and pay your daddy a visit. We don't look to keenly on folks who beg us to extend loans, when they could've paid it off all along."

"No ... No, we don't ..."

"I would've liked to see it. Especially if that's where you were."

"We don't have it anymore," Micah said, even more quietly.

"Your daddy drank up the treasure? Sure sounds like him." This was getting ridiculous. "Used it all up the same hour your grandaddy expired, yeah? Just ran straight to the cellar." 

He heard Micah speak, but it was so quiet he had to lean down.

"Amos stole it."

"What? When? When he ran away?"

No answer. 

"Suppose I should take my men to him, then. Won't be too hard to find if he's used some of it."

"He donated it all," Micah whispered. "To the ... the goddamn Church."

Colm sat up straight. And then he laughed. 

It was so stupid, and somehow, that made it sound truer. If it was, Amos sure had some balls, by taking decades of crime money and donating it to the poor. A last fuck you to the Bell legacy, leaving his father and younger brother bereft, like he no doubt felt like his childhood had been in a religious sense, because Colm knew his type. His laughter faded.

The boredom returned.

It seemed like none of them were really that happy with this situation.

Micah was spacing out. He was shivering more than when Colm had laid close. 

For the first time he became less satisfied with his room, because it struck him that this had been easier if they were out on a job together. Colm had been working on his desk, and Micah had been riding all day, and it was rather different from when stalking the property on foot, learning the target's routines, sometimes talking or just sharing a smoke. (Or, after they started fucking, that time with the barrel; Micah had looked good clinging to it, every thrust making the liquid in it squelch like waves lapping up their sins). 

"No more playing tonight, alright?" Colm said into Micah's ear, like a conch shell, sounding like the blood of one's skull.

He wasn't really expecting a response, but the tiny nod made some of his satisfaction return, because it meant that this night could be over soon.

And it had been kind of interesting, although with an end he could have done without, at least in favor to the one he had imagined: true submission, the way Micah sometimes looked at him through his eyelashes, content with how Colm had scooped out everything he was and left a sweet nothing in its wake. In contrast, this end was tedious.

He did not realize how much worse it could get until fifteen minutes had passed.

 

Colm believed that he had made peace with being a bad man.

Nevertheless, he often wondered what made a good one.

If goodness was a lack of evil, and happiness, a lack of pain, this line of thought meant that pain and evil had presence where happiness and goodness were absences. That the world was present, meant that pain and evil pushed into existence along with it. For Colm, evil and pain were so similar he thought of them as one force. So, for many years he had believed making himself into a bad force, insatiable in the way the world was, reflecting these presences outwards to give himself one in the process.

But after a while the sensations had ceased to matter. All that wanting towards new things, experiences, and feelings, stripped him down without leaving him pure. He felt more clogged than ever, with these constant memory flashes, and no real inner response. Last year, during those times his mood was so black he could rarely get up from bed, he had come to realization that he would've rather done without pain and evil. He would've rather done without the world. Only then, by his line of thinking, could he become happy or good.

But habits, oh habits, died hard. And so, he'd taken Micah Bell the Third on as a side project without thinking it over. Just to have some fun with the boy. They truly hadn't done that much. It had been a nice distraction, a young and warm thing to sink his teeth into, something to play with when the nights got boring. 

Colm was so deep within his own reflections that he did not fully notice how Micah slowly crawled away. 

That was, until he tried to kill Colm with a candle holder.

 

Micah had grabbed it from the table, using the blunt part - turned around midair, the candle flickering - in an attempt to cave in Colm's skull with it.

Colm dodged, but the candle holder still left a trail of scrapes on his temple.

The withdrawal was clumsy. The backhand he sent across Micah's face was not. A moment of shock, until Micah resumed fighting. Brawls weren't Colm's thing, but he wasn't averse to it.

Colm grabbed his hair and forced him back. The candle broke off the holder and fell on the bed. Luckily, wool did not ignite easily, nor did the stone it rolled down to. Micah's scalp was sensitive, so Colm tried to grip it as painfully as possible, twisting the hair roots. Ripping someone's hair out was difficult, but he put in the effort, imagining the dots of blood, pooling. When Micah tried to wrench himself away Colm slapped and backhanded his face until his whole hand burned, and the boy simply held on to Colm's wrists, groaning in pain.

"You tried to kill me," he said, exhaling some of the words. "Why?"

There wasn't only ire. There was also a feeling of betrayal, with two sources.

One was because the last time he felt betrayed, it had ended really, really badly for the boy who had done it to him, even by the standards set by him and his men. There had been a fitting ending and all was well, yes, but he had also had a migraine for three months afterwards. Although it was enough time ago for a human to materialize fully in a womb, he remembered that particular migraine like a sword hanging above his head, particularly whenever he had one of its lowlier but aching cousins, like now.

The second source of the feeling was that it went against his own reflections: he thought that he had wanted it all to end, but when someone finally tried to take his life with a damn candle holder, he had for a brief moment felt fear.

"Why," he repeated.

All that came from Micah was loud, panicked breathing.

His grip around Colm's wrists was tight, but he was hanging on and not kicking or writhing.

"Ignoring me?" 

The lack of explanations pissed Colm even more off. He wondered if Micah didn't know who he was dealing with. He hadn't really acknowledged this fully before now, but this kind of shit behavior was the exact reason why he had stopped taking boys to his room. Maybe he really was getting old, but they could be so hard to deal with sometimes, too stupid to realize consequences. Colm wasn't a vengeful sort, because most of his life, he had been able to deliver retribution as instantly as he would now.  

"If you act like a little boy, I'm gonna treat you as one."

He dragged Micah over his legs, forcing him across his lap, pants loose enough to get opened easily. His ass was soft and unused to touch, having accepted the penmanship easily enough, earlier.

(In a flash, he recalled the snowy morning in the tent, when he'd fucked the boy with his fingers. It was gentler than most of the things they did, and far gentler than most things he had done with others. He had wondered if he had grown soft, even as he fingered the boy while talking to his father, who stood outside the tent, blissfully unaware.)

His slid the belt off easily enough, cracking it in the air, before he doubled it a few times around his hand. Micah tensed, jaw clenching along with the muscles in his back, ass and thighs.

"If you know what's good for you, try to breathe, and try not to move too much."

He actually did as he was instructed, and it soothed Colm's need for control, but not his anger.

Micah began screaming by the sixth lick of the belt. 

 

His screams were pretty, but not enough.

Colm almost missed the Micah from before, because he could have made a joke about Jesus taking more lashes than he was shrieking about. He could've also mentioned that in Jesus' case, his torturers had probably been professional, but that would downplay Colm's experience in this field. He supposed, in some ways, he was professional, even when angry.

Habits, most likely. Cleaning up a body, especially in this kind of establishment, could be a hassle. Disguising screams with loud saloon music was not.

Micah's ass was getting bright red, with patches of yellow, but Colm was careful not to hit the back or the balls when it could be avoided. But the pain in his skull was not gone, together with the bruises on his forehead, reminders of Micah's bad behavior. Was he getting soft? He hit harder, but the question resurfaced in him. Even worse, was he getting senile? 

"Colm," Micah breathed between screams, begging, and other useless sounds. 

Hearing his name said like that, made him pause and realize he had forgotten to count. He lowered his arm. Blood dripped from the edge of the belt. No matter, he had a dark bed cover for a reason. Anyway, a break would do his arm good, so he let go off the belt. He used his other hand to drag Micah's hair back to get a look at his face. 

Tears and snot were running down it, eyes wide, but more aware than before. He did look better when in pain than he had when confined, although Colm knew which one hurt him the most, on a deeper level.

"Why did you try to kill me? Better tell me quick, boy."

"Cause you'd tell ..." Micah said, each word stuttered, with pauses between them, "everyone." 

Disgusted, Colm let go.

"You're so full of shame, ain't you? Loving yourself enough to think that everyone will jump at this and hating yourself enough that you think they will hate you, too. Most people don't care. Granted, your story has some interesting bits of irony and cruelty in it, but it's not that special."

"You know nothing about cruelty. Not like ... Not like he did."

"Maybe," Colm said, slapping his hand lightly against the red flesh, not relenting until Micah keened. "I'm not even halfway done. If you got something that can placate me, now's the time." 

He let go off Micah, focusing on stretching his own arm and shoulder, movements that would calm the upcoming stiffness. He did a few finger exercises, getting them ready. 

"I'll s-suck you."

"You already did, remember? That didn't go so well," Colm said. Instead of a memory, his headache throbbed harder, as if warning him from being too kind to the boy.

"Then just," Micah's voice broke, "fuck me." 

"I don't think you realize that would mean, right now," Colm said dryly, and to underline what he meant, he gave Micah's ass a harsher slap. It bounced prettily, while an even prettier shriek left him. Colm waited until the boy was done, then added, "I won't be fucking you for some time, after tonight." 

The bruising was more of a warm-up, the curled belt thick and more of an impact than with something thinner, which could've cut into his flesh. They would get there, now that it was made more sensitive.

"Whatever you want," Micah said so quietly it was almost silent. 

"I'm already doing whatever I want," Colm said, pleased to see that he could refill his glass of water from where he sat. He drank mechanically, knowing he needed to hydrate.

"Not this."

"Time's up. The next time we have a break, use your big boy brain and think of something that can actually placate me. Remember what I deal in. I know a lot you about you, even more after tonight, but not everything." He patted Micah's head. "You can start by telling me your old name, if -" you have one.

"Burn in hell, you old bastard," Micah forced out, confirming Colm's statement despite the insult, so adept at digging his own grave that he was revealing the corpse of a boy buried beneath. 

Colm gave him the bloodied belt to bite down on, forcing it in. No chocolates this time, because Micah hadn't earned a treat. He groped his ass in a motion like he was testing its flexibility, before he lifted his hand, knowing that a hit from it could be worse than the belt if aimed right.

When he said that Micah would not like getting spanked by him, he had not lied.

 

Micah was writhing like an eel in acid, sending tears and snot flying, humming against the belt. Colm had to hold him down by the neck when he tried getting away, smacking him when he had just exhaled just to make it more painful. 

And then there was the memory of another boy, in a similar state, fully compliant until he'd been revealed to be a traitor. But that boy had had no one but Colm, where Micah was an inheritance of violence incarnate, head full of ghosts, at least two of these ghosts alive. When he let go off the belt, his yelling made Colm focus on him.

The present was freshly colorful. Micah's ass was not only red, but had multiple burst blood vessels, marks that would go blue and purple and even black. Colm sometimes used more force than he had intended, but at least it functioned as evidence for strength as opposed to feebleness. 

A few words could be heard among the sounds, the usual please and stop, boss and sir, Colm's name and no, most likely the word Colm had heard the most in his life, also in more innocent settings. He was almost bored of it, and for every no he heard, he spanked Micah harder. If he wasn't responsive enough, Colm aimed for the back of his balls, which he had no chance at staying quiet about.

He varied the blows, from using his palm to thud against the meatier parts of the ass and thighs, similar to how he had done with the belt, but his favorite style was to hit him with his fingers, curling his tips a bit so his nails joined in in the cutting blows. The combination made it easier for the aching in his joints. Micah flinched so prettily, a bit like he had done with the pen, whose scratches he could feel when he hit his inner thighs.

He had expected it, but it still was nice, to find Micah half hard. 

Colm wrapped his hand around him, giving a tug.

There was a change within Micah, then. Either, he was in too much pain to have noticed his arousal before now. Or, he had hoped Colm wouldn't notice. As if that would ever happen.

"It's kinda difficult, punishing someone who likes pain so much." 

"I ... don't ..." 

Clicking his tongue at the denial, Colm began jerking Micah off. He had to bend his arms at an odd angle, so it wasn't a true break. He just couldn't help but enjoy himself by petting Micah's ass, mapping out where he'd broken the skin. Sometimes he traced his knuckle near the hole, just to make the body shiver and tense. It hadn't deserved getting fucked, because Micah liked it too much. This, though, he loathed.

It almost made it worth how much Colm's hands would kill him, tomorrow. He idly noted that he should take a day off but knew he wouldn't.

"I guess you didn't like the dog cage," he mused. "But I don't like people who think they can kill me. So, I think I'll make you come inside the cage, while you scream for your granddaddy's ghost, that'd be funny. How about it?" 

"Please no." There was true terror there. "Please, please, please -"

Colm switched hands and forced his head back, but the begging didn't stop. He had seen his eyes swell with tears, had seen him flinch and twitch, but never this lost.

"Then tell me your old name." He gripped Micah's cock, before moving quicker. "You can whisper it into my ear. But if you bite me, I'm tearing out a few teeth. I have a pair of blacksmith's tongs, I know where they are."

Micah took a wretched breath. His mouth formed a word.

Colm leaned closer, until he heard Micah's tongue sliding around in his mouth like a trapped snail, stalk eyes withdrawn, blind but searching for a way out of himself. To remind him that there was no way out of this but to speak, Colm ran his nails over his cock, fully hard.

"A Bell," Micah whispered.

Colm realized what he really had said a moment later: his old name had been Abel.

"A Bell," Colm mumbled, laughing. 

And then the laughing made his jaw hurt, having tensed too much earlier.

He ceased jerking Micah off. He wrapped his hand around Micah's chin, forcing him to look upwards. He kissed his wet forehead, which tasted like sweat. They saw each other's faces backwards, and maybe Colm's smile looked like a frown: it would certainly explain why those blue eyes were so wide. His hand at the chin stroked it, his index finger slipping across a bottom lip, covered in bleeding bite marks. He had opened his own skin, forced forth by Colm doing so to the skin of his ass and thighs. Opening until the truth slipped out. 

"Hello, Abel. Nice to meet you."

Micah's eyes filled with fresh tears, making the ones in his lashes bounce like grass full of dew-like insect eggs about to break open. He looked so betrayed, even it was directed at himself, as a kind of despair. What better way to punish a traitor than to make them betray themselves, which for Micah included the men who bore his name? The ghosts all floated to the surface, while Micah remained at the depth with Colm down there with him, watching him drown. He had nearly killed Colm, and in retribution, Colm had made him reveal how he killed his old self, once upon a time. It was fitting. If Micah had remained defiant, Colm would have broken him in other ways. But this was … okay. Not good, not nice, but okay. 

"Please don't tell anyone. Please, Colm. Don't."

"There's more to the name, isn't there?"

"Please, Colm," Micah repeated, eyes shutting tightly so that more tears ran. "Not tonight," he continued, and it said a lot of how he viewed their relationship, even after these events. Seeing no end to it. Seaweed wrapped around Micah's feet, dragging him deeper for each wave.

It was sweet. It was like a balm over the whole of Colm, better than any orgasm. He used his fingertips to pick up tears, then licking them up. But it wasn't enough, so he leaned down and licked them away fresh from Micah's face. Micah sobbed harder at the sweeps of tongue; the first gentleness Colm had given him in a while. It was so sweet. 

"I won't tell anyone, as long as you don't tell anyone how you tried to kill me," Colm said. "And you've made up for it. You were good afterwards, Micah."

He squeezed his cock once, about to withdraw. At first, he thought it was blood oozing between his fingers. Then he realized, due to the sobbing moans and jerking hips, that Micah was emptying himself into his hand. Colm retraced his words and wondered if it was the praise after so many insults that had created this response, or just the mention of his name, reaffirming who he thought himself to be. His name, as praise. 

"Micah," Colm said as an experiment. 

Micah's breath hitched, and his next jerk was more intense, with a beautiful whimper at the end. 

Gotcha . 

Colm would use his old name later, in the same way he would use the leather gear, maybe even the cage. But for now, he withdrew and studied the pubescent shine between his fingers. It wasn't much, but it was hot, good for the soreness in them like a warming cream. 

He wanted a taste. For some, it would've been seen as a debasing act, the enjoyment of bodily fluids. Colm knew, because once upon a time he had tried experiencing it for himself as a young man but never found release in such acts. He never truly left his own mind, at least not when he had tried to submit to others. Only when he took the ones who had taken him in turn, sometimes right afterwards, did he come close. He licked his fingers, enjoying the bitter, slightly ashy taste, mostly salty, deliciously so. When he wanted something, he took it. He felt a haze fill him. He blinked, tried to remain aware. 

"Kitten," he said at length, "did you make yourself come to get me to pity you?"

Micah convulsed, and Colm realized he was crying louder, the sobs wrecking through his body. He would have to get some water in the boy, soon. He began realigning their bodies.

"My little killer, why are you so sad?"

He wanted Micah ass up, just so he could lay over him, a little sideways not to put pressure on his ass. Colm's chest was on Micah's back. His fingers in his hair, seeking warmth. They weren't as wrecked as Micah's ass, though. Because now that Colm was calmer, he realized he had not held back the slightest when spanking the boy after flogging him with the belt. There had been real anger there. He hadn't felt that strongly for a while. Micah woke strange things in him, things he thought were dormant, or not a part of how he saw himself.

"I don't know who I am," Micah said, his voice tight. 

"No one does, at your age," Colm said dismissively, before smirking. " My sweet little Bell. I guess you're mine, so that's a start. Let's figure out the rest together, yeah?" 

Slowly, Micah's breath evened out. The crush seemed to help. Colm leaned down to kiss him. He brushed their lips together, tongue knocking on his bottom one. Micah let him in without a fight, but the exhaustion to his motions made it a less interesting kiss.

"You're forgiven. But if you do something like that again, I will carve my name into your back."

Micah shook his head, desperately so. Usually, Colm would have demanded a verbal answer, but since this was the boy's second – maybe even third – drop into dark waters, it could wait. And speaking of water … Colm refilled his glass, and began giving Micah some, only a small sip at the time. It was a testament to his pain tolerance, that he hadn't vomited or passed out, but Colm was careful not to overdo it.

Little by little, he drank it up, and Colm put the glass of water away to resume lying beside him. His headache started fading, maybe just because of the increasing burn in his palms and fingers taking some of the load like a pinched wrist. They needed some kind of treatment, balms or herbs, physical ones instead of mental. But all that could wait. 

 

Half an hour of silence passed. Perhaps more. The single candle holder that was left illuminated the smoke in the ceiling, coming from Colm's cigarette.

He thought of nothing. Sometimes he looked into Micah's eyes, and then he went back to staring at the wafting ceiling of gray. He was relaxed, except when his thoughts skirted around the issue of his own surprisingly unwanted would-be murder, which made him feel strange. Or, stranger than usual, after one of these encounters.

"Did all of that just happen?" Micah asked suddenly.

Colm, who was resting against his body and had felt him wake, took another look at his eyes. They were half-lidded, but there was a sharper awareness in the pale blue, resonating in his voice, exhausted but present. 

"Yeah. Give yourself some time to digest it, like I am." 

It was a fuller meal than the one you had in my office.

"I gotta get back."

"Why?" Colm asked lazily, stumping his cigarette on the wall. There were a few black stains there already, a bit like a prisoner counting days. He would not have thought of that comparison were he alone. 

"I just … gotta go back." 

Micah did not move for a few more minutes. Then he started pulling his pants up. Each movement strained him, his face a grimace. Colm watched him, feeling satisfied but emptier than usual. It was still amusing when Micah nearly fell out of bed, walking like the dying old man he claimed Colm was. If he was walking like that already, it was unlikely he would move much at all later, especially not ride or sit, when the swelling and bruising truly began. 

"You can't ride." Colm blinked back more haziness. "And if your daddy sees you ..."

"I'll survive," Micah rasped, walking small, unsteady steps like when his ankles had been bound.

Colm raised both brows, and it took him very little time to close the distance between them. He noted with some disdain that their clothes were equally wrinkled, and that there was blood on his collar. It wasn't the first time his preference for white shirts had led to this.

"I'll get you a room upstairs," he said, putting a hand against the door, above Micah's shoulder. "Until the worst is over."

"No. Thank. You," Micah forced out, opening the door, staggering back and into him of the light from the office. 

Colm also winced, pinching the bridge of his nose. By the time his eyes had gotten used to it, Micah was already dressing in his grandfather's coat, face red, but nowhere near as bright as Colm knew his ass to be. Although he wouldn't force him to stay, he was privately impressed by the determination.

"We'll be back with your Christmas jewelry and shit," Micah said.

It took Colm a few moments to realize that he was referring to the coach job he'd given to the Bells. By then, the littlest Bell had staggered over to the larger door to the waiting room, trying to outrun his growing pain.  

"Micah," he said, making his voice the softest it would go. "Be safe, out there." 

It slew the boy. Colm saw it by the way his shoulders shook, the gentleness being a greater dagger than the flogging and spanking had been. His expression looked a mix of confused and betrayed, mostly just lost. When he closed the door, he was careful, not slamming it. Maybe he simply had no strength left or was saving some of it for the ride home.

Maybe he wouldn't return at all. 

"Huh," Colm said as he felt a twinge in the center of his chest, there and then gone.

He considered getting back to work, but his hands were too useless. He considered giving another coal bar to the oven, but settled against that, too. In the growing cold, he leant on his desk, watching the closed door until the twinge returned.  He rubbed his lower palm against the center of his chest, curious about the slight tightness there, something oddly close to regret. 

Notes:

"Sex without pain was like meat without salt, who said that?" Colm, you SOB, you know who wrote that, don't deny your inheritance to your spiritual grandpappi Marquis de Sade. "Sex without pain is like food without taste," is the specific quote ...

I'm being sooo self-indulgent when giving a background to Colm, as the he is often used as a flat rapist in most fics, which I have nothing against, but find fun to subvert a little.

Thank you for reading! If this was hurt, the next is a weird kind of comfort.

Chapter 8: Fivefold

Summary:

A return, a talk, a supper: overall, an agreement to stay for a while.

Notes:

Short chapter! A bit of a breather, between two rather dark tidal waves.

Also, as an update on the battle of this story always spiraling out of my control, I've put an overview of the different arcs inside the A/N in part 1 of Salt.

Song is by Agnes Obel.

It was the winter's solstice, the shortest day and soon, the longest night. According to some sayings, the sun was about to turn. According to others, the son of a god had been born a few dozen generations from now. 

As banal as it sounded, Colm felt as though he was outside time. He was editing some of the more serious letters, but his eyes were skimming the words, seeing them but not absorbing their meaning, the letters blurring out along with the edges of his skin. After a hard day's work, he could not connect to his life but not truly disconnect, either. 

The knock at the door made him come back into his body. He blinked away the black slit of blackmail lingering at the bottom of his eyes, like the sleep he always wiped away, and the tears he only shed from tiredness.

After he let the man in, he noted that the face was a new, younger one, with a mess of ratty brown hair, young eyes full of adoration. Colm had been right: the previous man had not been meant to last. This one looked a little bit sharper.

"It's some kid, boss. Says it's about a coach job. He's uh … He's in a state."

While Colm put away the letters, he chewed on the word state, imagining an overuse of cocaine or drink. The last time Micah had visited, he might've come in as a man but had staggered out like a beaten boy. Since then, a few days had gone by; a forgettable restaurant visit with Owen and his family, a failed bank robbery resulting in six casualties (probably including his old guard), and Christmas descending, headachy. The people upstairs were trampling, drinking, celebrating or dreading the season.

"Show him in." 

In other times, Colm might've let him wait. But he welcomed the distraction, and he imagined Micah alone in the waiting room, with his father upstairs or by the stables outside the saloon.

While the man went back out the door, Colm allowed himself to admit he disliked how the past encounter ended, not because he regretted it, but it could dampen such whims in the future.

But as if no time had passed since the last encounter, Micah stumbled into the room. The twinge from a few days ago returned fivefold. It was more of a hole inside Colm, a hungry maw, making all his plans manifest themselves and drool.

It had been true; Micah was in a state.

Intoxicated not on drink, but by the aftermath of bloodlust, where the heights of violence had soaked his skin, shirt and pants in brownish black. The natural gray of the twilight, broken by a few candles and the coal oven, made the blood look darker. Under his arms, he carried his saddlebags, and a large lockbox. His expression was a mad grimace.

"I got it," he said, not meeting Colm's eyes. "Got what you wanted."

The maw inside Colm kept on drooling despite his closed mouth.

Micah looked a bit like some kind of mythical creature that had clashed with contemporary times. The dirt or crust in his facial lines made them look like wrinkles, as if he was older than Colm, a bodach who crawled down the chimney to frighten bad children. But he was not wearing his grandfather's coat, which was a nice touch, even if the Bell madness remained. Like a hurt predator, he walked slow out of necessity, when he wanted to pounce. 

The maw inside Colm dripped, while Micah stopped in front of the desk and put the lockbox on it. There was a crash and Micah startled as if he had not meant to make the impact loud.

Colm aligned the lockbox, so it was right in front of him. It was of fine make, unoxidized iron, with a thick lock. He opened a drawer and took out a knife. He noted that Micah had put his saddle bags at the seat of the chair. "Daddy's waiting?" Colm asked.

Gritted teeth. "Yeah."

"Is he in a bad mood?"

A shrug.

Colm broke apart the lock, but did not open it yet. "You dunno?"

"Last time I spoke to him, he was in a mood, yeah," Micah said, feigning nonchalance. It didn't work so well when he had to lean on the desk so much, struggling to stand on his own.

"And when was that?"

"Three days ago. Been kinda busy. Doing a coach job."

Micah truly looked like he hadn't slept in three days. Colm put one and one together, following a hunch.

"Alone?"

The word struck Micah, making him flinch. "Does it matter?"

Grinning, Colm opened the box. It wasn't bad: fancy jewelry in both silver and gold, earrings with opals and emeralds, bracelets with elaborate filigree and tiny diamonds, layered pearl necklaces, and a ring with a ruby, which he began working out of the tiny silver claws.

"Is it enough to pay off the debt?"

"Maybe a sixth of it." Colm slid his thumb over the small, freed ruby. He saw the way the arm supporting Micah on the desk shook slightly. "Not bad. And without your daddy, too. No witnesses?" 

"Course not."

"Good boy."

A shallow inhale in response, ending in a choked snarl.

Micah looked towards the exit, but then his grimace came back.

"Is he waiting, back home?" Colm asked.

"Dunno." He really was evasive, today.

"Why don't you just sit, for a while?" 

He raised a brow when Micah glared at him. It took him a moment, and then: oh. He probably preferred not to sit at all. Colm remembered how his ass had looked in the aftermath of the belting and spanking, and wondered how it looked like after the skin tried to repair itself. 

And because he wasn't the one to deny his curiosity, Colm stood up from his chair, taking out a tin of herbal salve from the drawer, which he usually used to soothe his fingers after writing too much.

"You're hurt."

"I'm fine." Micah was supporting himself on the desk with both arms, now, maybe to keep his marred ass further away from the one who had made it that way. But there were no insults, no bluster, just shivers going through him from each step Colm took closer. "I am!"

"No, you're not." Colm clicked his tongue as if soothing an anxious horse, then slid up beside Micah, leaning back against the desk. "Is this because of the job?" Colm could sit on the desk easily enough, and he bumped the knee that was closest to Micah into him. "Or just me?"

Blue eyes shone brightly under reddish tangles, saying you, you, you. Old blood was not as pungent as piss or sweat, and other than blood, Micah smelled of trees, grass and earth. Colm picked a small stick out of his hair, rolling it between his index finger and thumb, snapping it in half before letting it fall.

"You've been sleeping outside?"

"I never sleep," Micah mumbled, even if Colm had seen him do it.

Never deep, and rarely ever lots of hours in combination, and rarer still without nightmares. But in his current state, he fell into old lies, trying to appear like a fortress while Colm peeked through the cracks. Maybe it was the word alone, echoing in the questions, unwrapping him from the business he'd hidden himself in, until all that was left was a creature shivering from exhaustion and hurt. Colm wanted that creature to the point of being a little too obvious about it.

"Poor kitten. All alone in the world, huh?"

The pity of the first statement lighted rage, only for the second to extinguish it. When Micah trembled, Colm used his instability to guide him between his legs. Micah grunted, supporting himself on each side of Colm's hips, looking into his face with defiance before it broke apart when his ass was grabbed.

The sound was one for the ages. Colm kissed his forehead as it creased up in pain.

Some of that defiance returned, but all he had to do was tighten the hold, and the sweet keening sound came back, while his back bent and his face slipped lower, near Colm's neck. The submission came laughably fast, but he hadn't had much time for recovery, what with the ride from the saloon, the job, the ride back here. Maybe some part of him had remained inside this basement, waiting for Colm to make it end more properly. He had suggested staying a couple of days, after all, to recover – he would not have offered it if it wasn't serious.

"Hey. Hey, let me take a look," Colm said while he began undoing the front of Micah's pants. "Don't be scared. I'm just gonna look." He wasn't trying to be seductive, but he was careful. When he dragged the pants lower, Micah's breathing hitched, until Colm shushed him, leaning his head over the boy's shoulder. "Oh. Damn."

If Owen were to storm into Colm's basement in his usual bombastic fashion, he would've been greeted with quite a sight: that pale flesh, almost unrecognizable, colorful like dull gemstones. The purple and the blue and the green were intense against the skin and the rock floor. There was no infection, but there was swelling, enough to cause concern but not alarm. 

"Did you have to ride on a cushion?"

"Shut up." It had no venom in it. Besides, it was spoken against Colm's ear, no indication that there was willpower to pull away. 

"You put anything on it?" 

"Whiskey." 

"Alright. Hang on."

Colm reached across the desk, picking up the tin. Micah waited.

Wanting to reward him for waiting, Colm let him smell the mixture, enjoying the squinted-up look of disgust. It was kind of cute, especially how that squint melted into pure relief: Colm's hands were cold, and the mixture, cooling. He was more generous with it than he ever was with lubricant. The herbal smell hung in the air. Slowly, some of the tension began seeping out from Micah. Colm wiped some hair strands away from his face, liking to see agony bloom and fade as long as he was the master of it.

"Where will you go now? Ride back home, with nothing to show?"

Micah's jaw was working inside his cheek. Silent conversations, silent desires.

"I ... I want my own room. Upstairs. Like you said last time."

"The offer's expired, I'm afraid. You either stay in my bed, or I'll have one of my men escort you back home; you can lay over the rump of his horse, bound like a stolen maiden. What do you pick?"

More chewing. Grinding, even. Like Micah was trying to file down his own teeth.

"What was that?" 

"Your bed."

"Good choice." Indulgence crept back into Colm's voice. "We'll let the salve sink in, get you some supper, then a bath, and then you'll finally get some rest."

He ran his fingers over Micah, wanting the boy to associate his touches with other things than having the skin of his ass split open. It was obvious how much he needed the comfort; the patience, the touches and the compliments; the building up after breaking down. And Colm could give all those things to him now, due to the promise of more fun things, later on. 

"Why are you being nice to me after I tried to ... " murder you, but Micah was wise not to say it out loud. But when his concentration went to blotting out the ending, more emotion crept into the middle, cracking in the word nice. Not a lot of people called Colm nice. It was strange and refreshing. 

"Well, you tried, but you didn't succeed. And besides, some of the fault was mine. I underestimated you."

Micah's jaw loosened, the first time all evening. He met Colm's eyes, and there were swirls of emotions in them like thin clouds blowing across a sky, the need to be like lightning stopped by the urge to move ahead.

"I won't do it again," Micah said slowly. 

"Well, at least you know how to keep things interesting, kid. My threat still stands though. Do you remember it? My name," he touched Micah's back, feeling the tight muscles underneath the damp sweater, "right here."

"I never forget a threat."

"That's good, Micah. You're being really good."

Micah's breath hiccupped, and then he rested his forehead on Colm's shoulder. He probably got some filth on the fabric, but this shirt wasn't one of the nicer whiter ones, a dull dark green, so it was fine. Now that his every move wasn't watched and judged as a threat, he allowed his eyes to narrow in satisfaction.

"Medical question. Did you ride on a cushion?"

"My coat."

"Wait. Your grandaddy's coat?" 

A pause, then a nod. Colm laughed. Micah's lip twitched, like a someone who wanted to laugh along with someone they looked up to, not catching the joke but wanting so hard to belong. Colm kissed him. In the moment that he responded in his usual gentle fashion, Colm slipped his tongue inside, against the roof of his mouth. It tasted sour, the way a fever would taste, like he hadn't eaten in a while. 

"Let's get you some of that liquor you like, yeah?" Colm said against his lips, and felt the smile, feral and sweet, maybe simply mirroring his own.

 

Supper was scarcer than normal, but the lack of variety was made up for with Christmas spices. There was some leftover stew with mutton, cloves and canned peaches; buns with an interior of cinnamon and molasses; hot chocolate with the aforementioned caramel liquor.

Micah watched Colm add the latter with longing and discomfort. The discomfort came from their position: the guard had only served the supper to Colm, who had then placed a pillow on his lap, forcing Micah to sit on it if he wanted to be fed and watered.

He had sat down on Colm's lap without a word. He ate and drunk slowly no matter how hungry he was, but he was quieter than usual. There was a blanket, the same gray saloon one like before, and it had the mutually beneficial effect, keeping Micah warm and keeping Colm clean. He enjoyed the implications, like a master indulging the grotesque gift of a pet, and in Micah's case, this gift was not a dead bird or the lockbox, but his lowered guard.

When he bit into one of the buns, exposing the syrupy interior, his eyes fluttered in that particular way that Colm had come to like. He could almost feel the enjoyment secondhand, that sort of superficial satisfaction, and he saw a death in each chew, the secret knowledge of one more fleeting sensation.

"Is it really that delicious?" 

Micah put down the bun and took the cup of hot chocolate with both hands, hiding his mouth behind it, "It's okay." There was a slight echo from the cup, like an adult reverting to childish ways when trying new things.

"Want more?" Colm asked, picking up the bun that had been abandoned, taking a bite. It was far too sweet for his liking, so before Micah could reject it, he held it out in front of his mouth.

Micah took another bad-mannered bite out of the bun. It made Colm chuckle. He was … pleased with Micah's return. It surprised him somewhat. However, the days were cold and dark, more so without company. And he enjoyed the mental image of Micah tearing himself away from a bed only to fall back into it. He was eating from his fingers, Colm holding the bun securely, twisting it until all that was left were sticky crumbs and Micah's teeth scraping his skin.

"Clean them proper, would you?" 

Micah did as he'd been ordered and used his tongue with intent. Colm let him combat the stickiness with his own for a while, before he thrust his fingers into Micah's mouth. He didn't stop until he could feel the back of his tongue.

When Micah tried to wiggle, Colm simply wrapped an arm around his stomach, knowing nausea and sudden fullness were friends. When impoverished, throwing up could become an economical hazard, so it was in his best interest to let Colm do what he wanted.

Judging by how he stilled, swallowing around Colm's fingers one time, then two times, he submitted. His throat was lovely and tight, better than any meal, and far better than an evening spent in boredom. It clenched beautifully, both at the push in and out.

"Sometimes I wish you had a gag reflex just so I could destroy it. Was life at the Bell farm so scarce and boring you played by putting your revolver down your throat?"

The wet and slightly offended "Gah!" Micah made when Colm excited him, it really was lovely. His voice, too, slurred and hoarse, "Sometimes I wish you weren't so fucking …"

Old? Creepy? Nice? Colm swore he saw a fun fair's lucky wheel spin in his mind, with the bright colors of Micah's spanked ass. "What, Micah?" 

"Confusing."

Colm supposed Micah didn't realize how much his body could be worth other than as a gun. Well, Colm rarely stopped touching him when they were together, sliding his hands up his knees, making sure they were spread, and slipping under his shirt.

"I'll let you stay with me for a couple of days. Think of it as a vacation."

"Outlaws don't go on vacation!" Micah said, and the outburst at the end might have had less to do with his statement, and more with his nipple being played with. He was shifting into Colm's lap, a lovely pressure, the pillow keeping the young, sharp bones from poking him.

"Well, some do. I'll send your daddy a fraction of your score and tell him you're doing some more work for me. Should keep him sated enough not to come looking and ah, disturb us." 

"I don't think I'll be able to ..."

Colm's hand slipped lower, grazing the waistband.

"Fuck," Micah finished, disguising the verb as a curse. 

"Why do you think I checked if your throat's still tight?" Colm kept stroking his fingers over the soft pelvis, the feathery hairs there, but not going lower. "Anyway, you need a bath. The girls upstairs work around the clock. One of them will take care of you."

"Girls," Micah said, a spark of curiosity in his voice. 

"They're all clean," Colm said, wondering if he should fan that spark, or rather, let it be fanned by someone else only to kill the flame himself. Besides, though he didn't mind the amount of blood on Micah, he had no wish to lose men – nor boys – due to venereal diseases.

"Why are you telling me that?"

Colm shrugged, and it was arrogant, but he knew he was better at feigning nonchalance than Micah. The boy should watch and learn.

"I'll call on one of them, make them take you upstairs. Sound good?"

As soon as Micah nodded, Colm gestured for him to get up, which he did.

He rang the bell on his desk.

Micah was leaning on the desk and licking his fingers – a mix chocolate dust, cinnamon, blood underneath the fingernails? – when the guard entered once more.

"Kid needs a bath. Take him to," Colm snapped his fingers in the air, not remembering her name, "the redhead, you know? She's to clean him up, like she does with Owen's boys."

"Yes, boss," the man said, and he eyed Micah, tucking his true reaction behind a blankness that betrayed the intensity of it.No doubt, word would spread, because his boys could be like hens when it came to gossip. It would be a problem for another day: introducing Micah to the gang.

The boy wouldn't start on the bottom of the ranks, anyway, not with if Colm wanted to watch the usual grazing ceremonies end with a bunch shot to death by Micah's shooting skills. Micah always claimed Colm forgot that he was a Bell, but he was wrong, Colm just liked playing around with Abel too.

As soon as they left, Colm sank back in his chair. He was not a person that naturally sought relaxation and had to turn his mind to smaller projects to relax it. The little Bell could be one such project, with more possibilities than he had first considered. Maybe winter wouldn't be so unbearable, after all.

Chapter 9: Alberto Balsalm

Summary:

Some quality time at the saloon, and some quality time in a bath. For Colm, at least. Maybe not so much for Micah.

Notes:

Warning: Overstimulation, multiple orgasms, asphyxiation, F/M/M

We're meeting some key O'Driscoll OCs in this chapter. Later, Micah is going to view them differently than their boss does.

Track is by Aphex Twin. Here is a video of me showing you that song if you are unfamiliar with the artist.

Colm ascended. It was one o'clock in the evening. The sun had begun to turn. The festivities in the saloon at the first floor were going strong. Chatter, laughter, toasts. Glasses hitting the tables, foam being shaved off the beer, coins clattering. Men served by women evading the drunks like nymphs among falling trees.  Graceful, with tight necklines, and skirts that were just long enough to hide the blades some of them kept strapped to their lingerie.

When he entered the clogged space of the saloon, it was as if he brought the atmosphere of the basement with him, quieting his surroundings. Heads turned and shoulders tensed. Not only in fear, but in a kind of longing, too. The same one that made poor folks look up to rich folks, not just wanting to be helped or loved by them but wanting to   be   them. Thinking that if they looked useful and understanding, they might have some of his power, too.

It was a false hope. Most of the men in his service would die, about as powerless as coins thrown down a well, wishing for more but only finding musty ground water.

When Colm reached the bar itself, space was made for him on one of the stools with a cushion without tears. The men sitting beside him went rigid like boys watched by a strict father, wiping away their beer mustaches, keeping their elbows of the bar table.

"The usual, Mister O'Driscoll, sir?" the woman behind the bar asked, a tinge of nervousness to the way she cleaned a special glass with her little rag.  

"Sure, darling," he said absentmindedly. "Get me a glass of water with that."

He was served the glass complete with an absinthe spoon and a sugar cube, melting as the greenish spirit was poured through the spoon and into the glass. Although he liked red wine, it wasn't good for his head. Spirit, in general, was neither all that good, but he rarely drank all that much, and he had nice plans for the evening. So, he drank some of the water, before he moved on to the absinthe.

As the licorice scent rose from the glass and filled his mouth, he realized Micah smelled similarly. He imagined that scent being unwrapped from the boy, as he was scrubbed by adept hands, soaped in until the lather grew pink from blood and brown from dirt.

However, he had not seen how the red-haired bathing girl treated Owen's boys in person, only noted the lastly mentioned as clean, shiny with oil, leaving a trail of a candied cologne among the sweat, alcohol and gunpowder lingering in the vicinity of the less pampered men.  

Those colognes were another reason for Colm planning to interrupt the bath, soon.   The main reason was that he was curious about what took place. He had not forbidden the Bell boy from taking use of the bathing girl should she offer to "wash his third leg" (a euphemism frequently used), nor from doing anything else, if Micah had the stamina for it.   Colm did not consider himself possessive, and while he knew he inspired envy, he considered the feeling beneath him, among many others. It didn't matter how deep inside other people went into his toys, because they would never wash out the trace of him, no matter how hard they tried.  

A change of seats happened right next to him. A man was replaced with another, bigger, less nervous one. Colm actually recognized him, due to his muscled frame, bald head and cauliflower ears, made that way by too many fist fights in his youth, but also because he was one of the few to survive the many stages of the gang's growing expansion.

"Boss." A rough voice, to complete the picture, but with a sharply aware streak to it.

"Marvin," Colm said. He snapped his fingers, and the woman startled, before she poured Marvin a few shots of whiskey. "All nice and quiet tonight?"

"Mostly." Marvin drank whiskey like others drank water, but the amount of alcohol was just an aperitif for someone with his size. Colm had never seen him drunk, nor completely sober. "We had some trouble with one mister Emerson. Didn't like the fact that his daughter is making a pretty penny keeping us clean."   

"You kill him?" Colm asked, working out a piece of dough from his teeth, before enjoying his drink in peace from Micah's cinnamon bun. "I hope not, considering how the law keeps nosing around."

Marvin shook his head. For someone who preferred to kill with the use of his fists, and had done so many a time, he took no clear pleasure in killing.  

"The boys busted him up good, but I stepped in in time, so he could crawl back home."

"Good. Good thing they're getting some exercise, too. How's morale?"

"They're a little antsy after the bank job that went bad the other day. Could use a distraction."

"I have something in mind," Colm made a dismissive gesture with his hand, "after the holidays. Mister Emerson has been bothering us a little too much, yeah? Maybe we should pay his farmstead a visit." And because he trusted Marvin somewhat, he added, "There might be a new recruit I want you to bring along and keep an eye on. But we'll see how he acts in the coming weeks.   Anyway, m ake sure to keep the drinks flowing."

"Course, boss," Marvin said in monotone, bowing before standing up, leaving six empty shots that was rapidly cleaned away. If his subordinates were falling trees, he was an ancient one that did not bulge from his position in terms of rank.

When Colm tipped the woman for her speed, she turned a pleasant kind of crimson, both in her cheeks and her heaving chest.   A lesser man might've thought she only wanted him, but even a shy and tiny thing craved power whether she was aware of it or not.

In the hunger of the other nameless faces watching him, there was a prickling undercurrent of not just wanting to be him but wanting to replace every single little thing that came too close to him. One of his men was even glaring at the woman behind the bar as if she was a cockroach, too obvious in his envy. He looked like the brown-haired one who guarded his room during daytime, but Colm was not sure, and did not care to be.

As he finished his absinthe, he imagined a similar green hue filling the room.

Owen preferred purple, or as that fool called it with the haughty tone of someone in love with individual words and not language, dark mauve. Every man and woman in the room in their service were dressed in it as part of their attire. Bandanas, hat bands, sleeves, waistcoats and underskirts. One day, Colm might choose another color, and he had already decided he would choose green, for no reason other than that he liked green things. He could not remain   the man in the basement   forever. Time would see to it. Foolishness, too.   However, while waiting for Owen to mess up, Colm would distract himself with his pet projects.

What lingered in his breath covered the skin of a certain boy. No matter how much soap and oils, it would remain his distinct scent. Only if the bathing girl used one of Owen's ghastly colognes would it vanish.   Colm drank down his water, and felt both the licorice and the cinnamon taste weaken. He moved a bit faster than usual,  walking from the bar. 

Where some left trails, he left waves. 

The nameless men opened a path to one who was in the process of losing his. They all lost their names eventually, and the Bell boy would too, regardless of how strong the tradition was in him. Lost in thought, Colm did not register the drunk until he bumped shoulders with him.

"Hey, watch -!" 

The drunk's outburst ended in a squeak, as Marvin lifted him up from behind, tall enough to make thin legs and boots and spurs jingle in the air. If Colm gave the word, the larger man would burst the skull of the smaller one without any hesitation. 

The latter must've realized, because he was spewing nonsense. 

"I'm sorry! I didn't know, I swear I didn't know!"

One word, and the nonsense would be over, nothing left but gore. Had Colm been younger, and had Owen not insisted on them appearing legal, he might've made a choice like that, rewarding his men with bloody fireworks. Bread and circuses, it was true: they needed their distractions.

"Get out," he said simply, and watched as Marvin threw the drunk outside. 

More guards were waiting there, and judging by their leering, they were happy to deliver a few more kicks to the drunk's behind as he crawled away like they often did. When he kicked back, and didn't crawl fast enough, they descended like hyenas, ripping his clothes off his back, not relenting until he was naked, stomping on his hat for good measure. But he was still alive, among the mud outside the establishment, so that was something.

And now that Colm had been generous, he would allow himself to be greedy.

 

There was only one washing room in use. If more, Colm would have sent someone to check beforehand. He unlocked the door with the skeleton key he always kept on him and opened the door slowly. He was met with foggy and warm air.

Here were no women making pathways between hungry maws, but a woman in control, sitting on a stool beside the bathtub, one hand in the water, getting Micah off. Both of them had stilled despite the steam curling around them like false modesty.

The first thing that Colm noticed was that the peach fuzz beard was gone, and the hair was cut a little shorter, shampooed and shiny with health. By the exterior bottom of the tub, were the evidence of the cutting in the shape of blonde hairs strewn about.

The woman was calm. The fiery red hair was tied up in a braided bun, the color lighter than the cracked painted nails, and her lips, which had not a smudge out of place. The boy did not like kissing that much was true, but he did like claws. Her outfit the same as all the women wore, but with a looser neckline, teasing her customers to cop a feel for the right price.

"Boss," she said with a seriousness that betrayed her age, close to his own.

"Don't let me interrupt you, girl," he said, making sure the door was locked after he went inside, heading towards a shelf. This way, he moved behind her back, and she tensed but did not turn around. "I mean it. Continue."

There was a slight splash, and then larger ones. Micah was like an errant slug in the bath water, trying to keep her hand off him, uncomfortable with the aspect of being watched. He looked a little harsher without the peach fuzz due, jawbone sharp, and it highlighted the purple skin of his sleeplessness, worse than normal, leaving a shaky edge to his efforts.

"Don't make me come over there, kid," Colm said, back against the wall. "Let her finish you."

Micah grabbed the edge of the tub, nails digging into the wood.  

"I've already … Twice …" Well, the redhead was renowned for her milking hand.

"Then you'll survive a third," Colm said.

For about two and a half seconds, Micah looked murderous, but just the feeling   I wanna kill you   seemed to cause him to startle. It was obvious that he did not want Colm's name written across his back, even if he would look good with it.

"Fine," Micah said, as if he had a choice. 

The next splashes were slight and rhythmic, and Colm wondered if the woman looked sympathetic or vindictive. Probably the former, as she was older but had survived, and this was one of the more exclusive rooms, though not large. More wood than rock, with sparse furniture. Colm wiped the big mirror with a copper frame, passed a wardrobe, and stopped by a shelf full of perfumed oils and colognes. The shelf was crooked by the weight on one side. He began going through the bottles, recognizing the more expensive ones by the craft and material, knowing they belonged to Owen. Colm wasn't really looking for something special, but he liked the flask designs, looking as though they tried to visualize their contents' smell.  

Some flasks were dustier than others. One such thing was covered in a cobweb, making the glass look frosted, until it was revealed to be a round and clear with an orange liquid inside. As he pressed the tiny balloon slowly, there was a burst and trickle of alcohol, and then, a kind of strong salty sweetness, too bizarre for Owen, but not for him.

Behind him, Micah was trying his best to stay quiet as he was reaching his third climax, perhaps close from before, perhaps brought closer by Colm's presence.  

An essence of the perfume revealed itself, a sweet dry down, of … apricot? A candied kind, then put in a glass of brine. According to the tales of old wives, salt had the power to purify from ominous spirits, but this seemed to have brought more of them in.

Accompanying the demonic smell was a pleasant sound, an "Argh!" with emphasis on the   r , like Micah could growl himself away from the pleasure that sent water splashing. His head was slung backwards, eyes closed tightly, fingers white on the wooden edge. Coming into her hand, spilling into the bathwater, losing himself for the third time.

Colm turned back to the bottle, and smiled as he heard Micah try to catch his breath.

Amid soap and salt and apricot, he said, "Again."

"No."

"Wasn't a question. But since you insist, let me help you along, yeah?"

Pocketing the flask, he stepped closer to Micah, pulling out a second stool so he could sit behind the tub with the woman at the front. He rolled up his sleeves. Micah twisted his head, making a motion to get out, but he went rigid when Colm placed an arm around his neck.  He shook too much; most likely he had accidentally slammed his ass back down and gotten a reminder of the bruises there.

Colm tipped his head at the woman, who nodded in understanding.  

"It's too … " Too much, too soon?

No matter, because whatever cute thing Micah was going to say, it would probably be less cute than his choked noises as Colm increased the pressure.   Leisurely, he put his head close to Micah's to hear him better, while the woman began working him once more.

She truly had a good hand, keeping the pace even, her right arm more muscled than some of his boys. She kept her eyes on Micah's body, sometimes looking at Colm before averting them, knowing her place in these proceedings. At the same time, there was a tightness to the way her chest moved, concentrating like in a dangerous game. Although he didn't recall fucking her, she didn't try to seduce him. He liked that. Seduction was a kind of dominance, and he would not have liked it if she tried to dominate this scene in any shape whatsoever. 

Micah grabbed his forearm , and Colm waited for the childish squabble and meaningless rejections.  But he didn't speak, nor try to stop him, simply holding on to the sleeve of his shirt. The grip got desperate whenever Colm didn't let go. Randomly, he did. Micah was shuddering more. The loudest noise in the room remained that of water.

"Fuck," he muttered when Colm gave him enough oxygen to do so.

He wasn't generous with it, even if he liked the feeling of Micah's fingers digging into his arm like they had done at the edge of the tub, like he was framing him, containing him, putting him inside a flask with spider webs all over him instead of steam.

"Colm," Micah said, and he should not have.

Colm tightened his hold, voice a whisper. "Up here, you call me boss, alright?"

"Wh - wha -"

"You're charming when you stutter. But it won't save you. Calling me boss might."

The jaw snapped shut, wound so tight it might snap.

Colm once saw Marvin punch a man so hard his jaw had broken. It had looked funny. But he had no real wish of seeing Micah broken so soon, he used a different method.

Twisting his hair, he turned his face towards the mirror in the corner. It still held traces of his handprints from when he'd wiped it in passing, though the fog was trying to reclaim it.

"Look. Look at you," he repeated until the boy heeded the order. "You agreed to stay, so this is your doing. Ain't no escaping what you are, right now."

Micah was looking, and it clearly hurt him to do so. He was searching for his own face, alienated by his new look, looking for some old sign of his old defiance. When he found it in his usual scowl, he turned it to Colm, but it was frailer than normal.

The woman had not stopped jacking him off, but she had turned away, as if to give their conversation some privacy. Maybe Owen had done something similar, even with the mirror, probably quoting Baudelaire. Tedious. Stealing air was better than filling it with purple prose.

"Up here, you're just a kid. Down with me, you might actually become someone," Colm said, keeping it simple. "But I expect you to pay me respect around people. Is that clear?"

A beat passed.

"Yes, boss." It was said while seething, but Colm let go. Somewhat, at least.

The hold wasn't hard enough to do serious damage, because he knew precisely how much that would take. But maybe Micah had not been strangled all that much. He reacted strongly too it, holding his breath before it was taken from him, as if he could seal it inside himself like an underwater creature. All the more reason for Colm to do it more, because he liked showing him new things, like how weakly human he was.

As another curse left him while he sank back, Colm ruffled his hair. Despite its wetness, it felt lighter than before, with some added layering to the lengths that actually made it look professionally cut, instead of the ugly, angular look worn by some of the men who cut their own hair.

"Nice job on this."

"Thank you, boss," the woman said.  

He hummed, touching Micah's chest. There was a soapy component to his skin, not yet washed away by the water. It was slick, but he still felt the lack of chest hair, and noticed how the arms were similar. Colm's brows drew together before his lip quirked.   

"You shaved the rest of his body, too?"

"I'm ... sorry. Daniel said … the guard outside your door," she added, spotting Colm's blank look, "he said that I was to do him as your brother likes them. And he prefers them without …" her lips pursed, as if trying to find a euphemism, before she briefly met Colm's eyes before looking pointedly at the hairs on the floor.  

He laughed. There was an absurdity to it. Not only made Owen make his boys clean and perfumed, but hairless too, as if making elfish maidens from tales.  

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"It's novel, not bad," Colm said, the same tone he had used with the woman by the bar when she got too scared around him. Fear was useless in itself.

"I mean, I'm sorry for not finishing him up completely. He wouldn't let me do his nether regions." Her painted lips revealed a small grin, less yellow against the red lipstick. Her eyes were still downcast. "Probably scared of losing his precious bits, the poor thing."

"I'm right here," Micah said, hoarse from being intermittently strangled.  

"No, you're not. You're so exhausted it's a wonder you can keep your eyes open." Colm smiled. "But since you've been good so far, I'll cut this short if you say   please, master ."

"Fuck you."

Colm's smile widened. Micah must've noticed that he tolerated profanity.

But his next order was colder, the woman looking down immediately. 

"He likes it rough, this one. So you gotta be rougher. Now."

The woman hesitated for half a second, before she drew up her other sleeve and attacked Micah with both hands. Water did not splash as she dipped them in, but it began right afterwards, and Colm had to tighten his hold because Micah was trying to escape the double-sided attack. Although he could not see it, he imagined her hands, wrinkled from water, abusing other wrinkled places, all hidden by dirty soap bubbles.   Micah was writhing. The noises were weak and animal, and he was too out of it too hold back.  

"We won't be finished, after this," Colm said into his ear. "I bet you have more in you."

Micah shook his head like he always did when he knew he was losing.

"Yeah, you do. You'll give me your last one in bed. We might even use one of the leathery things from a few days ago. So let's get finished with this one quick, yeah?"

Micah looked a hazy kind of horrified, until his eyes disappeared under his lashes, as he was brought towards the end. He began yelling profanities, but Colm clasped a hand in front of his mouth, thumb and index finger coming up to squeeze his nostrils shut.

Judging by the tremors, the orgasm was painful and was made more so by the deprivation of air. His eyes went wide as he thrust into the woman's hand, erratic. Like he just couldn't stop it, remaining inside a black room in his mind, where only the ending mattered.

If Colm could reach into his chest through the skin, he would have wrapped a hand around the heart to make sure it stopped beating as long as it could, to keep him in that room for as long as possible, to see what kind of death he would find.

Seconds passed. As it should, Micah's focus left his groin and went back to his lungs and the one depriving them. His focus should always be on the one who owned him, at least for a week or two. Colm let go, and Micah slumped back in the tub.

The panting was louder than the dripping water, as the woman began drying her hands off with a towel. She didn't look upset.   Likely she had seen worse.

Colm took out the flask from his pocket. He opened it, diluted the oily substance with some water, before smearing it over Micah's shaved chest and arms.  

"Wha - ... What?" 

Colm shushed him, and kept working the oil into his skin, like invisible ownership.

"S-Stings," he complained, dazed, as Colm touched the shaven area, betraying nicely sensitive spaces.

"Shh. It'll pass."

The sweetness suited his naturally licoricey scent. What suited him even more was him disliking it, nostrils flaring, upper lip raising. Like a wild cat, caught and brought into civilization, never forgetting its disdain. 

Not that Colm had any plans of civilizing him completely. It would have made him useless. 

He knew in his guts that if Micah had stopped glaring at him in defiance, albeit muted now, he would grow bored. If the first time they had fucked in that ugly ditch last summer had ended in becoming Micah broken and dull, Colm would have gone alone inside his tent and never touched him again. He would have slept well and dreamed of nothing.

Now his thoughts were centered on how he could push the boy towards destruction, little by little, the true goal of the evening whether or not Colm would come or not.  No, he would come, tonight. Micah's pretty mouth was begging for it, even if the rest of him wasn't.

Pocketing the bottle again and wiping his hands on a clean cloth, Colm moved over to the wardrobe. It was about as large as the ones in his room, and the interior of them was similarly dark, but the fabrics were cheaper than the ones he preferred. Standardized clothes for the men working for them, shades of gray that he liked, but with some of that horrid purple.

He refused to let Micah wear purple.

He settled on some dark gray, tight jeans, which the woman could use blacksmith tongs to get Micah into if she had to, and a light gray wool sweater that would highlight his collarbones. The lack of color would kill the shade of his eyes, making them appear gray like the outfit itself. But Colm did not mind that too much, seeing as how he preferred draining the life out of them in his own way, like he would continue to do later.

"Get him dry, dress him in these, and take him back to my office if he can't find his way on his own. Oh and a last thing, you … wait, what do people call you?"

"Red, boss."

Funny. To the guard, he had referred to her as   the redhead , but he supposed a lot of his boys and general clientele were too stupid to remember anything longer than three letters, even if she was a favorite of theirs. Not that being a favorite would save her from him, should she go against any of his orders.

"Red," he said, serious. "If you tell anyone what transpired here, I won't be pleased."

Her serious eyes were hazel like vegetation rotting at the bottom of a lake. She looked her age, then: too much experience, not just in the amount of experiences but also in the time spent reflecting on them.

"Forgive me for being forward, boss, but I wouldn't be here if I didn't understand these things."

Colm nodded, stood up, and put his hands on Micah's shoulders. He was so tired he almost didn't manage to look up, so Colm helped him, a hand underneath Micah's chin.

"Be a good boy for her, will you?"

Micah's response might've originally been an insult, but it sounded like his soul attempting to leave his body in a comical mess of consonants.  

Colm shut his mouth, touched his bottom lip, and then walked away.

Micah sank further into the water, until only his nose was above it. He looked like a mythological creature, but a younger one this time, a lake spirit, waiting to drag its victims to the bottom. But only Colm's forearms and rolled up sleeves were sprinkled with water, and his room would be dry, reversing their positions, until he was the creature dragging the other out of his element – down, down, down. 

"I'll wait for you. Don't make any stops along the way."

Colm walked out of the room, ignoring the way the people out there looked after him with curiosity and longing. In a secret moment on the way down the crooked staircase, he brought his fingers to his nose and inhaled the ghost of soap and salty apricots. Grinning, he descended.

Notes:

Only one chapter with Colm's POV left, then we switch to Micah, for at least five chapters :) I wonder what he thinks of all this ...

Chapter 10: In Search Of My Rose

Summary:

Micah is getting more and more tangled in Colm's webs.

Notes:

Warnings: Use of the leather hood, painful orgasm.

Chapter title song is by The Tear Garden.

For once, Colm wasn't bored. Neither was he nervous, but he was jittery with a peculiar kind of interest as he sorted through his office with more awareness than usual.

Organizing his office was like organizing his mind. Filing away letters, logs and notes, but not removing ink drops nor crumbs. The cobwebs stayed, festering, until he would abandon the office when the time came. For now, he was here, and so he let the filth and old desires swell, the ones he had made abstract before he had more certainty that Micah Bell the Second wouldn't show up with a gun in his hand, demanding his son back. He still had no guarantee that it would not happen, but it was nice that the father seemed to be on bad terms with the son.

When Micah entered with sleepwalker-like steps, there was a single candle left on the desk. It made Colm cast a shadow that engulfed the whole of him. 

"You found the way down on your own?"

A nod.

Picking up the candle holder, Colm studied him.

He was wearing the chosen O'Driscoll clothing: the shirt and pants in different shades of gray but had added two questionable fashion choices of his own, or maybe the redhead's. The first choice was a thick knitted sweater in purple, a sort that Owen had decided to add to their repertoire after one of their men caught hypothermia. The second choice was Micah's old boots, caked in mud, like the call of wilderness was only left in feet too tired to run away. 

"How do you like your new clothes?" Colm asked, less jittery, frowning at the sweater.

"Itchy." With his hair wet and combed back, and his lower face free from hair, it was easier to see the twitches across his face, emotions being churned to dust. "And I'm still cold."

"We'll warm you up."   And get you out of that horrible sweater.   But Colm swallowed the last part. Instead, he gestured to the door on the opposite side of the bedroom and informed him that it was a bathroom. When gesturing towards his bedroom, he said nothing. With the candle in hand, he led the way for them both, unless Micah wanted to remain in darkness.

"Ready for round four?" Colm asked while looking over his shoulder.

Micah shrugged, but he wore a haunted look that he couldn't quite hide. Maybe his ass was sensitive for the bath, maybe he never ceased being aware of the bruises there, potentially present in every step.

"Don't worry. We won't do all that much. I'm tired, too."

That seemed to pacify him, but the creak of the wooden door did not. He flinched but still followed. The office was left in darkness except for the orange glow from the coal stove.

 

There was a peculiar aura to thresholds such as doors or hallways. A sort of limbo, a passageway that could feel like miles, caught between the past and present. All of this was probably why Micah stopped, the door hitting his side, unable to close due to him lingering.

Colm used the candle to light the remaining one on his nightstand, putting it on the other where the candle holder that had been an attempted murder weapon, with no candle and a crooked piece of ornamentation in the iron. 

Micah had not moved from the doorway. He was staring at the floor, but did not manage to do much but shift his weight from one leg to the other. 

"Oh," Colm said. "Is it cause of last time?"

"No," Micah said as if the thought was absurd. His frown deepened when he couldn't move, staring intently at his own boots at the rock floor. Hating himself would not help.

"Lemme help you," Colm said, walking towards him.

Micah tensed as if he were going to get grabbed and pulled inside, but the palm was simply held up, then slowly put in front of Micah's eyes. 

"Walk with me."

His steps were easier though his breath was high in his throat, until Colm, while still blinding him, placed his arms on the outer bed frame one by one, letting him find steadiness in it, because it had been rather innocent in terms of the earlier destruction in the bed. 

"See. You made it inside."

This next destruction, if it came to be called such, was not going to be as elaborate. But he would use a single part of it and add the bed frame to the equation.

"Undress," Colm said.

"Completely?"

"Yeah."

Colm's lip quirked at the thought of the boy shredding his own skin like a snake, both enjoyable as a metaphor and a future idea. He went ahead with taking off his own clothes until he was only wearing comfortable, simple linen pants over his union suit, which was buttoned to the top. He took care to fold the rest of the items before putting them away in one of his many wardrobes.

In all his naked glory, Micah was glaring at him and had not yet entered the bed. There was a slight hunch to his position, like he didn't know how to react to his own nudity in this place and tried to treat it as if meant nothing, kicking away the wrinkled clothes at his feet like they - and their inherent meaning - disgusted him. He looked up when Colm removed his belt from the loops just as quickly as he had before whipped Micah. 

This time, however, he simply held on to it while extending his other hand. 

"Yours, now."

"My belt?"

"Mm-hm. We're together about this. And you do like being all waste not want not. So …"

Micah picked up his belt – which wasn't really his, being an O'Driscoll kind, the buckle bearing the initials – from the pile of clothes at the floor, then handed it over. He had to crawl into the bed to do so, and when Colm put his knee on the mattress and took the belt, he shrunk backwards until his back hit the bed frame. Evasive, but not trying to escape.

With the belts in one hand, Colm crawled after him, until he was kneeling in the middle of the bed, facing Micah. Micah had stretched out his arms on either side of him to make himself appear bigger, clutching the iron patterns. Maybe the feel of iron soothed him, the same material he had used when trying to bash Colm's skull in. The stakes had been different then.

"You don't have to tie me down," Micah said, a thread of slyness in his voice.

"I know. I just like it."

Colm liked making sure that Micah kept his arms spread, tied at the wrist to the pattern in the frame, sturdier and less bent than the candle holder. This way, he could feel him up without interruption, touching his neck, his side, his stomach. Micah was rather tired, too, and this way he could relax more, not forcing himself to fight back against something he liked.

Apparently, he still felt like he had to do the bare minimum, but maybe it was just an instinctive reaction of his legs being spread. He twisted his hips to the side, but Colm just shushed him as if he had asked him to stop, using his own legs to keep Micah's open.

They were mostly hairless, very soft and nice to touch. Pinpricks of roots remained where the blade had not cut that deep, and in patches where the redhead either must have missed or Micah had squirmed around too much, like he tended to do. Hairlessness was not his preference, but Colm could appreciate the novelty all the same. And it was adorable how much Micah shuddered at the touches to his chest and arms and legs.

He reacted strongly when having the top and the back of his knees touched, together with his ankles, and the top of his feet (which also happened to be shaved). Colm tucked the information away for later, traveling higher. The smell of the salty apricot was still there from the bath, but not enough to be clogging.

"What does it feel like?"

"Weird."

"Sensitive?"

"I g-guess."

Micah had never been hairy, the blonde hair a little darker between his legs, but not as dark as the roots of the hair on top of his head. The girl had evidently only gotten to his thighs before she was asked to stop. On his inner thighs, there was old ink, from when he had visited Colm in his office and gotten stabbed with a pen. They were crested with the chalk-like material of skin as it attempted to heal the cuts. He touched them, nails tracing the meaningless letters. Micah tried to press his legs together, the muscles tensing and flesh quivering.

"Pretty," Colm said, meaning it.

Micah twisted his head to the side, eyes closing tightly, legs finally going still.

Colm imagined Micah asking the redhead if it was necessary, and that she soothed him with words with a mix of reassurance and nonchalance as if it was perfectly normal. But Micah was an egoist, and that response would not have convinced him. There had to be something else, some underlying reason to his cooperation, and Colm had a hunch what it could be.

"Why did you let her do it?"

Micah bit his bottom lip, looking to the side as Colm petted his chest, catching the nipple between two fingers, but not squeezing just yet.

"I liked it," Micah whispered.

"You like being shaved?"

The whisper was quieter, "I like the feeling of a knife …"

"Against your skin?"

A small nod.

"No wonder then, that you like me," Colm said quietly.

But did Micah like him, truly?

There had been a form of admiration there for years, becoming a flicker of adoration only when he was particularly cruel while out on one of their jobs, or shared his thoughts on higher concepts. But there was also distance in age, in background, in loyalties. Now they were finally alone for a while, just the two of them, which had been a challenge to bring about. Another challenge, tickling Colm's mind, would be making Micah permanently adore him. 

First, he had to, as the expression went, rip off a band aid. 

"We can play with sharp things some other time. Tonight, we're keeping it simple."

In the nightstand, there was an item that he had felt he was unfinished with. He packed it up from some brown paper, there to keep dust away, revealing the soft black leather underneath.

The belt buckles rattled against the bed frame.

"No, not the cage, you said –!"

"Calm down. There won't be a cage, not tonight. Just this."

He held up the leather hood, spreading his hand inside it like he had last time.

Micah looked up from it, receiving the eye contact he sought. "Just … this?"

"I think it'll be good for you. You know that saying about getting up on a horse again after falling off it, to make it easier later? You managed to go back into this room. You'll manage this, too."

Colm let his words sink in until Micah looked at the hood once more.

"I'm gonna use your mouth to get off," he informed him, gesturing to the hole in the hood by sticking his finger out of it in an obscene motion that made Micah snort. His next words made the snort die and become a sharp inhale. "Do you remember that you wanted that, last time? Or seemed to want it, anyway."

He remembered Micah leaning his head on Colm's legs, rubbing his mouth towards his crotch. It had been almost lazy and pleasant, regardless of any underlying intent from Micah, until the fiasco with the cage. Or not a fiasco, per se, but not as nice at it could've been.

"I wanted it, too. Before things came so complicated. But they're not anymore, are they?"

Micah didn't say yes, but he wasn't saying no, either. With how much he often cried the last part, it was an indicator that his head was as far down the gutter as Colm's. He licked his lips, a nervous tick, telling him all he needed to know to move further.

"Then, when I'm finished, I'm gonna get you off."

"Good luck," Micah said before he could stop himself.

"Thanks, kid," Colm replied with a small grin. 

Micah gulped, then ever so slightly lowered his head. Colm was careful and deliberately slow when easing the hood over his head, keeping up the eye contact, wanting to see if he would break it before the hood was completely over his head with how well he had responded to being blinded, earlier. But Micah held it until the leather descended over him, like a nameless thing awaiting execution.

He looked as good as he had last time, maybe even better, naked and shaved except his pubic hair, curly, one of those places where softness lingered. Colm wanted to crack Micah's inner softness open, eat his way through, destroy it from the inside.

However, he had more pressing concerns. He took himself out of his pants, jacking himself to a passable fullness without a thought to the pleasure of it. Then, he angled himself towards Micah's mouth. He slid the tip against Micah's lips, back and forth, before they let him in, into a wet cavern with the tongue greeting him like a snake in due need of hibernating. He wouldn't get to sleep just yet, but all he had to do for now, was keep his mouth open.

Colm fucked into it, skipping the buildup, going faster than he could when taking him in the ass. His throat was a little dry, and Colm made a mental note to get him some water later when he was finished being a pleasantly dry hole.

The leather was nice to hold on to, freshly conditioned and of excellent make. It had been specially made, and he had tested it on himself, to make sure it was blinding and soundproof.

"So good, Abel."

He let the name roll of his tongue at a particularly deep thrust, cock hitting the back of Micah's throat, balls pushing against the hood's opening. Colm's grip had tightened on the back of it, and the gesture seemed to be interpreted as an urging to be more attentive.

Micah responded by working his head to meet the thrusts, and doing his usual neat tricks, meeker than usual due to the strain. The sounds were lovely, not held back because he had no chance of hearing himself, nor anyone else. Little grunts and groans,  gah s and   uh s, a few sighs of pleasure.

"I wonder what your family would say, seeing you like this," Colm continued.

It almost gave the illusion that he had broken the boy, not having him react to the words, but swallowing him down so eagerly. Owen had made fun of him once for talking to himself, but Owen had more shame in his little finger than Colm had in the whole of him. This was a great opportunity to test phrases he could use later, because he knew Micah usually listened to him, trying to jab at every weakness he found and not expecting the tables to turn, having his attention rewarded by overwhelming it. Right now, he was beyond that reach, trapped in that dark space of sensation once more. And it felt like he was enjoying himself. Clenching and unclenching his throat muscles as if drinking. Even bending his neck, just to take more of him in. Hands fisting the iron as if he could rip off a piece and end this encounter while momentously biting down; the teeth sometimes touched Colm like his version of a kiss.

"Did you know I've arranged family meetings like that, before? Nothing quite breaks a father's heart as seeing his son sucking other men off. A whole lot of them, around and around in a circle, until your face is so sticky it's unrecognizable, and your throat is so ruined you can't cry for your daddy when you spot him, staring like he doesn't understand."

Colm's own throat was dry, not just from talking. He grabbed the carafe of water, not bothering to pour it into the glass beside it.

The nether hole in the hood was shiny with spit. After lolling around a bit, the head began looking around (looking at nothing, but mimicking the motion, nevertheless) and the neck stretched out, nice and pale. He knew Colm was still around, due to their legs touching, but there was a tension to him. His cock, which could not have been called neglected by anyone who had seen the incident in the bathtub, had taken a slight interest.

In truth, Colm thought - not only due to pride but simply because he knew Micah rather well by now - he would have been rock hard, had there not been three orgasms, a little too much even for a young thing like him, with how incoherently he had shouted the third time. In the planned fourth, he would probably do worse, if his voice wouldn't be gone by then.

Colm drank more water. After wiping his mouth, he also wiped his cock on the leather mostly because he liked the feeling, before putting it back into the hole.

"Well," he began, holding onto the bed frame to thrust harder. "I think it'd be worse … if your daddy just saw me and you … like this. Maybe he'd even be proud over the skill you have. But I think not."

His climax was building in the background, and Colm debated whether to come or not. It would be messy, because it had been a while since he last bothered with such, and he had drunk a lot of water. There was no headache plaguing him, and the Christmas times seemed less achy now that he had Micah to play around with. And play he would.

As the clasp was loose, all he had to do was grab the hood and rip it off.

Sweaty and red-cheeked, Micah was a sight for sore eyes, his damp hair having been flattened, trailing across his face. The expression was the best part, one of bliss. Like this was the best bedtime treat he could ever get.

None of the cruel words had been heard, only the shove of his cock had been felt, which had left him so bereft his jaw was still loose, letting Colm back inside without even twitching.

To have someone that hungry for a man such as himself, it was ...

"Beautiful."

Blue eyes shut once again, before they became half lidded as Micah hollowed his cheeks. There was no hurry to it. He sucked gently, a nice and stable pressure.

Colm held on for a few seconds, then gave it to him. The usual sense of emptiness overcame him, but he fucked himself through it, using Micah like he'd said he would.

" Don't   swallow."

The hand he put around Micah's neck was as gentle as he had sucked him off. Stroking his throat, not yet bruised, but no doubt sensitive from where Colm had held during the bath. And then he was pulling out and wiping the last remains of his spend on the chin.

From what it had felt like, there had been a lot of it. Come was leaking out on the corners of his lips, but Micah did not swallow. He sank back against the frame, the belts around his wrists keeping him up. His figure looked a bit like another, holier one, hanging on a Roman torture device. Micah was a treasure, allowing Colm to remember such things.

But now was not the time for reflection, but action.

 

"Last round. Your fourth, yeah? Remember to keep it in."

"I can't," Micah said like an amateur ventriloquist with come tricking out of his mouth.

"You wished me good luck," Colm said before backing off, both his tone and the withdrawal just as fake, building up the hope only to snuff it out.

He dug his nails in where shaved skin met unshaven one. Micah visibly steeled himself; he seemed to expect another harsh hand job. He ceased breathing when Colm bent down between his legs, face hovering above his poor, half-erect cock.

"Tell me no," he said slowly, his grin opening, mouth filling with spit.

Micah could only stare.

When Colm licked his cock, he made a sound as if being shot.

But he did not open his mouth, simply keening through closed lips.

"Don't swallow," he repeated, before licking Micah again, the tip of the tongue swirling against the tip of his cock. He didn't taste like anything. Soap, which vanished when Colm took him a bit deeper inside and then out.

One of those shakes ended in him swinging his head forward, looking at Colm. Adoration lingered in his gaze, like it did if Colm had done something particularly ruthless. Some part of the boy realized his inferiority, and this part shone, hoping for more attention. Attention, which Micah might twist around, should he get too much of it. Attention that Colm could twist around, too. He liked this game. He really did.

He continued to suck Micah off, barely taking him longer than his tongue, but adding pressure to steadily force him towards release. The act did not feel submissive. It wasn't like Micah could do much but squirm and shout in a warbled way, so oversensitive it was a special kind of agony, facing upwards not to lose too much of what was inside his mouth. The boy did like parodies, so Colm decided to parody him in turn, hollowing out his cheeks and sucking hard.

Micah gurgled a scream. It really was beautiful. Colm kept on sucking on the head of his cock, liking the gurgling better than the sound of dripping water. Only his own come was dripping now, watery enough to look like tears on the side of Micah's face, still turned up.

"Look at me."

Micah did, just for Colm to reach up and squeeze his balls at the same time as he took him deep enough to tickle his own gag reflex, a sensation he hadn't felt in years.

In the end, it took about thirty seconds, overall. 

Micah came in a tiny trickle on Colm's tongue.

Colm did not choke – but Micah did. And rather badly, too.

The guttural noises inside the hood were nothing compared to them now, worse because they were attempted to be held back, ending in wretched coughs. He tried to close his mouth but couldn't, and Colm swore he saw a trickle down from his nose. How utterly lovely: he truly was filling the boy's respiratory system, along with other, more abstract ones, keeping him together. Colm leaned over him and spat.

The few drops of his spend hit the space above his lip. Micah flinched, then licked it up, causing more fluid to spill and coughs to fill the room, bouncing off the walls.

Colm smiled down at him.

"We're done. We won't do anything more tonight. Good job, little Bell."

Shaking, Micah sagged forward, expression hidden by his hair, but Colm had seen a glimpse of the relief. Coughs continued to escape him, and Colm clapped his back until they lessened, then held around the nape of his neck.

When he had settled a bit more, Colm got out a rag from the bedside table and began cleaning him. He had already mentioned disliking itchiness, so Colm made it go away, then wrapping the duvet around the lower body. He sat beside Micah, curling one leg up. He had not loosened the belts tying the boy to the bed frame, but he would soon, to not disrupt circulation. Micah seemed to like that kind of stability, so he let them stay on.

Meanwhile, he could do what he liked best: watching the look in his eyes. It was as if he was deep underwater. No worries, no despair and no hope either. A pit, deep inside him, with the black hole of a pupil at the bottom. A kind of purity.

Bringing that look out from torture was one thing, but through sex it was more difficult. Their tastes needed to   fit   in a sense because desire was such an elusive creature. With all that he was, Micah fit him better than many, being so darkly curious, taking what Colm showed him and showing him things in return.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, until Micah started hiccupping.

 

The hiccups kept on happening.

Micah had sunken down, mouth open, eyes closed tightly. Each noise wrecked his sore body, no doubt causing him pain, muscles sore and mind hazy, jolted awake each time. Colm found the scene sweet. He was reclining, licking the taste of him out from between his teeth, savoring both the sweet and the salt.

The hiccups abruptly ended.

The voice was cracked. "He knows."

Curious, Colm leaned closer so he could see Micah's face to better decrypt the meaning. It had paled, but his gaze had a new shine to it, one of fear.

When no follow up came, he began undoing one of the belts, just to show some good will. Micah's freed arm hit the mattress like a dead weight.

"He knows about us."

"Oh," Colm said as he loosened the second belt, concluding that the boy was speaking of his father.

Had the hood somehow gotten torn? No, because Micah's eyes, although dark and veined with sleeplessness, were trusting. Their thoughts had just gone in the same patterns. Strange, how they sometimes did that, when they had so different origins. But Micah had not been drawn in with only the promise of money (or jewels, food items and other gifts), but also the promise of a kind of taste of nothingness. Nothingness, like Micah was so close to exhibiting, also with his trust - as if Colm was the only person he could tell this to. It did not need to based in reality, however, whatever he was going to say. Maybe he somehow had ended up in Colm's fantasy where his father found them. Maybe he both wanted and dreaded it.

"How did he find out?"

"I couldn't s-sit," Micah said, nearly inaudible.

The fantasy broke, but Colm did not mind, because the realism was hilarious.

The imagined scene: Micah limping about, the father growing impatient, maybe forcing himself to reveal his rump like a child that had been punished by another man. Specifically, the father's colleague and moneylender. That must have been quite a moment of truth.

Micah let out a dry sob, which might've only been a hiccup. To not laugh, Colm shushed him.

"I bet he got real mad, yeah?"

Another sob, barely masking a   yeah .

Colm made his voice quiet, "Did he beat you?" 

"Too d-drunk."

This time, Colm allowed himself a laugh.

To make it stop, he shook his head like a dog caught with something nasty in its mouth, while putting one of the belts and the hood on the nightstand. Then he gathered Micah's hands into his own, rubbing the welts left after the belts. He made his voice lower so it sounded kinder.

"Poor little kitten, all alone in the world," Colm said, feeling a sense of déjà vu, having spoken the words before to Micah's crushed expression. It wasn't as crushed, this time. His voice was gentler, too, "I won't let him interrupt your vacation. I'll keep you safe, for now."

"For now."

"Maybe later, too. If you prove yourself to me."

Colm gave him the glass of water. Micah drank it eagerly, not trying to take the glass from him, just taking what he was given in such a helpless situation. Afterwards, Colm helped him slide more down into the covers. He was shivering despite the duvet.

"Prove myself how? By following you blindly?" The shadow of his drawl had returned, washed out.

"Nah. Though I reckon your baby blues would look pretty in a necklace, but you need them to shoot and make me money. Yeah?"

Using one of the belts, he hooked one of Micah's wrists to it, low enough so he could move. He shifted so he was laying in a better position, eyelids almost swollen shut.

"You don't … trust me."

"Course not. You wouldn't adore me so much if I didn't take you seriously."

"I … don't …" Micah yawned, trailing off.

"Sometimes you do."

He would never have fallen asleep otherwise, with Colm sitting beside him, watching him fall deeper. This was how the last encounter they had in this room should have gone, hadn't Micah run off.

The reveal of the added trouble with Micah Bell the Second, however … He needed to tell his men about it and put out some extra guards. He didn't think it was necessary, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Soon, he would alert his men about a potential vengeful father while the son slept and dreamed of nothing. It wasn't the first time he'd dealt with pesky parents.

Micah was curled up, and his jaw was slack, eyes slightly open despite the sleepy breathing. The expression in them was the closest he had seen to true submission to the only true master there was, aptly nicknamed eternal sleep. So, Colm was deep within him but not deep enough.

But he hoped to have planted something in the boy, which would grow into a tree, filling his body and limbs, making it strong and hard, sealing Colm inside of him. He refused to believe he was the only one who had felt the twinge in his chest, folding, with all that had transpired between them in the last year.

When he got up to leave, Micah reached out and touched his thigh, fingers clawing the linen. It didn't seem to be a conscious act, but it confirmed that something was growing in the boy, all the same.

Colm sat by Micah's bedside for a longer time than he had planned to sit there. 

Chapter 11: Poison Tree

Summary:

Christmas! Micah gets a dinner, a present and a promise.

Notes:

Warning: Somnophilia.

The best part of writing a deeply self-indulgent story is going "this is my favorite chapter! no, this! nooo, THIS!" quite often. But yes, this one is quiet and long (6K) and among my favorites.

Chapter title song is by Grouper.

Micah slept.

Although he was mostly sunken in the dark, he surfaced sometimes, as though he was floating on his back and pushing his face up from dark water.

His mouth and throat hurt. The back of his neck tickled strangely. Other than that, there was mostly niceness. Clean, thick duvets. The continuous temperature, never shifting like it would've done in deserts or forests . A feeling of being safe and contained, of not needing to get up as soon as possible. He sensed a presence lying behind him in the bed, but he was too tired to check and confirm it . His memories were too hazy.   He could feel the tickling coming from there, though, and when he realized it was someone's breath, he fell asleep again.

His arm was tied to the bed frame , for a time. T hen it wasn't.

Once, when he was somewhat awake, he was given clean and cold water, too good to decline. Less good was the herbal stuff being smeared at his ass , and the beeswax at his lips. Following shortly behind, there was a new pressure at his mouth.  

"Just keep your jaw loose," a voice said, familiar, the order equally so.  

The pressure increased, and Micah let it in, not pulling on his lips thanks to the beeswax, nor scraping against his skin thanks to the water. It was thick and warm, tasting of salt and musk. 

"Try to close your lips around me."    

He struggled to heed the words , and he was not chastised for his lack of strength.  

"Good boy."  

The pressure kept sliding over his tongue, deeper and deeper. He sucked and licked out of habit, mostly he just kept his jaw slack.   After a while he woke a little bit, lids fluttering . H e saw the skin and hair of a groin and a stomach, coming closer.   Deeper .  

His throat clenched at the intrusion, swallowing around it, but it had ceased to move.  

"Mm -"    

"Shush. Let's just stay like this."    

Micah could not stop swallowing, although it hurt to do so.

He did not know how much time passed, too hazy and warm and stuffed with cock.

The fingers in his hair were gentle, finding no tangles, only the sensitive skin of his scalp. It felt nice. Soon, he stopped swallowing, growing sleepy despite the intrusion.

"There."

When he was released, it was with a wet "Ghhh". He barely managed to keep his mouth shut. If he had had more energy, he would have asked for more, or an ending that felt more like an ending. Instead, the only thing there was more of was beeswax. Someone touched him between the legs, finding a hardness there that he had not been aware of, but whose completion he did not care to seek. He shook his head mutely.

"Alright," the voice said.

Micah exhaled in relief, never getting completely used to being listened to.  

Sometime after that, he was given a cup of a lukewarm bone broth, and he gulped it down, pretending it was another substance. He was disappointed that he had not gotten to finish something, whatever it was.  Drinking the broth didn't really disturb the haze. He might've struggled more if he didn't like it.   Digestion took so much energy he often fell asleep when he was lowered back down on the pillow. He wasn't used to duvets and pillows and blankets, and he liked the textures, wrapping them as tight around him as he could.

"Comfy?" the voice asked.  

Micah   didn't even manage to say fuck off before drifting off.    

He did manage to curse when he was woken again, and a hand smeared the herbal balm over his ass, making the flesh hurt until it cooled down. His curses were answered with laughter.   

When a cold palm was pressed against his forehead, he couldn't help but sigh.    

"Fever is still running hot. Might be from exhaustion, sleeping outside, or drink or cocaine." The observations did not sound ironic, but it did sound amused. "What do you think?"  

"Dunno," Micah said, before he buried himself in sheets once more. The hands let him, only putting the sheets more around him and slipping on him some wool socks.

He sank back down, seeking relief from the old pain in the strangeness and newness.  

 

He didn't know how much time had passed when he woke up properly.

The reason was simpler than that of pain: he had to piss something awful.   There was no bed, no room, no thoughts - only the need. It took him several stumbling steps to realize that   the floor was soft , but he barely registered the socks, more focused on not toppling over, thighs pressed together not to accidentally wet himself.  

The thought was so mortifying he didn't realize he was running naked through Colm's office until the man looked up. Luckily for his pride , no one else but Colm was perked over his desk like a crow. There was only time for him to raise a brow before Micah hurried on.    

It was one of the most awkward moments of his life, not even being able to curse the ancient bastard before hurrying to the bathroom to relieve himself.  

As heat burned out of him, cold swept him from the floor, through the socks, and up. There was no heating in the small room of stone, and the meager light came from a high basement window, looking into a thorn bush. The only upside was that the temperature became another pressing concern, another element of his body that could mellow out the shame, even if it grew stronger after.   Alas, he did not piss forever , and soon felt his cheeks heat.

He thought Colm would laugh at him on the return, but he didn't.

 

The office was the warmest space in the basement, with a heart of coal by the door, and a heart of ice by the desk. M aybe even the frozen ness of Colm had thawed or at least produced some warmth from its inner rot ; Micah remembered why the corners of his mouth were sore.  He did not remember all that much, only the leather hood, and the feeling of drowning. Drowning, surfacing only to be given different sorts of liquid, then drowning again.

There was a chair pulled up in front of the desk, with a gray blanket thrown over it, though Colm did not look like he'd moved. He was busy writing a letter, probably requesting a firstborn from one of the people he was blackmailing. He was wearing his usual dark suit, but with a large, dark green knitted sweater thrown over it, similar to Micah's socks, looking homemade in comparison to the tailor-made stuff he usually wore.

Micah threw the blanket out like the dramatic cape of a judge or a priest before wrapping it around himself, sighing explosively.   He sat down too fast and yelled as the pain in his ass flared. It was not as bad as before, when he had been constantly aware of it, in the saddle or among rough terrain, but it surprised him how absent it was until it was present.    

Without looking up, Colm whistled.    

"That had to hurt."  

"Your fault."  

"It's also my fault it's healing nicely."  

Colm lit a smoke, noticed Micah staring, and threw him one.

"You've been out for two days. Had a fever, sweated a lot. Did you take cocaine before the coach job?"

The usual   none of your business   rested on Micah's tongue, but he swallowed it down, because he knew Colm would pounce on his right to privacy, considering where he was.  

"Maybe."   If the bastard could act all elusive, so could he.  

Seemingly satisfied with the non-answer, Colm threw over the lighter, and waited until Micah had lit the smoke. Micah sank down.   The nicotine rush came fast. Maybe it had not been a lie, then - being out for two days. He had taken cocaine, but it was a bad sort, probably mixed with flour. Even the old whiskey he had stolen had been diluted with water, he could tell.    

"You know what day it is?" Colm asked, collecting the papers and thumping the end of them to the desk to make sure they were even, before putting them away.  

"Your hundred th birthday?"

When the atmosphere shifted, just a bit,   Micah looked down . He twisted his ankle better around the blanket to heat it better, telling himself he was just feigning nervousness.    

"It's Christmas," Colm said, putting an elbow on the desk, resting his chin on his hand.  

"Didn't know you celebrated."  

"I don't. But tradition is tradition. We should have a big dinner, don't you think? Maybe I'll even give you a nice present, since you've been acting pretty good, since you returned."  

"You've already given me enough   dinner   and   presents ."  

"I didn't come down your throat, if that's what you mean."  

Micah made an aborted, high sound.   Sometimes, it was easy to be brash and dismissive, and other times, seemingly without reason, shame would flood.   Maybe it was the awareness of how Colm had given him water, feeding him, and tending his wounds, present in his energy level.   

"You're playing some sort of game. Trying to make me ... more compliant, or something."   

Colm raised both brows as if surprised.  

"Really?"

"I don't trust you."  

"You don't trust me being nice to you, more like it . Would it help you if I said I'd been doing uglier things, too? Not just using your mouth, but other parts of you? "  

"You're lying."  

Micah didn't know why it made him feel unwell. He was more irritated than upset when it came to Colm using his mouth. But it had been a while since they last fucked in the proper sense, and it didn't feel right that the bastard had done it while he slept. His ass was sore, but Colm had said it was healing, unless he was lying about that too. Micah felt light-headed. Colm was a scumbag, but for some reason, he rarely lied when it came to sex. If he started doing that now, striking without a cue, Micah's chances of survival went down.  

"Stop thinking so much. I didn't fuck you in the ass, if that's what you're so upset about. I was talking about doing ugly things and using other parts of you in a more abstract sense."  

Micah waited for an explanation, but none was forthcoming. He settled on a sullen silence, not knowing what kind of abstraction Colm was referring to.

"It's the first time I've seen you sick."

"It wasn't that bad," Micah said, jerking his head to the side in dismissal.

"What do you usually do, when you're coming off from a high like that? I don't care from what; murder, co ke , those whores you used to rent to flog you; it's not important." 

Carefully, Micah attempted to fold his face into blankness .

He spoke in curt terms, while his mind sorted through more complex images.

When sick or wounded, he would have hidden himself in the house on the prairie, or one of their less used hideouts, scattered around whatever state where the bounties on his father and grandfather's heads - and the last four years, his own - were the lowest. He would have waited for the aches to pass, while the elements crept into the ramshackle houses and cabins, feverish in sun, freezing in snow, left between the rise and fall of night and day coming with their own challenges, like animals screeching and bugs buzzing, drawn in by wounds or infection.   

"Alright," Colm said.    

Micah gritted his teeth and sat up straighter . He hated when the man ended their conversations like that, as if he could see what he was thinking about and finishing the conversation for them both.    

A few moments passed. He tried to draw his feet up in the chair, before he hissed in pain and had to put them back down on the floor.   He waited for another whistle, but there was none.

Colm was ignoring him, looking towards the fire.   It might've been a trick of the light, gray from outside the basement windows, but sometimes he looked ... sad. Or not sad, precisely, but a flatter kind of melancholy, which seemed to be his state of being whenever he relaxed.

Depressed or not, he was a fool to ignore Micah.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" The words felt a little odd in his mouth: they had been used on him previously by his father. He licked his lips , "Like I said, you're playing some sort of game. I agreed to stay here for a while, not to become one of your boys."  

Colm's muddy brown eyes were shining with fresh amusement.  

"It's been quiet without your blustering. I kinda missed it."

Micah frowned.  Their talks together were always strange, which he had thought owed to them not knowing where to put each other, not quite colleagues and not quite boss and employee.   

"It's rare, seeing you with this much energy."

Micah frowned deeper. 

The main problem with Colm was partly in his voice, the way he could mask emotion despite shifting conversation topics and   circumstances that were considered horrific.   He could probably monologue while eat ing his dinner on top of a man succumbing to septic wounds. It was impossible to tell what he truly felt, or if he felt anything at all.

"How do you do that?"    

"Do what?"  

" Lying like that ."  

"Why, you wish you was better at it?"  

"I'm already good at it."    

"You used to be, when your daddy could be swayed by such things, and not just drink. Now, though? You just come barging in, demanding what you want. I know you'd never act that way around your daddy , not even now . But I think you'd be smarter to be less obvious."    

There was a nugget of truth in those words, and Micah didn't like it. Other times, he might have denied it, but he was too energized, too quick to spot obvious faults, also in himself.  

"I mean, I kinda like it. I think you trust me more than you do him."  

"I do not!"

Micah heard his own lie, because he could've never shouted like this to his father.

Colm must've heard the lie, too, because he smirked.

"Here's what, though. I'll teach you a lesson after dinner. On how to lie better. You just run along the way you came," he whistled again, like parodying the sound of air blowing past ears, "and get all nice and dressed. I put some clothes out for you. You'll like them. Finer wool, so you won't scratch the pretty skin off your bones."  

And then he turned back to his work. He dipped his pen in ink and did not pause before he began writing, as if the whole conversation had not bothered his previous line of thought.

It took a moment for Micah to realize he'd been dismissed. Biting his lip, he got up and had to steel himself not to walk backwards into the bedroom to not let Colm out of his sight.

 

New clothes. New hair.   New scents.  

Cotton, linen, fine wool. A fresh gray union suit, loose linen pants in a darker shade that hung loose on his hips, and a large green sweater, collar wide enough to curl down his sternum.

Shampoo, and a salty sweetness. He associat ed it with the squelch es of dirty bath water and a dirtier tension, a woman's hands in the water and a man's arm around his neck.    

A bell rang in the office.  

Micah adorned the thick socks on top of the thinner ones, walking on quiet paws, pressing his ear to the door. He heard voices, but they were muffled.    

He waited.   He was considering whether or not to raid Colm's bedroom, but he had no real idea what he would look for, nor what kind of punishment that could follow if he did it .     

There were several pairs of footsteps, but no voices at all. Porcelain hitting wood. Items being placed down – plates? Once when they faded, Micah opened the door, and was met with a blast of umami and the smell of syrupy pears. His mouth watered.    

The desk was covered in more trays than usual, with all sorts of delicacies, steaming vegetables and meat. Micah saw what it was despite having never eaten a Christmas dinner before.   Thankfully, his first experience of such a thing would not be at Colm's lap, or at least no t yet . The chair was ready with its stupid blanket , a stupider pillow . Micah tried to look unimpressed as he sat down, took a plate, and served himself without waiting for permission.   

He started with the meat, which was some sort of small roasted bird.

"Partridge," Colm lazily informed him, and began serving himself.    

"What?"    

"The bird."  

Micah shrugged; he had only chosen the meat because it was easy fuel, nothing more. After he used his fork to stab it, not having to exert any real pressure to rip of the skin and meat, it tasted like delicate wildness - with its own diet of wild grass and maggots - instead of the domesticated and more bland chicken.  

The bird was stuffed with pears and almonds and some kind of herb butter. Served along with it were assorted root vegetables that were not too bad, and a gravy that he ignored. The drinks were coffee and bottled beer, but just a weak pale lager, no real alcohol content in it.

He ate messily.   Meat and pear juice staining his cheeks.   Almond skins getting stuck between his teeth.   The coffee, to which he added several spoons of sugar, getting slurped up loudly.  

The show was meant to disgust Colm, show him that this was nothing to be enjoyed with humble gratitude. But the other man didn't look put off. He was watching Micah's mouth, and when Micah licked pear juice off his fingers, he looked very interested.  

Micah ate less messily after that.    

Colm did not eat messily at all. H e looked like eating was a chore, serving himself equally from each serving bowl. Only when he drank the coffee, did he smack his lips and nod. It was particularly strong and bitter today, which seemed to be his preference. Food never seemed to matter to him, and although he cleaned his mouth with a napkin, manners weren't his priority either.

When he noticed Micah studying him, he smiled.

"I took your measures while you slept. That was the ugly thing I talked about, earlier."

Micah raised a brow, chewing hard, even if none of the food had any resistance to it.

"Imagine what I could do with that information. I know just how small you are, now. The length and width of your arms, legs, hips, waist, neck, skull ..."  

"Are you gonna make me a dress?" Micah asked, disguising how he was growing unsettled.   There was something off with how Colm spoke about his body, talking about it like he didn't inhabit it, but were floating in the room alongside each other, looking down at their bodies like dolls in a dollhouse.

Clearly having finished eating, the man was drinking more coffee, with no sugar and no cream.   " Sure, I could get you a dress. But I was thinking more in the line of a breeding bench."

Micah paled. And then he cleared his throat and tried to make his voice quieter.   "You don't need a bench to fuck me."

"I guess I don't. But i t'll be a while before I can use your ass in the regular sense. I got no interest being gentle with you. And I know that doesn't interest you, either. While it heals , we'll do some other things."  

The part of him that managed his emotions made his face blank. His heart beat once, twice. Some deeper part of him couldn't help liking how Colm's mind never slept.   Awake. Thinking. Lasting. In a world that was so turned against their - wicked, free, shameless - kind, it meant something, to last.  To become old. No matter if Micah made fun of his age from time to time.

He just ... liked the shape of his own thoughts when he was near Colm. The man had an innate cruelty and ruthlessness that strengthened his own. And he actually listened to what Micah had to say . But maybe the nice feeling was just a side effect of a full stomach, which was also frequent around Colm. It felt strange to be well-fed and well-rested. Micah's body was sore, but it was easier to handle that stuff now. He had no real frame of reference except distant memories of childhood and the brief time after his grandfather… died.  

He had no interest in thinking about the past , so he focused on something more present and interesting:   des s ert.  

It was plum pudding.  Micah turned the whole sugar bowl upside down into the larger bowl of pudding, before scraping at it with his spoon, liking the way the silky, tangent sweetness mixed in with the sugar crystals. It took his full attention. 

"I'll show you your gift," Colm said, then reached down into the leg space of the desk and pulled up what looked like a n animal skin inside a hunter's bag. It made him feel cold. And when Colm threw the large bag over, and he caught and opened it, he felt warm.   

It was a leather jacket. Or a coat, reaching quite far as Micah threw it out over the floor. It had peak lapels with green threading on them, fitted sleeves and silver buttons in the shape of wolf heads.

Not sparing a glance towards the other, he got up to try it on. Inside was the padding of hidden, gray fur, thinner than the one inside Colm's preferred winter coat, but smelling similarly. The coat trailed to his ankles and had a split in the middle.

Unlike any piece of clothing he had ever owned, it fit perfectly.

"You like it?"

"It's fine," Micah answered, not facing Colm, not managing to get his face to look blank.

Sugar cracked in his teeth like sand, but unlike sand, they melted into pure feeling.  

The socks made his steps so quiet, he almost didn't notice himself moving, until he was standing in front of Colm. A memory flared; doing the same thing, but in a different mental state that felt far away, domineering even if he had dropped to his knees. Now he was standing above Colm, staring down at him, but he wasn't sure what he was doing.  

Helping him, Colm took hold of the lapels of his jacket, guiding him downwards. 

"I'm glad you like it. It suits you."  

Micah kissed him.   Invitingly, he parted his lips, but Colm simply let go. 

"We'll play later, kitten. F ocus on finishing your des s ert. Right now, you 're too sweet for me."   

Confused, Micah blinked a few times, until he sucked on his teeth and found more sugar.   He backed away, something lingering in the air between them, similar to the sweetness Colm had said there was too much of .   As soon as he discovered it and found himself unable to remove it no matter how much he sucked the taste from his mouth , Micah broke eye contact.  

 

Food - drunkenness had to be a thing.   Sure, he'd had some bottled beer, but in comparison, it was just a touch of bitter hops lost among the meat and vegetables and fruits.   But after eating, he could barely move, arms slung down by his side, head twisted back and rolling slowly from side to side. He had hung the leather coat over the back of the chair, and it was nice to rest against that kind of fabric, of animal make with animal conditioning.    

When Colm poured him more coffee, he did not shove the cup over to Micah's side of the desk. He patted his knee. He looked like a creepy uncle .

"Let's do that lesson we talked about, hm? I'll help you become a better liar."  

"Ain't you scared I'll begin lying to you?"   More than I already am?   That last part shone within him, like a pretty stone he could turn around in his fingers.  

"I'll get the truth from you. I always do."    

T hat sounded ominous as hell , but Micah was so used to it he rolled his eyes.  

Colm kept patting his lap. If Micah rolled his eyes much more, he might go blind.

"Bring your pillow. We wouldn't wanna undo all my hard work, no?"  

Micah felt a surge of wanting to kill, bite or throw said pillow at Colm.   He stood up, taking the pillow under his arm like a saddlebag, walking around the desk as if approaching a volatile horse. But Colm was no horse; though the animal could be fierce, it was prey, and sought to flee rather than fight.  

The ordeal made Micah's cheeks heat, even as he threw the pillow down, wishing that it was made of iron. But the only hard shape was that of Colm's thighs, making him wince.  Arms engulfed him, turning him so his head was turned back against an equally bony shoulder.

Colm ran his fingers through Micah's hair. 

"It curls when it's clean ."    

"No shit."  

"You look like a choir boy."  

"Fuck off."    

Fingers traced his lips, the lower row of his teeth, the inside of his bottom lip.   It was all greased up after the dinner , so the skin didn't hurt, but it still felt weird, Colm touching his lower face all over, making him aware that it was close to clean - shaven.   He remembered that time in the bath as a build - up to what he thought would be a fun time between him and a random O'Driscoll whore, that had then involved Colm and become not quite so fun.    

"You're thinking about me, ain't you?  Yes, you are. When you're trying to hide your emotions, your face go es blank. It's a dead giveaway. If I were interrogating you and you did that, I'd push harder. If you wanna be a better liar, you gotta use some truth in it. Settle on showing another feeling, as true as possible."

"I don't feel much."

"I know it might feel that way, but it's false. I've seen you spit fire often enough, and I know how you can get if I push you too hard. You can be really sweet, you know?" 

Micah was about to retort when Colm began nibbling on the side of his neck. Being bitten felt disgusting; his eyes shut in delight. He moved away just to test the hold, and the hand tightened its grip, touching the line of his jaw, keeping him in place. The use of teeth wasn't affectionate, but if they hadn't been there, Micah might've fought in earnest.  

"You're doing that blank thing again," Colm said   between bites, sometimes sucking on the skin, leaving bruises that Micah would have to take care to hide behind bandanas.    

His face was so hot he could barely feel the surface of it. But he tried to settle on another emotion, ending up with the disgust. He let his brows twitch and his upper lip raise.    

When Colm bit him hard, disgust became something else, something with a lolling tongue.    

"I wonder what your secret feeling is, if that's the secondary one."

"S- S hut up ..."    

And then suddenly, Colm was feeling up his stomach. It was too full, and Micah swallowed down small belches.

"We'll work on fattening you up."

"Why are you so obsessed with that," Micah muttered, twisting to the side. Colm kept on touching him, hand sliding into his pants, granted easy access due to their looseness.     

"Cause you'll need energy to last."    

To put emphasis on the point, Colm grabbed Micah, long fingers splaying to wrap around his balls. The palm pushed down, beginning a light massage. Micah had known it since he began going to the whorehouses, how much of one's thoughts was connected to one's crotch , whether one was aware of it or not. Colm was probably talking about sex, but his words   to last   could be understood in a broader sense, in terms of living. There was nothing as important as living, when death breathed down his neck every second.

Colm briefly let go off his neck to check Micah's temperature.   Micah remembered it like in a dream, all those times Colm had done so while he slept, getting him accustomed to the relief it brought, in one shape or another.

"You still got a fever, or is it just me?" 

"Just you," Micah said, faking a gentle lilt. 

"Hm. Not too bad of a lie," Colm said, not sounding impressed, but not irritated either. "Second lesson, now."

He put their mouths together, and it took Micah a moment to realize he was being kissed. As usual, he simply pressed back, until a tongue licked his bottom lip. He remembered trying to kiss Colm like this after receiving the leather jacket, but things were different now. Colm's lessons were always different. If Colm hadn't had a hand around his neck - never wavering - Micah would have pulled away.   His shaky gasp allowed the slimy tongue to enter.  

He felt too sober to kiss. Why did people like this, anyway? It was gross and stupid. It held no real release, and it was too ... small to be a struggle. His own tongue was backing away as if hiding the hole in his throat, and Colm followed until they slid across each other. Micah shuddered at the sensation, making an involuntary, "Um," more of a hum against Colm's lips. 

Colm broke the kiss with a sigh.

"Before your granddaddy started working on you, you used to be a shy thing, didn't you?"

Micah flinched and grabbed Colm's wrist. "Don't mention him. Not... not now."

They weren't fucking, exactly, but the mood did n't fit.   Colm withdr awing his hand from Micah's crotch did not settle him; it could mean they would have to talk about it now.   He   loathed Colm knowing bits and pieces about his past. It made him feel feverish again.    

"You told me two very interesting things, after we last played. Do you remember them?"    

Mutely, Micah shook his head.    

Colm leaned close, and Micah just knew he was going to say something shitty.   

"I know that he knows."

Micah trembled as the memory slammed back to him.

Not of telling Colm; that part was too hazy - but his father's reaction. How he hadn't seen it coming. Being pushed to the table like a child, yelling in shock - and fear so old it felt like it had crystallized as his skeleton - as bruises and marks were revealed. The rage. The curses. The words. Words that should not and did not hurt, but ... 

Colm sat perfectly still and yet   Micah tried to get the fuck away. That's what he did whenever things got too bad . Despite it messing with the thought of predator and prey, fleeing what was survivors had to do when things got bad, according to his father, who ...

"Ah-ah-ah. What's the fuss?"

T he grip around his neck had gone tight, squeezing for each "ah". Around his stomach, too, making him nauseous from discomfort like a belt that was too tight.  

"Where are you going? Running back home to daddy? Think he'll want you?"

The last part was like a knife in him, making him hunch, while Colm was pressing his weight down and keeping him low. No matter how far he ran, all roads - always, always, always - led back to him. His warm embrace, lacking any of the emotion that that description usually held. 

"The second thing you told me," Colm continued, slipping a hand underneath Micah's sweater as if the attempted escape had not happened, "was that you liked knives."

"So you'll gut me open like a pig, huh," Micah said, trying to make it into an ironic question and failing, stating it as a fact, which made more nausea swell in him.

"As if I'd waste all that food on you, if I wanted that. No, no ... I was thinking about other stuff. Funner stuff, as you'd say." The hand found a nipple, but was oddly gentle with it, as if Colm reserved the sadism for his voice. "You ever played with needles, Micah?"

"N-no."

"Would you like to?"

Micah was breathing rapidly, eyes closed tightly, and yet Colm was too deep beneath his skin to go out quickly. As if he could read Micah's thoughts, seeing them before he'd begun thinking them. And the worst thing was that it didn't turn him off, Colm mentioning playing and needles, words that resonated in him, the twist on their associations to children and knitting women into something disturbing and interesting. 

Maybe it could be a distraction.

"What do you mean, needles?" he mumbled.

Colm's hand came to rest over his eyes. He had done that more, lately, having deduced how calm it made Micah feel. Not caged, but kept. Colm's other hand was still stroking his chest, scratching at his collarbone, the beginning of his neck and finding the bobbing Adam's apple.   

"We're going to have so much fun, you and I. But you still need to rest up a bit. So we won't start this minute." Colm splayed his hand, letting Micah see slivers of the office, the stone walls and the desk, filled with leftovers. "I'll take care of you , I promise."     

Micah felt safer than he had in months , not because Colm could be called a safe person - he was more of a patient spider - but because he had fought to urge to seek him out for so long, so now that he was caught and kept, he felt relief.   He had slept. He had eaten. He had a new coat.

When Colm shut his fingers once more, leaving Micah in the dark, the relief intensified.    

Notes:

Micah: *sleeping, snoring with an open mouth, probably belching and farting*

Colm:

Chapter 12: The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)

Summary:

Colm and Micah play with sharp things.

Notes:

Warning: Needles, sounding, piercings; known by the blanket term medical play.

Chapter title song is by Boris and sunn o))). Probably among my top 5 Micah songs.

Colm let him sleep through most of the night untouched.   Although he had rested a bit beforehand and been given more beer, the Christmas sleep was strangely okay.  

The first time he woke he was alone. He was so far gone he only put one leg on top of the sheet, rubbing his heel against the colder part of the fabric, and then he fell asleep once more.

The next time he woke, he was not alone.  It was very early morning judging by the light outside the windows, barely peeking through the wardrobes that had been placed in front of them. The light from there was so frail it was invisible when there was candlelight, but now there was no lit candles, and it gave the room a paradoxically clear fog.

Colm was sleeping beside him.  

Or it looked like he was sleeping. Micah saw the contours of him, the shadow of dark brows, scruffy facial hair and a wide nose. Several black hair strands were covering his face as they often did, and his wrinkles were more pronounced when he slept, as if he never ceased squinting. T h e shadows around his eyes were dark like cliff drops.

Staring for a too long time at Colm made Micah feel like he was standing at the edge of a cliff.   He had rarely dared studying him when they were out on jobs together, too focused in the time before a hit, and too busy recovering when they shared a tent. Or maybe it was something else, too: the unwillingness to   acknowledge that although the guy was a fossil, he was kind of attractive in the same way some insects could be beautiful.

Then Colm's eyes opened. There was so little light in the room the white of his eyes appeared dark gray. The pupils were wide, making his eyes appear black. No animal – or even insectlike – innocence could exist in a space like that.

"You dream a lot," Colm said with a rough voice.

"I don't," Micah said curtly, putting an elbow under his head so that he was at least a few centimeters above Colm in terms of height.

"You don't remember your dreams?"

Micah shook his head.  

He only had one dream which he remembered.  Himself, alone at the prairie, trying to flatten out the dents and gauges, ripping out grass, with the house behind him. Sometimes he pressed his ear to the ground. He used to hear a heartbeat, before Amos ran away. Now he heard nothing except the prairie wind.  But he had no interest in telling Colm any of that.

"What do you dream of?" Micah asked, licking his teeth.

"I wasn't sleeping. Was thinking of tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Micah echoed.  "You mean later today?"

"Is it morning already?" Colm asked, picking sleep from his eyes.

"Yeah."

"Hm. Didn't know you could be used as a pocket watch as well as a gun."

"Shut u- uuh ..." 

Micah trailed off, because Colm had reached out and touched his hip. 

It was the only warning he got before Colm pulled him closer, so their groins were flush. Flush, like the heat climbing in Micah 's face, dumb and unwelcome. Colm put his face near his neck, inhaling like he was smelling him, not minding his sleep sweat and bad breath.   Gross. Attractive or not, he was a gross old man. And when said man began licking Micah's neck up to his jawline, he had to hold back his sigh, reaching out to push him away, but so unused to grabbing Colm that his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his chest.  

"Curious where I'll put the needles?" 

" No ."

Micah became aware of his own morning wood. It was just a physiological reaction to waking, not the thoughts of sharp things singing to his skin with a burn he knew could be pleasant.

"You want it to be a surprise?"

Huffing, Micah twisted onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He heard a few people moving over it, but with the age of the wood, it could be creaks from somewhere else upstairs. He did not have it in him to care what was going on in that world above, not yet anyway, and so he stared up into a blank space.

Colm took that as an invitation to lean over him, just so he could keep gnawing at the side of Micah ' s face, as if wishing to unfasten it and attach another, meeker one. He would have no luck with it, because Micah looked, thought and acted like his father and his grandfather, and had worked hard to be like them. They were alive within him when he tried to push Colm away.

He felt bereft of their guiding violence the moment his dick was grabbed without hesitance, squeezed so tightly it sent the hurt deep into his balls.

"No!"

It wasn 't just the hold - and promise of delicious pain - he fought against, but being so alone, late at night. Without his legacy, only he remained, and it made him want to manifest into a creature consisting of thousand knives all pointing outwards.

"Don't make a fuss," Colm said, and with a few fast rearrangements, he had Micah in another position: on his side, pushing against him, one arm slung around his neck and one hand gripping his hip, making sure he couldn ' t inch away from Colm , who was half erect against his ass.   "I don't wanna tire you out before ... later today. That would be too bad." 

A hand was drawn over his chest, and Micah hunching as if to protect it, but Colm did not pinch him. The older man was leaning into him, breath slowing by his hair.  

"Really?" Micah muttered. 

"Yeah," Colm said, drowsy and content, touching Micah as though he owned him. He had grown more … affectionate as of late. He'd always been handsy, but after he had revealed he knew about that stupid shit between Micah and his father, his grip had grown firmer and gentler at the same time.

"Poor little kitten. All alone in the world."   The memory came to him suddenly, filling him with dread.   He chewed on the inside of his cheek, willed his face to go blank, but then recalled Colm's advice, and sought refuge in other emotions such as the burst of irritation.  

If he were all alone in the world, then so were Colm! 

Like   Micah had blood in his veins like a red river filled with ghosts, Colm was surrounded by a miasma echoing with gunshots and screams.

Skin to skin, like this, it felt as though they were alone together. Even if he didn't want to, Micah was growing more and more curious about the other. Alone, but curious.   Not just about what Colm thought about, but where he had come from and what had created him.

Pondering and planning, it took him an hour to fall asleep. When he did so, Colm was still pressed against him, and that was the one thing he refused to think about.

 

Though Micah had awoken around dinnertime, there was no dinner, only a startingly simple breakfast: buckwheat porridge with olive oil, and a cup of coffee each. 

Other than a few practical inquiries ("Are you trying to make a coffee stew with all that sugar?" and the usual "How ' s your ass?"), Colm did not talk to him. He had risen earlier than Micah and had most likely eaten earlier, too. But he did not seem to eat all that much in general, and when he did his eyes were flat like the different tastes brought no joy to him. 

Did Colm consider himself too good for enjoying such simple sensations? Or was it like it 'd been with his obscene amount of sweets that turned out to originate from Owen, the origins of the food souring the taste? Or had Colm, as he bragged about, moved past all of that, stripped himself of simpler wants, only seeking more intense ones?

Colm caught him looking, and Micah turned his head away, lighting a cigarette. It was one of the few that remained from his own pack, shriveled and crooked. But he would hold onto them for as long as he could, because it beat asking for more.

"I cleared my schedule this morning. We'll have a few hours."  

Micah sucked on his cigarette, exhaling as his frown deepened.  

"Or did you change your mind?"  Colm continued.

Smoke flew in gusts around him as he shook his head.

Porcelain against wood; the sound of a cup being put down. "When you want money, you make a real ruckus, kitten. But when there's something you really want, you go quiet."

"Maybe I want money more than I want you."  

A match being struck.   "It's real nice that when I say   something you really want , you immediately go ahead and identify that something as me."  

Micah snarled in the direction of the coal stove. He hated when Colm did that, inverting everything, finding holes in his words and poking them worse than he ever could with the use of their bodies.   

"You won't get me. I can't be had, not by you, not by anyone. No." Colm inhaled deeply, not angry, but vindictive. "No, you'll get a bunch of sharp things instead."

In some ways, Colm   was   a bunch of sharp things or at least wore an armor of invisible spider legs. Like in the memory of when they had camped together in the snow, Micah wanted wings, to fly above those legs skittering underground.   Or maybe he wanted to fly into them, using the strength of his wings to brush the armor away, wanting to see the being beneath.

Colm's gaze seemed like a lake pond with soft rot down below. Like he had seen it all, gone into the nothing that he sometimes spoke of, and come back changed. It did not feel like Micah was flying forward, but falling sideways, drawn towards the depth. Trying to keep away from it, trying not to look too directly, but drawn towards it all the same.

A drawer was opened. Colm took out a pair of worn leather gloves. He took them on, stretched and curled his fingers, and Micah didn't stand a chance of looking away.

He rose, and Micah jumped to his feet.

The gaze Micah had thought to be a pond seemed more like the sea.

"Bedroom," Colm said. 

As they walked there, Micah trailing behind him, the ambivalence never went away. That was part of what made their encounters a strange mix of familiar and unfamiliar, irresistible and irreversible. No matter how he'd end up, Micah took pride in his ability to change.

 

Ten minutes later, he had not changed all that much.  

He was naked.  

Wrists cuffed and chained to the bed frame.  

Legs spread between Colm, with the man sitting in front of him, smiling coldly.

It was the same position as when he'd been wearing the leather headpiece, except now he was only made to wear the cuffs around his wrists, more comfortable than the belts had been. Colm seemed to want him to get reacquainted with the tools, saying something about a rider falling off a horse and getting right up on it despite injuries, but he made it clear that the leather was not the main course.  

Needles were.  

They came in a small gray fabric-envelope from a satchel. Inside the envelope were the holsters with needles in different sizes. From the satchel, he got out a bottle of what smelled like spirits, and he began working it into his gloves, and then disinfecting a needle.  

He sat in a relaxed lotus position, knees on top of Micah's spread legs, a steady pressure. He was fully dressed, shirt sleeves rolled up, exposing the gray union suit beneath, wrists hairy at the top and with greenish veins on the inner edge. He had nice arms, lean and strong. Those arms stretched into careful, leather-clad fingers, with a tiny tower of steel at the end.  

Micah's heart was thumping away. It never really calmed, after Colm had taken them to the room for the first time, although it had slowed down when they began sleeping there together. Like this wasn't only a torture chamber, but also a place of rest. In the background, Colm was good at building the scene,   charging the moments with an electric tingle that had Micah shifting in the cuffs.  

Every time his thoughts tried to be one step ahead, they disappeared like smoke in a storm.  

There was only this moment: a hand stroking his naked thigh. And this moment: Colm moving ahead, holding the needle like he was about to fix a religious tapestry. And then this moment: the needle hovering close to Micah's face.   He imagined it going into his pupil and flinched.  

"It'll burn a little. But there won't be any real damage, not when I'm good at keeping things clean."

Damage? To his eye?   No, he realized: the needle was pointing towards his mouth.  

"Loosen your jaw."

He'd been given variations of that order so many times the response was automatic.  

Colm took hold of his slack chin, fingers hooking onto his bottom lip, pulling it outwards.  

It must have looked dumb.  

"Calm down."

That was easy for Colm to say, he didn't have a sharp piece of steel against the skin beneath his bottom lip, on the opposite side of his scar.  

"Take a deep breath."

Micah did.  

Colm drove the needle through the skin, below where the pink flesh of the bottom lip paled.   There was a stinging burst and then a wrongness that sent cold air rushing through him, and a dense and grinding feeling as it came through on the other side.  If he'd pulled it straight through, it would've hit his gums or teeth, but Colm had done so sideways, so it rested with the sharp edge on top of the latter. It made his lip curl open awkwardly.

"Good boy. Only three more left."

"T-Thr -"   Micah didn't finish, because the needle stung his tongue. The latter withdrew like a struck sea cucumber, seeking to hide near the opening of his throat, resting near the roof of his mouth. As if his tongue were scared, while the rest of him was stuck with Colm.

"Best not talk too much," Colm said.  

He was enjoying himself, and Micah dimly wondered if he was erect. But even if he were, he knew Colm had said he was not going to use his ass while the bruises healed, and he didn't imagine the man had any interest in fucking a cavern full of needles.  

"Best not think too much, either. Just let go."

Micah very rarely could, his alertness so constant he didn't even escape it in sleep.   But as the second needle sliced through the space above his upper lip, a hazy feeling began to fill his mind. The sting and burn became a smolder.  

Colm was concentrating, disinfecting and drying each needle before use.   He seemed like a doctor, focused on the task but dependent on cooperation from the patient, slicing away in order for him to heal. What was he healing? Maybe Micah's ability to tense, say no, or think.

The third needle went through on the other side. He had almost gotten used to the smolder and the way his lips were split open, sharp ends pointing inwards, at this point.   The only spot that was missing was right beneath the third needle. His whole mouth burned, the fire spreading outwards, but absent both in the empty spot and the numb scar tissue near it. 

Micah froze. His wrist cuffs rattled.  

"Not there?" Colm asked, not missing a beat.  

With three needles in his mouth, he didn't dare speak.  

Colm searched his expression, before his eyes followed Micah's (although he could not see the spot, he looked down) and rested on the chin.  

"Don't worry, I'll avoid the scar. I know what I'm doing. I know how to sew someone's lips shut without permanent damage, though I'm not gonna do it to you, cause you're being a good boy. You're in good hands. Or bad ones, but ones that know what they're doing, yeah?"  

Colm continued cleaning the tools as he spoke.

Among the repetitions and the silence, the slight of shifts of the mattress and cuffs,   Micah's mind was growing woolen, opening his mouth wider before Colm had pulled his lip out.

And in the fourth needle went. 

"Nice," Colm breathed.

Slowly, he reached out and touched Micah's cock.   He wasn't fully hard, but there were stirrings there, especially considering the material of the gloves.   When Colm took off of them, Micah tried to flatten out his immediate scowl.   In response, Colm playfully slapped him across the forehead with the glove that he'd removed, before putting it away and disinfecting his hand.   Micah's mouth hurt more by his own flinch than the slight impact.

"Don't be mad. It's better if you're like this, for   the main course."

Colm was taking two new items from the satchel.

The first one was a nondescript vial of clear lubricant.   The second item   it was a tiny container of lacquered wood, with fabric inside. There was only one large needle inside, but it was more like a rod, the tip not as sharp as Micah had expected, and the end slightly bulbous. 

Was it meant to replace one of the needles in his mouth and widen the hole?  

Colm reached for his cock once more, thumbing the head, less to stimulate and more to search. Through the thin leather, Micah swore he could feel the pinprick of a nail pushing against the slit.  

"You ever had anything inside this, before?"

Inside ... his dick?   That was something to do, something that people did, like pissing backwards?   Micah considered lying. But the burning feeling in his mouth kept him at a mellow level of scared of what Colm could do.

So he shook his head, hoping it meant that the older man would go easy.  

"That's one virginity I can take, at least."

Colm angled both the rod and Micah's cock, so they were closer. Micah began fighting the hold, but with the weight of Colm's knees, he couldn't withdraw his own legs.  

"Hey. You'll survive. It's not too dangerous. This is steel, not glass, so it won't break inside of you. There will be discomfort. Some people like this, and I think you'll be one of them."

The curiosity burned hotter than his shame and nervousness. Often, Colm wasn't wrong with guessing what he liked. Colm had said he wouldn't like being spanked. And he hadn't. The man was also a devil when it came to using his voice, explaining to what was going to happen.  

"Well?"

Micah sucked in air, then slumped back against the bed frame.  

Colm got out a vial, and began coating the rod in the thick, transparent lubricant, dripping a lot down on Micah's cock. It was weird to see him with a thick shine on his fingers, when they'd mostly used spit, except that time when Colm had held him down and fingered him in the tent.  

He almost bit his bottom lip, but the needles shifted in warning, and so he kept his mouth open. It was leaking. Colm sought eye contact, and Micah relented. Doing so always felt like drowning.  

"Brave thing, ain't you?"

Micah exhaled through his nose.   Brave people tended to die, and he'd rather be alive than what others called brave, it was something he knew about himself due to his grandfather. But the praise felt kind of good, anyway.

Better than the gloved index finger and thumb, holding Micah's cock, too light. Colm began prodding it with the steel rod, seeking the small opening, finding it.   Micah winced as it slid inside, very slowly. It looked absurd, the metal going into him, but it didn't hurt.   It was less like having a wound opened, more like being fucked.   He let out a weak moan.  

It felt cold, not like ice, but like a shift of temperature that he was very aware of. It was so new. It felt even better when Colm twisted the instrument, just as careful, and still enough to make him feel good.  

"Told you you'd like it," Colm said, keeping the pace slow, pulling it a little up, and then further down. He continued for a few more moments, until he met resistance. "Now watch this."

Micah's brows shot up as the instrument began moving on its own.   Sliding downwards, as if his own body wanted it deeper. The discomfort was larger but numbed by the surprise.  

When it had settled, Colm started moving the rod again.   His other hand, which until now had simply held Micah's cock in place, stroked him gently in turn with the up and down motions   inside   his cock. It felt wrong and it felt good.

The cold was gone now, making it less numb, but still there. It was a pressure, but no burning. There had been plenty of lubricant, and with how slow Colm was, the stretch was mild.   It began to feel almost too nice, but the needles in his mouth kept him more aware.  

He could not lose himself in the sensations: he had to stay in the room. 

"God," escaped him. At least it came out as a vulgar   gohh   with his tongue being so hesitant.  

"Look at you, already praising the lord. That's not often. Close?"

Micah refused to answer, but then Colm twisted the instrument again.   Micah ground his teeth not to let out an obscene moan, but that caused the needles to move, and the moan became high and shocked, ending in a few grunts of strange delight as he was stroked a bit harder.

He wanted to lick his lips but couldn't.

"Mm ... I ..." 

"About to come? Alright."  

Slowly, Colm slid the sound out, but not without a few pushes back - not more than a centimeter, but there nevertheless - just to make Micah whimper. He seemed to have a thing for that, because his face lit up every time, if dead masks could light up.  

When it was out, Micah could feel the ghost of the rod, a low-grade fire. He winced when Colm began stroking him, feeling all used up inside in another place than usual.   Like clockwork, getting his balls squeezed - in that firm way that Colm used - had him swelling even more.   His ass hurt, so any resistance or even eagerness was replaced by quietude.  

"I like it when you're mouthy with me. But I like you like this, too."

He couldn't look directly at Colm. He was busy keeping his lips from sneering and his hips still.   It was like moving uphill, and when he was at the cusp of it, the abyss made his legs feel like jelly.   Like the height he had gone to was nothing like the drop after it.  

"Say please."

Dizzy with arousal, Micah had to breathe a few times beforehand, before he stuttered, "Pl - Ow,   fuck!"   The last part was muddled because the needles had rasped up his tongue.  

Colm chose that moment to speed up, not waiting for the pain to pass before throwing him down from a great height. The climax betrayed him by being really fucking good.   It created such a well of ambivalence in him that the white heat of it was muddled with a gray fog.

He wasn't sure he could ever do this again, but in the moment of clarity that came after great feeling, he realized that he had liked it, just like Colm had said he would. Loved it, even.

And then he was panting. He felt weird. His cock, especially. His mouth too, of course. His mind was something else, blasted out of his skull. Some of that exhaustion lingered from the days spent camping outside, dragging his grandfather's coat over him, trying to curl it up as cushioning when he sat or rode, or a barrier to keep him from rolling over to his back. 

Fingers snapped in front of his face.  

"We're not done," Colm said, while wiping his hands on Micah's side of the bed.  

Micah's tongue kept hurting, so he didn't answer.  

But he looked down, then up, and tried to raise a brow.   Good luck making me come after that, you sick bastard.   He guessed his expression conveyed his disbelief, because Colm grinned.  

The next touch was to his upper stomach, sliding upwards, until he splayed his hand until the thumb reached for one nipple and the little finger for the other.

"Didn't I tell you sometime that you'd look good with jewelry right here?"  

Micah did not have the mental fortress to go quiet. Getting air was more important.

"I'll let you catch your breath. Then we'll talk."

"You'll talk,"   Micah wanted to say, "   and try to convince me."

But even in this thought debate, Colm would probably have answered,   "And I will."

 

It felt like Micah was going to be panting forever, like an old dog that ought to be put down, but it calmed.   He did not want to talk, but the words got through to him, like they always did.

"There will be pain. But nothing you can't handle."  

That voice.   Strange and stupid and raspy.   And yet it was also low and tasteful, wrapping around each argument, with pauses in between to let him absorb them.  

"It'll be a test. When you leave, I'll ask you again whether you want me to keep the jewelry and go through with the healing. It won't be visible, not when layering clothes cause of the season.   They're not very large. They're a little long to account for swelling."  

Micah wanted to scream at Colm to stop talking and to stop making sense.  

But he just sat back, unable to move, staring at the proceedings.  

There was a metal clamp involved, disinfected and dried off, like he had agreed to the ordeal by not saying anything. It caught the flesh of his right nipple, readying it to be pierced.   Was this why Colm had been gentle with it, earlier? Micah only noticed because usually his chest had been one of the places that was really sore whenever Colm was done with him.

"Look at me, and breathe in," Colm said, needle in hand, so close to him. 

When Micah looked at him, Colm looked down. 

And then there was a very concentrated form of agony, spreading outwards from his chest.

Sweat broke out all over his body.   Fuck, this was worse than previously. 

Audibly, Colm picked up something from his satchel. Micah knew his tears were instinctive, but he still kept his eyes shut, not wanting to cry in front of the other even if he was curious about how the needle looked, stuck inside his nipple. Surreal. Everything was surreal.

"Breathe. You're doing fine. Keep staying still for me."

The needle was twisted the other way, resulting in a new, colder pressure.

It felt ... It felt kind of good, actually. 

The needle - the piercing? - still hurt as Colm pulled it around, fastening it somehow. 

"First one down. Second to go."

They repeated the process, and Micah couldn't decide if it was more or less painful, knowing what would happen. When fastening the second piercing to his other nipple, Colm twisted it a little bit more than the last, until Micah weakly cried out, a few tears sliding down his cheek.

"There," Colm said, leaning backwards, grin lazy and pleased. "You look good, Micah." 

Micah's eyelids, which had barely managed to open, slammed shut. He sank back against the frame, mind strangely empty. When he dared looking down, sick fascination filled him.

The jewelry consisted of two small rods, with tiny bulbs on the end, keeping them lodged in the pink nubs. One was silver (steel?), the other golden. Judging by the shade, the latter was a high karat. It felt like someone else's chest, hairless and   bedazzled , but he could see his own breath move the cavity up and down, but not as fast as it had been in the beginning.

"You like them? Yeah, I think you do."

Micah didn't know what he felt, except kind of floaty. It felt a bit like the first time he'd used a pocket mirror to see the damage done to his ass. They weren't exactly ... friendly, Colm's signs of affection. And yet he sought them out, survived them, and liked them.

"Did you feel yourself twitching? Several times, in fact."

"Fuck you," he tried to say, coming out as   fuh   uhh . There was no poison in it. He felt so calm after these kinds of things.   Like his mind was filling with some of Colm's miasma.

"I'll let you look in a mirror, later," Colm said, cleaning up just as precisely as he had done in the beginning. Maybe that was why he had to clear his schedule for this.   "Ready for me to take the needles out of your mouth, or do you want them to stay a little longer?" 

Micah's tongue darted out, and fell back once it was cut, as he knew it would be.   There hadn't been enough force for it to be a true sting, but it made the pain manifest more powerfully in his mouth, as if butting heads with the sensations in his chest and groin. 

It wasn't bad. He was feeling number by the second.   His hands, which still hung in their restraints, stretched out as if to marvel at their lack of hurt. 

He met Colm's gaze, then moved them again.

"You want me to remove the chains? I guess ... since you've been good. But don't touch the needles." 

Micah had no interest in getting an infection, and so he wouldn't.   When his arms were freed from the bonds, they fell to the side, sore from being kept up for so long and being tied to the frame every night. The cuffs were still on, but he didn't mind. 

Mind hollow, he reached out, not to touch his own chest, but Colm's groin. He had been more focused on his own body, but there was something in the air, which made him unsurprised to find him hard, straining the fabric of the linen pants and union suit.  

"That's what you want?" Colm asked, and he actually had to suck some spit in at the end. "Alright. I'm not gonna stick it in your mouth, but I'll let you do other things."

Micah didn't know what he wanted. To get out of his own body, maybe? His own mouth filled with spit as Colm opened the buttons to his union suit, showcasing pale skin and fine, black body hair. He truly was all lean muscle, the hair on his lower, slightly hollowed stomach trailing into more on his crotch, contrasting the dusty pink of the cock, a shape that Micah had come to know so well. Colm took Micah's hand, wrapping it around himself.

"Not too tight," he said. "And go slow."

Micah flushed, both from a tingle of shame and the power. He could handle more intensity in that area than Colm it seemed, which was both exhilarating and bizarre. Nervousness made his hand tremble as he began moving it. The motion in itself wasn't too dissimilar from playing with himself, despite it being from an inverted angle, but the atmosphere was heavy.

Experimentally, he pushed his thumb towards the head.

"Careful," Colm said, kneel-walking closer.

When Micah didn't immediately heed the order, Colm snapped his fingers against one of the needles. Micah made a sound of pain which was answered by a hum, Colm moving his hips, fucking into his hand. Micah's palm was dry except for sweat, but then again, the man seemed to prefer it that way. It was difficult to see when he would come or not. Strangely, it was as difficult as it was with women. The concentration never left his expression. It made Micah concentrate in turn. 

"So good, letting me do all these things to you, and only wanting this in return."

Shivering, Micah realized his mouth hurt less from the foreign objects in them, and more from the lack of cock. He wanted it more because he knew it wouldn't happen. He was well and truly fucked, but it didn't shame him as much as usual thanks to the haze. He tightened his grip barely, checking that it was alright, feeling Colm twitch in his hand.

He looked really good. The way he squeezed his eyes shut, highlighting all the crow's feet. The jerk of his hips, more insisting now. The lips being licked, before opening them. 

"Ah," Colm said quietly, like he had just remembered something he had forgotten. 

Liquid heat flooded Micah's hand, dripping out along his wrist, onto his lower stomach.

Before Micah could taste it, his hand was grabbed and forced down to the sheets.

Colm laughed, a little breathless, "Not today."

Micah's brows furrowed; he didn't understand. Had he not been good?

"The needles, remember?"

"Oh."

"I guess we're both a little out of it, huh?" Colm didn't really look out of it as he put himself back in his pants, buttoning them and his union suit. "We're almost done for today."  

Micah barely reacted. His hand was sticky between the fingers, but he didn't wipe it away, simply curled and stretched them so he could feel the stickiness better. When Colm began readying more disinfectant, he sought relief in the filth of it, not caring why.

The removal of the leather cuffs and needles wasn't all that painful, but the liquid burned. Colm sweet-talked him all the way through it, telling him he was good and sweet and perfect. He sunk down among the words and the sheets, lying on his side to not irritate his freshly pierced nipples. Colm laid down behind him, just like they'd slept that morning.

"Feels like floating, doesn't it?" 

"Sinking," Micah corrected him, then winced at the pain in his mouth. 

"Then keep sinking, little Bell. I'll be here until you come back up again."

Chapter 13: I Float Alone

Summary:

Stuck in subspace in Colm's bed, Micah gets a visit from an old "friend".

Notes:

Warning: Non-consensual touching … by someone else than Colm. 😱

A special thanks to the nice commenters in the last chapter! The fact that the sounding was received well by so many readers gives me strength to keep this fic as experimental as it wants to be.

Chapter title song is by Julee Cruise.

No wants. No thoughts. Just blackness. 

There was the taste of blood in Micah's mouth, but even that was far away.

The thing that was closest was a warm body, which he associated with his early childhood when he had to share his bed with his twin. But that one, and his words of eternal judgement, did not exist here in the lingering smells of sex and disinfectant. Micah would've never let Amos seen him as he was now: resting his head on Colm O'Driscoll's chest. 

The shame was there and then gone, like those strange instances of distance that sometimes happened during sex, a thought on why he was doing this before falling back into doing it. Now, he was a nameless thing, one made up of sweat and warmth and pleasure. If this was truly a kind of death, then maybe he wouldn't have so much to fear.

"Dropping deep, ain't you?"

Fingers in his hair, rasping across his scalp, the voice filling him in a similar way. 

"Just," the strike of a match, smoke filling the room, "floating through the darkness."

"Sinking," Micah muttered. 

"Oh, yeah. Drowning in it. Feet tied to a bunch of rocks."

Micah shifted, seeking more body heat against the cold of the comparison. Though hazy, his mind had no filter, and the image of rocks tied to his feet unsettled him even if he had forced such a fate upon many men. He rubbed his mouth against the shirt near it, liking the soreness in his own skin. 

"Quit that," the voice said, but with a note of unwanted laughter in it.

Was Colm ticklish?

Micah felt his own lips curl into a lazy smile, and he didn't stop rubbing it all over the man.

The grip in his hair tightened, forcing his head to be still.

Micah grunted, then whined when the hand attempted to withdraw. It paused, then went back to holding his hair. He didn't have the strength to hold back the sigh of pleasure. He just liked it. He enjoyed being kept. Like he was worth treating like a treasure.

Old instincts kicked at him, and he managed to pry his eyes open. 

Seeing Colm staring back, on his side and tipping his chin down at him, should've startled him. Or made him mad and frustrated, emotions that felt like they'd been leeched out of him. The side of his lip trembled like a fern unable to stop curling as the night put it to rest. He felt mostly at ease, which was its own kind of unease because he so rarely relaxed, making him a fluttering kind of nervous.

"Your eyes," he mumbled, chin bumping into Colm's sternum as he spoke, unable to look away from his new discovery. "They …"

"What about them?" Colm asked, more wrinkles appearing as he squinted.

"They got some green in them … I thought they were brown."

It was true: there was some green, like a background to the blackisk brown threads. As if weeds had been weaved over two fields of grass in the night, where the pupils were two burnt patches in the ground. They sucked Micah's attention towards itself as the pupils dilated. 

"Rest," Colm told him, tone strange, but his expression was otherwise neutral. His hair was an oily sort of black, tumbling over his face like seaweed. Maybe it was what gave his eyes a green hue, or maybe it was the other way around, the colors of the room mixing.

Micah shut his eyes, hoping to bring some of those images with him back into the deep. He truly felt as though he was in the sea. 

"So easily persuaded, ain't you? If this was an interrogation, you'd tell me everything I'd wanna know."

The fingers in his hair used their nails, scratching his scalp. His curls moved easier than normal, light, smelling of soap whenever any of the long blonde strands – though shorter than they had been – came close to his nose. Mostly it smelled like Colm: that acidic edge around something earthier.

"Must be nice, disappearing," he said wistfully. "Wish I could …"

The scheming part of Micah cried out that this revealed something important about Colm. However, while the restlessness never truly left, it was muted. He tried to open his eyes again and yawned at the effort. It felt like his head was engulfed in spider legs. He didn't mind. 

"Anyway. You're being real good, letting me see you drift."

"Sinking," Micah corrected him, almost a habit by now. Colm had a larger vocabulary, but he should give him this thing when he already owned so much language.

"I like watching you like this, whatever you call it. You're pretty to look at."

The fern-like smile returned to Micah's expression. He was too pleased at the compliment to care about the pain in his mouth, in his chest and in his dick. Colm kept him distracted, telling him things he secretly craved to hear, touching him. Sliding across his chin, going lower, stroking his neck. They began something that was too soft to be a threat, but too possessive to be called a massage. They followed the line of his spine, digging the knuckles in on each side of it.

It hurt, but it helped with the tension, like a cheese slicer cutting through the upper layers of it and finding the soreness beneath. Cutting and cutting. Micah loved knives, so he liked the pain, especially when it left pleasure in its wake.

When the combined effort of Colm's hands moved Micah into a straighter position, he winced, back hurting. He thought that stuff mostly happened to old people. How old was he? He couldn't remember. But he felt as though his body was old already, and he dreaded getting older. 

"You work too hard. Always so alert, even now. Ain't nothing bad gonna happen to you when you're here, except the ones I'll do to you when you ask me to. I wish I'd taken you sooner."

Taken him as in fucked him? Micah let out a mirthless laugh. It became stilted when the space between his ass cheeks was explored. A dry finger prodded at his anus, and Micah groaned a   no . 

"Just checking if it's in order." 

A dry slide along his taint, a farewell squeeze to his back of his balls, and then the inside of his legs was stroked. Micah held out for three seconds, then spread them so the touches could cover a larger ground. He winced against the haze and sighed against the pleasure.

"Feels … like I'm drunk."

"Guess it can feel like that," Colm answered, and Micah heard the note of longing, clearer now. "Some people say it lasts for a long time, too. Days. Weeks. Makes them all comfortable with floating through their little lives. Better than drink, better than a crude fuck. I couldn't say, I've never felt like you're doing now." 

"D'you wanna?"

A snigger. "Is that an offer?"

"No," Micah replied. Something in him wanted to laugh alongside Colm even if he wasn't quite sure what the joke was supposed to be. "Not right now," he added because it felt safer to say. 

Another snigger, very quiet, but in its last breaths it got a note of curiosity, before it stopped.

Micah, who was sensitive to shifts in mood, understood it as if Colm was growing irritated with whatever had transpired. Tentatively, he reached out and touched Colm's upper arm.

There was a pause.

"Is this how you get when pushed past your limits? Docile and clingy?" 

"Ain't got no limits," Micah said, like a knee-jerk response.

"I asked you a question."

"Dunno," Micah said, dragging it out, speaking slower when he had to think. He was fascinated by the arm muscles under the cotton, not able to focus too much on the words that transpired. "Just don't want you to be mad at me." 

"I'm not mad at you, I got everything I want." But it was said too quickly, and Colm pulled back. 

Micah nuzzled into him, not wanting him to leave. They always left. Always.

"Quit that," Colm said, pushing him away with more force. But there was returning laughter in his voice, even as he undid the belt to tie Micah's wrist to the bed frame, "I won't be more than twenty minutes, tops. You're really out of it, but I ain't taking no chances, not after that one time where you roared out of this headspace with a vengeance."

"I like vengeance," Micah said, pushing his face against the mattress where Colm had laid. He smelt more of that earthly note and inhaled it as if the word for it was hidden in it somewhere. 

"Oh, I know you do. That's why I, like I said, ain't taking no chances."

Colm ruffled his hair, and his presence from the front and back was nice, encapsulating him.

He rarely smiled as much as he did now, but there was a tinge of something feral in it, like the world had been scrubbed clean, peeling back the skin and exposing the bone. Bones, in the dark basement, the itch in his teeth settled by the many holes in his flesh.

He still felt a flash of life – blood, rage, loss – as the door opened and shut, leaving him alone in the bedroom. However, he had not sunk to the bottom, and so he was forced to keep going down.

 

The door opened five minutes later. Something about the shift in atmosphere told Micah it was not Colm, but the greeting would've revealed by itself.

"How utterly lovely."

Barely finding strength enough to turn his head, much less blink, Micah squinted against the haze.

A large shadow stood in the doorway. Wide and tall and purple. Tailored suit, a thin mustache, curly black hair. Coming from him was a laughter that came from his belly, where his brother only laughed high in his throat. 

Fruitlessly, Micah struggled against the belt on his wrist, too complicated for him to remove. 

"Lovely," Owen repeated, closing the door behind himself, arms behind his back like he was holding it shut from a monster outside the bedroom.

As he advanced, Micah remembered thinking that Colm had been the true monster of the two brothers, having forgotten how bad Owen O'Driscoll could get.

The light was low, which made the assault of cologne larger. Cherry and sugar mixed with sweet tobacco: maybe the man was the source of the flavored cigarettes Micah was given, like the snacks and food here had turned out to be.

The mattress creaked and tipped in his direction as Owen sat down. 

"All grown, aren't you?"

Micah worked his jaw, wanting to growl at him, but only managing to look like a fish outside water.

"And just as ill-mannered. But he likes that in a boy, doesn't he? Truly an eccentric man, my darling brother." A dramatic sigh. "Don't you agree?"

The wrist around his belt wouldn't let him get any further away, digging into his skin.

"When I last saw you, you were no more than nineteen, yes? That was years ago. How old are you now, I wonder? Twenty-two, twenty-three? A little too old for my tastes, but you're not too bad, shaved."

Micah wanted to shout at him to shut up and get out. But his head was too far gone, his body too weak. He felt weird and vulnerable. Where was Colm? Was this a game to see where his loyalty laid? Or had it been the plan all along, to let Owen have him, like leftovers?

"Come on, tell me. How old are you, my peach?" Owen's weight made the mattress indent more, and his size blocked out the candle behind him. The smell of him – that sweet cologne, paired with the smell of hair cream – kept assaulting Micah's frayed senses.

"Dunno," he said lightly and full of the air his lungs did not possess.

As his back hit the frame, he tried to breathe, but the cologne gave him a headache.

Sweat lay in a fine sheen on Owen's face, which looked younger than Colm's due to its softness. Micah was probably sweating, too, even if he felt cold.

When he had been doing jobs for both brothers, he's steered clear of Owen, with those lips trembled like intertwined worms, the wet tongue slipping out like a third one. But he had preferred Amos, who was more polite, calling the O'Driscoll brothers   sir   without being asked to. Micah had made fun of him for that, asking him if he wanted to earn some extra cash by becoming the arm candy of the fat bastard. Micah wondered if his own later involvement with the brothers was cosmic karma for making fun of Amos. Amos, who'd ran away with his girlfriend, while Micah was stuck with the O'Driscolls.

Where Colm mostly stared at his ass like it was a natural place to look, Owen stared at the whole of him like a pastry. Shits, the both of them, but at least he somewhat understood Colm.

"You don't know how old you are? You don't know much at all? Where you are, what you want, what you'll become?" The voice took on a condescending, childish tilt, before darkening. "Poor, lost, little thing. You really are Colm's type. Do you know what he does with his types?"

If Colm loomed, Owen engulfed. 

"Go away," Micah said, and was ignored with a thick finger pressed towards his lips.

It hurt, irritating the four wounds.

"Once you begin boring him, he'll give you to the worst of our boys. Children can be cruel, as you have previously shown, but our boys are particularly so. The last one Colm had, a few months ago …"

Micah knew, on an abstract level, that there had been ones before him. But to have it identified in singularity was strange. One person, instead of a shapeless hoard. It made his throat constrict oddly.

"I was told that boy found eaten from the inside out. I am glad I lack the innate cruelty to understand what was meant by those rumors. I could tell you more about the circumstances that led to his end, but I don't want to scare you. Maybe we ought to have that chat in a more well-lit room?"

Micah was breathing harder. Eaten from the inside out? The death sounded like it had something to do with insects. A handful of bugs poured down a throat? Or maybe they pumped the guy full of honey from both ends, and strapped him down by the side of a swamp, like an inviting feast?

Micah's skin began to itch like there was something beneath it, making it burst at the seams.

But before he could begin scratching himself, Owen had grabbed his hand and kissed the back of it. 

"How about becoming mine, instead? I live in the attic, with quite the view, and my door is always open. I only want to help you. I'm a gentleman, you see. I won't use, ugh," a manicured nail poked at the wounds near his mouth, "needles."

Micah wince became a yelp as Owen snapped his fingers against his nipples. 

"Nor those … things."

They began walking in a line down his chest. There was a grunt of pleasure from the man, admiring those places where there used to be hair. They trailed lower, then paused before touching his crotch. 

"How odd. Why not here?"

Micah tried to scream Colm's name. Owen slapped a hand in front of his mouth, holding on when Micah tried to shake it off until the back of his head slammed against the frame. 

"Shush. Don't be scared. I'm nicer than he is."

There was the same invasive nature to them both. The same element of seeing him as a hole. Colm would also touch and look, opening him up and humming in appreciation. But Micah had often looked behind his shoulder at the man, and Colm looked back, smiling at him like they were sharing a secret. 

"I believe in treating boys like angels."

Owen didn't meet his eyes. He was busy spreading Micah's legs so he could move his hands on the flesh of his inner thighs. Each kick was more of a shake, no fight left in him. 

"Fallen angels, perhaps, but angels all the same. I won't pierce your flesh. No, I'd worship it."

The door slammed against the wall. Micah had not heard it open. 

"Oh dear," Owen said, "caught in a lewd act, aren't we?" Despite the slight drawl, there was an element of uneasiness in the way he crawled off Micah, sitting up and turning towards the doorway.

For one second, Micah thought it was the devil himself.

 

He had never seen Colm this mad.

Angry, yes, but usually not like a stained hellfire, eating up all the oxygen in the room.

His stance was so foreboding that Micah remembered some of the things he was known for, the lengths he'd go to put someone under his thumb, the promise of torture. The part of Micah that had missed the man regretted it, and wanted to apologize to himself, which confused and alienated the rest of him because mostly he just wanted to apologize to Colm, who looked like no apologies would ever make up for what he was seeing. 

"Can't even take a shit in peace."

"Must you always use such foul language?" Owen asked, taking out a purple silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his forehead. "I was simply paying our new recruit a visit."

"In my bed?"

"Everything that's mine is also yours. I was simply checking the state of our goods, making sure they weren't carrying anything ... nasty. I know cleanliness is important to you."

Colm grabbed the bed frame on the end of the bed, knuckles white, gaze just as black as before. There was no nuance in his world: he looked like he wanted to murder Owen. 

"You think I'd fuck him if everything wasn't in order?"

"Colm," Owen said in an irritated tone, but he pronounced it weird, almost like colon. 

Dimly, Micah recalled how men sounded when he gutted them, looking like a red mouth drooling, innards steaming in cold air. Then he thought about his own mouth doing the same, and let out a laugh, more of a ragged exhale, high pitched and off-beat. 

A pause, absorbing his reaction.

"As you can see, we've gotten along splendidly. But my my, I do wish you'd treat our little ones better. He deserved to know what will happen when you grow tired of him. I was just telling this little boy about your last one, the one who turned out to be -"

"Get out."

Owen stood, looking paler, but dragging his feet a bit too much. "Well, I can see that I am quite unwelcome here, but considering how   you   always go where you're not welcome, I -"

"Get the hell out, you miserable bastard."

"Take a look in a mirror," Owen said as he passed him by, none of them breaking the glaring contest as he headed towards the door. Before he went out, he couldn't help but add, "Oh, and mister Bell? Remember to ask my darling brother about what happened to Anton."

"Owen," Colm growled, and took a step towards him. 

The man reacted fast, nearly falling by stepping on his own feet. Yet a small smile hung from his lips, like a brother who had bullied another and gotten away with it. Micah knew that smile: had felt it playing on his own lips, as he ducked away from Amos' sigh. 

Colm did not sigh. He leaned out the doorway for a dozen tense seconds, before there was the sound of another door shutting, to which he responded by shutting the one to the bedroom. Rooms within rooms within rooms, and Colm wanted to shut himself away from it all. But standing there, turning halfway towards the bed, he looked … regretful? It was too complex, too many shifts, heavy and gray. Nonetheless, it was a strange glimpse of his humanity.

He turned around, facing Micah, and then there was none of that humanity left.

Micah sucked in a breath.

And then Colm was on him, striding over to the bed and straddling him in a blur of movement. 

"Did he touch you?"

Micah swallowed thickly, then nodded. The sinking feeling returned. 

"Where?"

Micah tried to gesture but tugged uselessly against the belt until he realized he had another arm. With the latter, he gestured to his face and chest, and in a vague circle around his crotch. 

Colm clicked his tongue in annoyance, and Micah shrunk at the sound.

He didn't want Colm to be mad at him.

He startled when Colm undid the belt that tied him to the bed frame, sliding it off, easy as nothing. Spidery fingers rubbed the welt and cuts on his wrist created by the leather.

"These are pretty deep. I bet if we hadn't just finished playing, and you weren't so out of it, you would've clawed his mug off."

Micah's eyes fluttered shut, the upset fading from within him. For some reason, it meant a lot to him that Colm didn't imply he had done anything wrong. When he looked again, Colm was going over to the nightstand, opening the drawer where the leather hood was. But the only thing he came back with were a small white rag and a brown bottle. When he removed the cork the smell of whiskey filled the room, which Micah recognized as his usual choice of disinfectant. 

"Ow," he said when Colm dabbed his wrist with the wet rag, less because of the pain and more because of his habit of trying to be a little shit even when he didn't really want to be.

The rag was dragged down along his chest, careful around the nipples, less so with his sternum, stomach, and around his crotch. It felt kind of strange, but Micah liked it, hoping the sweet cologne and cream smell would be chased away. Like chewing tobacco, he associated this whiskey smell with Colm, because it was his way of taking care of Micah's wounds.

When the rag and bottle was put away, Colm kissed him. It was more of a peck than a kiss.

As he spoke, his breath was warm against Micah's lips.

"You belong to me. No one else. No matter what he did, no matter what others might do, only I get to shatter you into pieces and make you whole again."

Colm met his eyes.

"Do you understand me?" 

"Yes, Colm," Micah said automatically, before looking away.

There was a stream of cold amid the warmth, which had been injected by Owen. 

Testing the waters, Micah licked his dry lips and asked, "Why does he call you colon?"

"Because he's a cunt." It was a curt reply, but not outwardly angry.

"Oh. Uh. Who's Anton?" 

Colm's pupils contracted. The black mood from before leaked out of them.

A moment later Micah's world was spinning worse than before.

Colm had shoved him so hard he'd fallen to the side. As Micah grunted in pain, a more familiar weight than Owen's forced him down, first on all fours, and then flat. Colm pressed his clothed body against Micah's naked one, plastering himself against his back. It was suffocating, and it put fresh pressure on the bruises of his ass. And yet he settled, slowly.

Colm didn't push him around all that much, so the question seemed to have really gotten under his skin, though he found his balance quickly enough. Still, there was a trace of power in upsetting him so, enough for Micah's breath to slow and his ambitions to wake.

"Don't ever say that name again," Colm said against his ear. 

"Yes, boss," Micah whispered, less automatically. But the crush remained calming, together with the knowledge that Colm had come back after leaving earlier, and stayed after Micah had upset him. In the underwater dome of his mind, seaweed sprang out, packing away the ambitions for later.

Chapter 14: Hierophant

Summary:

Colm has a meeting, and lets Micah attend it.

Notes:

Warning: Cockwarming.

This was supposed to be a big, violent chapter, but the fic sat on its back legs and said, "This is a love story," so I had to grant it two quieter chapters before the big one. I'm curious to how they will alter later events.

Chapter title track is by King Woman.

Who the fuck was Anton?  

Colm's desk held no answers.

Or, it might do if Micah had looked more closely than the surface, but he was still getting used to sitting in Colm's chair. He skimmed some of the letters, tried deciphering the hidden messages, but he hadn't dared opening the drawers. He had woken up earlier than Colm and gone to his office to snoop. It was cold without the fireplace burning, but Micah needed it to be, to think.

A couple of days had passed since Owen's visit. The memory, though hazy, kept creeping him out, even if the man had left Micah with the burning question that became larger the more time he spent with Colm. Colm, who took decent care of him, letting him stay in bed except when eating, easing him through the hazy space that had lingered, as long as he didn't mention Anton. Their talks had mostly been shallow, but the food was nice, and Colm's sexual appetites weren't too hard on Micah's physical recovery.

Meanwhile, the new year was looming over them both, with its  what s and  why s, smaller than the who that was occupying Micah's mind. If Colm sent him home now, he'd have almost nothing to show for it, at least no real information. Through the outline of his – Colm's, really – green knit sweater, he could see the slight bulbs of the piercing, sensitive but not painful. He wanted to kick his legs around just to relieve some tension, but he couldn't move his feet, or more weight would be put on his ass. He was a kaleidoscope of different hurts, with his position making them rotate, the morning light making his bruises more visible.

 

It didn't take many hours before the door to the bedroom opened. Colm walked out, fully dressed but with his hair a mess, hiding a yawn. When he saw Micah sitting behind the desk, he squinted, maybe because of the role reversal, or the light shining into the basement windows. He shook his head and walked towards the restroom.

Slightly weirded out, Micah watched him close the door after himself.

He leaned his elbow on the desk and looked at his palm. There was no evidence of it, but Colm had sought out more hand jobs while Micah's mouth healed. Mostly he just made Micah sit between his legs in bed, guiding him through his preferences,   slower ,   press down here, not too rough there.  It had reminded Micah of the Madame, a shadow who still lingered in the back of his mind. But although similarly domineering, Colm was different enough for the Madame's shadow to evaporate into the usual numbness. 

Yesterday the session had gotten lazily philosophical. Micah felt more awake then, and had tried to turn the exchange around in his head all morning. Colm's words lived under his skin like roots, and he shivered, pulling them up from the bottom of his mind.

"Your hands are the oldest part of you.   As if you tried to center yourself   in them."

"Is the rest of me too young for you?"  Micah had replied, less snide than he'd intended, because most of his focus was on his own fingers around Colm. The man liked some extra pressure near the middle of the shaft, but preferred Micah to be gentle around the head, gripping the foreskin nicely.

He disliked having his balls touched, looking nauseous the one time Micah had squeezed them. Twenty seconds after that had been particularly grueling; Colm, roughly fucking between his lubed thighs as he laid flat on his stomach, making him keen as the man's weight pushed on the bruises on his ass, and the piercings on his chest. To avoid a repeat of that punishment, he put more emphasis on learning how to get Colm off with his hand, not all that common with the whores.

"How old are you, anyway?"  Colm asked. When Micah held his tongue, he continued,   "You don't know? According to my sources, you should be around twenty-three."

Micah didn't want to know how old he was. He knew he could figure it out, but he preferred when the years just flew by, unchanging like in his desert dream.

" Why ask, if you fucking knew?" 

"Ah ah, don't let go. We're not done."   Colm waited until Micah had put his hand back on him.   "I'm not sure how old you are, I didn't care to get any evidence. News clippings don't say all that much. But people trip over themselves to answer, when I ask around."

"Not me."  

Colm smiled, and then his brows furrowed. It took Micah a moment to realize that he was not thinking, but simply letting go, resulting in a small hiss when Micah gripped the foreskin a little harder. Colm liked that when he was getting close. 

"Gonna tell me not to eat it?"   Micah asked, voice lighter, the irritation fading.

"Nah. You can have some. Mouth should be ... healed by now."       

His breath grew heavier by the end. It surprised Micah when he struck. Wrenching Micah away, finishing himself, while driving the knuckles of his other hand into Micah, whose cock was hard but sore after that stuff with the rod. It had been agreed upon beforehand ( "Do you want to come?" "No." ) and it hurt really good, and his head fell into Colm's chest as he softened, his yelp almost loud enough to drown out Colm's oddly sweet, "Aah," a sort of moaned exhale as he came. If Micah could eat sounds, he wanted to eat that one.

A few moments afterwards, Colm held out his palm in front of Micah's mouth. Without hesitation, Micah drank it. He liked the taste, clean and unclean, simple and yet not like much else, the dryness reminding him of the man.

Even when sitting at the man's desk, he sucked the inside of his cheek, but finding none of it among the rotten morning breath taste. 

He hadn't liked Colm's following question, though.

" Does the kitten like the milk?" 

"Shut up,"   Micah said, licking more ferociously while holding on to Colm's wrist, egged on by how the older man chuckled.   "With how many people you've killed,"  he paused to suck up a patch near Colm's thumb,   "I'd expect your hands to be uglier, Colm." 

"I don't need to kill them. It's more of a challenge, hurting someone so bad so that they wanna end it all to take some control back, but forcing them to live. Besides, it's not as if has any effect on myself. Maybe it alleviates some of the general unease – or pain, perhaps – of being alive, I don't know. Do you understand me?"    

Micah hummed an agreement against Colm's palm. He hadn't really understood much, but he was very good at remembering, turning the words over in his head at another time.

Like when sitting behind the man's desk, in his chair, tasting the power of his position.

He wasn't sure if he agreed with Colm's assessment that hurting someone alleviated one's unease or pain.

No, it was too goddamn passive, like so many older people usually were, like they'd given up making choices and bent down to some secret greater will. The religion of older people was a religion of helplessness, almost as terrible as the one Amos followed, because it presented itself as experience rather than belief.

( Belief and history,   Micah added in his mind, because he remembered his and Colm's quarrel about the Bible, where the man had noted how difficult it was to remove religion from the understanding of good and bad. Micah, of course, would still try his best.)

Sighing, he brushed his hair away from his face, trying to clear Colm's imprints from among the roots of his thoughts. He concluded that hurting someone wasn't about lessening unease or pain – it was about increasing one's power. Yes. It was active, and thrilling, and satisfying. Everything was about power really, but hurting someone -   destroying   them like the weaklings they were - particularly so.

Micah sat up straighter, pretending that this criminal organization above him was all his, until his fantasies stopped, because he hadn't seen much of the upstairs rooms. He had got to go up there, sometime. See it for himself. Show them who he could become. In his excitement, he gnawed at the flesh between his thumb and index finger. When the door opened, he let go with a soft pop of saliva.

 

Colm had washed himself, shaved, and changed into a less wrinkled, gray shirt. Micah focused on the lingering water, shimmering in patches on his face and around his fingers. He did not glance at Micah, going over to the fireplace to coax forth some flames.

Once he was finished, he drawled, "Having fun playing the boss?"

"Yeah," Micah answered instantly, never having looked away from him.

"How nice. Get out of my chair."

"Yes, boss," Micah said, making up for the title to use as much time as possible in doing as ordered, trying Colm's patience. The man just stood there and stared at him, and it was funny at first and then it was unnerving, and Micah sat on the desk instead, putting a little extra flair on his winces to placate the other. 

Colm sat down on the chair. A puzzled, slightly disgusted look crossed his expression.

"It's like finding the seat in an outhouse warm," he remarked.

Micah laughed before he could stop it.

Colm's lip quirked, before it fell. "I have a meeting in ten minutes."

"I get it. Bedroom, right," Micah said, already jumping off the desk, considering whether or not he should stand with his ear pressed against the door. So far doing that hadn't revealed much, except that one of Colm's men had an annoying way of pausing between sentences with extremely loud and annoying   umm s. 

"No," Colm said. "There's room."

"You want me to join?" Micah asked, suspicion creeping into his expression, before he managed to flatten it out.

"Sure," Colm said. And then he gestured to the space beneath the desk. It was cramped, barely enough for an adult to sit inside, and even then said adult had to bend his neck and kneel between the legs of the one that sat in the chair.

"You gotta be kidding me."

"Wanna join in on the meeting or not?"

Well, he was feeling rather bored, lately. And thinking about that shit with Owen and what he'd done and said about Anton. So, he guessed it could be interesting, seeing what the gang meetings were all about, so close to the source of power. It would be his first time doing so. But it wasn't his first time sinking to his knees before Colm, undoing his pants.

"I don't even have to ask, do I." 

"I know what you like," Micah said, using his teeth and tongue to undo the buttons, just to see if he could.

"Likewise," Colm said sweetly, before pushing his chair forward, to the point where Micah felt like some sort of folkloric creature stuck inside a small cave of wood. But in those few minutes before the meeting, he had Colm's full attention, and it wasn't so bad.

 

That was how he ended up in his first official meeting of the O'Driscolls.

Kneeling underneath a desk with Colm's cock in his mouth. Strangely, he had been instructed not to move, nor make noises, but just kneel there with his mouth open.

"Keep it warm for me, will you?"

Micah wasn't sure if he liked it or not. In itself, warming his cock instead of sucking it was kind of boring. His body hurt from crouching. His jaw wasn't as sore as usual, but he could feel the beginnings of an ache. However, the weight, feel and taste of Colm on his tongue wasn't too bad. He liked how those legs he was draped over would flex when he swallowed or moved his lips in an attempt to hold back some of the spit.  Colm tasted like clean skin, like he often did in the mornings, caring more for his own hygiene than Micah did.

Most interesting of all, however, was the feeling he got when someone knocked. A surge of ... not fear or excitement, precisely, but it felt as though as his own breathing grew heavier. All he could see was Colm's lower body, and his fingers, stroking where Micah's lips tightened around his shaft.  

"Mister O'Driscoll, sir." It was the voice of the woman in the bath. Red, she'd asked Micah to call her, because   everyone does . "Thanks for seeing me. I won't take up much of your time."

Her heels clicked closer; maybe Colm made some sort of nonverbal gesture granting her permission to enter. Micah swallowed around him, finding a weird anchor in the act, like it gave him a kind of stability.   Behind the back part of the desk, there was the creak of the chair; the same one he sat on, during dinners and conversations, when not on Colm's lap.

"So? Is this about what I think it's about? Marvin mentioned your daddy came skulking around."

"Marvin's a sweetheart," Red said, sounding genuine in the way all whores did if they were any good at their job. "And yes, it's about my … that man."

"Is he bothering you again?"

"Yes, sir."

A flick of a lighter above Micah, a pause, and then an answering one from behind him.

"So? You changed your mind? You want us to take care of him?"

An exhale. Maybe she was smoking one of Colm's cognac-dipped cigarettes. Micah had gotten a lot of those, recently. He felt weird that Colm just handed them out.

"I want you to burn his house down. It'd hurt him more."

What a bitch,   Micah thought, despite being vaguely interested in the idea of arson. He swiped his tongue over Colm too intently, until the thighs underneath him tensed. Micah fought to be silent as it dug nails into his cheeks. It was a clear warning:   don't do that again .

He   yielded. For now. He had no interest getting some sort of punishment in front of that woman again, not when she'd been in on it the last time, jerking him off and busting his balls while Colm strangled him. It had felt good, yeah, but it was the principle of the thing.  Colm already had enough power over him. There didn't need to be anyone else having it, too.

"… Alright. Consider it a New Year's bonus. We'll strike in January. The boys need to stretch their legs, anyway."

"Thank you, Colm," she said, pronouncing it differently than Owen, like Micah did.

"You're welcome, darling."

He rolled his eyes, and when he heard the other chair creak, he was spiteful enough to nibble at Colm's cock. It wasn't intended to be all that hard, but there were more teeth in it than planned. The fingers in his hair were gentle, at first. 

"Actually. Before you leave, could you give me some recommendations?"

And then those fingers got rough, dragging him out from under the desk while Colm pushed his chair backwards. If Colm's hand hadn't been in the way, Micah would've hit his head on the underside of the desk. The light made him squint. Being shoved down into Colm's crotch muffled his surprised shout.

"My office pet has started acting out, lately."

"What - "   the hell did you just call me , but of course he was ground down until he shut up. Colm's twisted his head to the side, so Micah could see Red and, well, go red. 

She did not blush like he did, even if she had a fake one made by makeup. She blinked as if taking in the fact that Micah had been there the whole time, but otherwise looked unsurprised, and there was no disgust on her expression. Between her fingers hung a half-smoked cigarette, which was the cognac dipped one alright, judging by the fine, dark brown rolling paper. Micah had trouble containing his sneer.

"Can you tell me what's wrong?" Colm asked faux politely, shaking Micah's head like a dog's.

Her look was warm and dry, short-lived and intense, reminding Micah of those particular bursts of wind that fell down a mountainside on the opposite side of the mountain to where the wind blew from. Nothing made him feel crazy like those short, hot bursts of wind.

"Maybe he needs to get out a bit more?"

"You suggesting walking him around on a leash?" 

"Leashes can be nice," she said dreamily, before she cleared her throat. "But maybe let him join the New Year's party? Maybe he could make some new friends."

"Friends like you?" Micah drawled, before Colm forced him back down. To not struggle, he inhaled with all his might, getting drunk on the musk like a bee with flowers despite summer being far away. 

"I wouldn't flirt too much with her, kid. Her favorite type of man is one that doesn't move so much."

"Oh, boss. I do like mixing business with pleasure, it's true."

"So do I. And I might take you up on your advice," he said, a note in his voice that meant that the conversation was coming to an end. 

"I'm glad," Red said, curtseying deeply, before walking out. She was careful with closing the door.

"Now, what am I going to do with you?" Colm asked, pushing Micah down when he tried to stand up, keeping him between his legs.

"If she wants someone hurt, why not fix it herself?" 

"Cause hurting one's daddy is a hard thing to do. Even for seasoned killers." 

"She's … ?" 

"A killer? Sometimes. I mean, she's in an easy position to do it, with her more official line of work, like you experienced. There are no one left to give bad reviews after all."  

"She wasn't anything special." Micah scoffed. "In the bath, I mean."

"You jealous?" 

" No ."

"M-hm. Alright. Well, she was right though. You probably need more air. How about joining a party? We're celebrating New Years. Apparently." 

Micah paused. Then his fingers dug into Colm's thighs, creasing up the black fabric of his pants. "I wanna set fire to her daddy's house."

"Why?" Colm asked, his smile like a knife.

"Cause I like fire," Micah answered in an innocent voice, hiding the truth behind another, smaller one. He wasn't quite sure what the truth was; but he felt as though the lingering bitterness towards Red would vanish if he went through with this.

"If you behave, at the party, I might consider it."

"I can be a good boy, boss."

Colm patted his head, a parody of his mocking tone.

"Show me how good you can be, and finish what you started."

It was second nature, gulping Colm down. Micah enjoyed coaxing the larger size from him by only using his mouth, this time. He vastly preferred sucking cock to warming it. He wasn't some passive bitch. He took Colm all the way inside, his throat aching for it, after having him rest halfway in for so long. If he could, he'd suck Colm's brains out. But sure, he could   behave  if that was what it took to stretch his arms and his legs and his violence. With Colm's balls resting on his chin, he sought eye contact. Colm gave it to him.

"Missed this, haven't you?" 

Micah growled, pulling back a bit, before being unable to think of a comeback and settling on sucking Colm back down his throat instead. He kept growling, only ceasing when Colm almost blocked it out, when Micah   made   him block it out.

"No. Keep making that noise. Feels nice."

At the encouragement, Micah steeled himself not to shiver, but the movement made it out through his tongue, squirming along the length with more force, giving some special attention to the frenulum. That way, Colm was the one who shivered, bending forward so his stomach touched Micah's head, caving in as he inhaled. The power in it felt intoxicating.

Then there were hands on the back of Micah's shirt, pulling it up, exposing his back to the air of the office. Knuckles, lightly massaging his muscles of his back as he worked it. His toes curled in his boots.

"Suck harder."

He did. It didn't take long for Colm to finish. There was no warning, this time: not even the little   ugh   that  Colm sometimes uttered when he wanted to get the orgasm over and done with.

But Micah didn't hum in surprise, didn't choke, didn't have trouble swallowing. Colm's spend settled warmly in his stomach, a breakfast he was used to.  

Only when Colm pulled out did he taste a hint of that bitter dryness, making his gums itch strangely as he held the flavor in his mouth. It was strange, to finish in silence; it intensified the feeling of their … aloneness, chosen and lived.

"Up," Colm said.

Micah stumbled, slightly disoriented. At first, he turned towards the desk, but then Colm pulled at his shirt, bringing him closer.

Micah stumbled more before ending up in Colm's lap, face to face, knees above Colm's thighs, not quite so bony as they had been last year. They were both a bit fatter. Micah didn't know what to think about that.   Then there was a wince escaping him as his shirt was dragged over his nipples. His shirt hung high on his chest due to Colm's hold on the back of it.

"Tip your chin down," Colm instructed, while tucking the fabric in a similar bundle at the front to the one he'd had on the back, so Micah could hold it up using his chin. The pressure he used to do so made his jaw hurt. It wasn't bad.

"Forgot to clean them, yesterday," Colm said.

Them? Oh.  Micah's eyelids drooped, as a drawer was opened and closed, the smell of alcohol filled the air. The first swath of it to his nipples had burned in the beginning, but now it had grown to a mild discomfort, similarly to the beginning of Colm smearing that herbal salve on his ass. He was efficient, not dragging it out, putting the rag and the bottle of alcohol away.

"Is it necessary?" Micah asked, muffled from holding his chin down to keep the shirt up.

"Infection can get real bad if I don't." 

Colm bent his neck – resulting in a few pops of muscles – before he slid his tongue against his skin around Micah's nipple, like the gross old man he was, threatening him with the thing he'd said he tried to avoid. Infection, by the way of his dirty mouth, so close to the swollen, pierced nubs of flesh.   Micah felt the urge to bite him. He lifted his chin instead, so his shirt fell back down over his chest and stomach. Colm withdrew at the touch of fabric to his nose, staring expectantly at him, not all that keen on being interrupted. 

"Do you do this shit on purpose?" Micah asked, his voice sounding strange, even to himself. "Hurt the things you like to keep yourself from using them?" His ass, his chest, his mouth, his sense of self … "Am I that irresistible to you?"

Colm sniggered, some of the violence in Micah's voice infecting it and vice versa, sick with a sort of dark humor, half serious and half ironic. Then Colm stopped mid-snigger, breathing in a way that meant he was thinking Micah's words over. And Micah had come to know these pauses intimately, longing for them, as a confirmation that his words were worth considering.

"Maybe it's the other way around. Maybe I'm making it easy for me to avoid areas you like without you throwing a tantrum. Maybe it gives me room to be more creative while you heal."

His hands came to rest on Micah's ass, cupping it with his palms. The bruises really were getting better, because although Micah could feel them, they were more like aftershocks rather than straight up pain.

"Been a while since I had this. The way you're acting out, I'm beginning to suspect you won't quit being bad before I do."

Colm moved his grip as if weighting his options, long fingers splaying over Micah's ass, squeezing. He could make it good.  Micah knew he could. Even amid all the bad stuff, it could get so good.

"Here's a deal though. If you behave at the party … and when off having some fun with my boys, burning down a little house … I'll fuck you   proper , as you call it. I'll even use some extra oil just cause I know you like it. You won't be able to walk afterwards, but I'll take care of you. I know you like that part too, even if you'd rather die than admit it. Chewing on some gumdrops while cum is leaking out of your swollen hole. It's a good look for you. And a good feeling, yeah?"

While Colm spoke, Micah imagined it. At the mental images settled around eating candy, a low growl tore itself out of him, deeper and more animalistic than the sound he'd made when sucking off Colm. 

"So needy."

"Shut up," Micah mumbled, hiding his face in the crook of Colm's neck. Questions kept circling at the back of his mind, but it was easier to focus on the smell of aftershave and the feel of warm skin.

"You're getting good at that. Defying me while acting cute at the same time."

"Not cute," Micah said while he dragged his teeth along a vein in Colm's neck.

"For every mark you leave, I'm going to pull out a tooth," Colm said.

Humming, Micah was careful to wrap his lips over his teeth, like he was kissing the neck of a lover. 

Chapter 15: Twist in My Sobriety

Summary:

A New Year's Party with the O'Driscoll Boys.

Notes:

Warning: Mild knifeplay, use of morphine.

Chapter title song is by Tanita Tikaram.

The morning before the New Year's Party, Micah received another gift. 

Breakfast had consisted of a cheese plate and wheat biscuits, paired with an aged port wine. Only some of the harder cheeses were left after they finished up. Micah was nibbling on one of them when Colm opened one of the drawers in the desk. He took out a small leather satchel, brushed some crumbs off the desk and pushed the satchel closer to Micah. 

"More needles?" Micah asked, a little wary, mostly intrigued. 

"A bit bigger than that."

Too curious to make a show out of not caring, Micah tested the weight - not light enough to be needles, but not heavy enough to be a gun - and then unwrapped it. 

It was a knife.

Not just any knife, but a Bowie one, thick and short and useful for close quarters combat. His grandfather had owned one from the civil war, but it'd been fatter and full of rust, like the man himself. Micah had seen similar designs to this one in store windows. Hell, he'd even read about it the paper, how different people kept claiming to be the source of the (in)famous design. 

The sheath slid off easily enough, revealing shiny steel, with etchings in it. On the upper edge, near the dull part,   TO MICAH BELL III   was written. Closer to the sharp edge, with the same size and letters, said  FROM COLM O'DRISCOLL . Underneath it all was a smaller stamp that read  MADE IN U.S.A , as if there could be any doubt what country had produced such an astoundingly beautiful weapon.

"Why did you get me this?" Micah said flatly, despite at least two thirds of his mind resounding with the word   beautiful.

"I've seen the state of your knife when you crack almonds open. You needed a new one." 

Licking pieces of blue cheese from under his nails, Colm looked like he was enjoying himself.

"The old one is fine," Micah said, but he was too quick when hiking his knee up and placing the heel of his boot on the chair's seat, to better get out the old knife from the holster. He put it on the table (careful because of the one time he'd tried practising Five Finger Filet on Colm's desk, and gotten chastised for it to the point where he couldn't speak for a few hours). He checked the new one, who slid in and out of the old holster easily enough, the size perfect for being easily concealed.

"Should've gotten you some new boots, as well." 

"My boots are fine." 

"I should take you to a tailor. I got your measurements, but I'm not a professional." 

"My clothes are ..." he began and then regretted it, because his clothes belonged to Colm. Or Colm's men, but they were one and the same, the man being some sort of strange head of the creature. Or maybe Owen was the face of it, and Colm the mind ...

Colm shrugged. "If you don't want the knife, I could give it to someone else." 

"I want the knife," Micah said too quickly. He disliked how Colm's calculated way of moving and speaking made his own speed seem clumsy and unprofessional. "I ... like it, Colm. I like it a lot." 

Colm looked away. His lip had quirked, and it was an odd look for him, pleased to the point where he looked like he was hiding it.

But as he spoke, his smile didn't vanish, "When we go upstairs tonight, you gotta refer to me as boss. The stuff I allow you to get away with when we're alone wouldn't go down so good among the men. I'm saying this for your benefit, you know. If you go around crooning my name like you do when I have my fingers inside you, they'll figure you're my girl and treat you as such. And you really wanted to join them at their little excursion, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Micah said, twirling the knife in his hand. "Do I look like a girl to you, O'Driscoll?" 

"Oh, you look just   fine ," Colm said, parodying Micah's way of speaking, dragging out the vocals. Micah was usually the one parodying him and not vice versa, and he had no idea how to feel about them influencing each other like this. 

He ran his thumb over the sharp edge of the knife, and almost didn't feel it when his skin opened up. He sucked on the gash, and when he saw Colm gaze at his mouth, he bit down. Someone else might've taken it as a refusal, but Colm simply leaned back in his chair. As if his hands weren't free, Micah bit into the dull part of the blade, holding it in his mouth as he rose and walked over. He bent his neck, like someone leaning down for a very deadly kiss.

"Is this your way of saying thanks?" Colm mused. "You're welcome."

Slowly, he reached out, taking hold of the handle. Micah let go, but his attention remained on the knife, lowering himself until he was kneeling, because Colm was holding the blade right above his crotch. Micah began licking at the steel like it was made of skin, but he was careful to the point of feeling the etchings on the side of the blade with the tip of his tongue. Colm twisted the knife like he would've done with himself, making sure Micah got it wet and shiny.

"You're gonna make it hard to keep my hands off you tonight, ain't you?"

Micah felt a burst of pleasure that went straight to his groin. He growled quietly, then louder when the knife was put away, and the main prize revealed from behind the rough cotton and copper buttons of the dress pants. Micah put his mouth on Colm, losing himself in the familiarity, feeling no shame around this particular act.

The morning continued on similar to usual, but the evening would be different. 

 

There was a party in the saloon alright, warming the thick jackets hanging over every chair. The steam from the clothes and the smoke from the cigarettes lay thick near the ceiling like a small piece of hellish heaven.

Outside it was snowing, but Micah had only seen a sliver of the flickering white light in the saloon doors and in the windows. People were blocking a fuller, better view. And there were a lot of people, yapping, drinking, looking over their shoulders as they entered.

Micah's attention was centred around Colm, staying as close as he'd been asked - ordered - to do. Now there wasn't a single cheese bit or biscuit crumb on the man's outfit, which was an ironed green cotton shirt, together with his usual dress coat and pants. Micah was dressed similarly, except that he was wearing his new leather coat over a white shirt, which was a little long in the arms and tight around his stomach. It still felt kind of nice, because they were among the best dressed men there, even if the shirt fabric was rough on Micah's nipples.

Colm acted differently when he was among his men. He walked among them as though he didn't quite belong, somehow above - or too deep underneath - it all. But his stance changed, straighter than when he sat over his desk and focused on his work. Now, that work focus blurred out to something more abstract, and he communicated mostly in small gestures.

Once they were in the center of the saloon, he raised his fingers as if readying puppets for a theater. Just like that, the table in the corner of the saloon became cleared, men jumping to their feet to let them have it. Micah waited until Colm sat down, before taking a chair for himself.

He was hunching enough for the both of them, also because he was aware of how sitting straight accentuated his pierced nipples. He could tell that people were staring at them, hairs on the back of his neck rising, but Colm had warned him that people would be curious.

A woman went over to Colm, and Micah tensed, but she only wanted to take their order. Less than a minute later, they were presented with large glasses of the thick dark beer that Micah had drunk at Christmas. Again, he waited until Colm had drunk first. The beer had an undercurrent of coffee, so he guessed that's why Colm liked it, as it was his only true favorite consumable.

People were talking all around them, a constant muffling around their bubble, but the ones closest to to their table in the corner spoke quieter than the rest. They glanced at Colm every now and then. Micah wondered what it was like, to have that kind of power. And because he felt kind of giddy and weird, drinking down the beer too fast, he ended up asking Colm a variation of the question. He used the word fear, and he added a neat little   boss   at the end in case they were overheard. He was playing the good boy, after all.

"Well, I guess they're a bit afraid of me. They trust me a whole lot, too. Most of all, they like me."

They liked Colm? Well, Micah guessed that he could be darkly charming, less like a knight in shining armor and more like a mysterious benefactor. But maybe that was the color from his own experience, or just the alcohol going straight to his head, having avoided the candy in Colm's office because he'd become too acquainted with sugar crashes the last weeks. 

Colm continued, a wistful note in his voice similar to when he'd said he envied Micah's dropping after sex, days ago, "But I sometimes wonder what it'd take to make them love me."

"That why you went into the torturer business, you wanna be loved? Is it a kinda follow-up of wanting to, uh, alleviate suffering?" He made his voice sweet, "And make it into love?"

Giving the question some thought, Colm leaned back, taking a large drink from his beer.

"I don't call myself a torturer. Too crude. I prefer the term fixer. People came to me, needed someone to change their mind, I made that someone change their mind. Cute that you remember our little conversation on suffering, though."

"I always remember, boss."

"Not a lot of people do. Most of them just live in the moment."

Micah tilted his head to the side, and tried to drink as slowly as Colm did, to get some of that thoughtful aura. But there was too much foam, and he had to wipe to make sure he didn't end up with a beard.

"Where do you live, Colm?" 

Colm stilled.

"Boss," Micah corrected himself.

"I suppose I like in the future. I don't care much for the past, unlike you, who seem to worship it a bit too much. I look around myself, and I see how this," he gestured to the saloon, and quite a few heads turned to them, "could be made bigger, better,   purer . There might be a place for you in that gang if you play your cards right."

"I'm more into playing with knives than cards."

"I know. I remember you playing with that as a young boy. Sitting all by yourself on the porch, in that rundown house, the favored hideout of your family. A lonesome sight, to be honest."

"Is that when you …" but Micah's pride gave in for his discomfort.

"When I what."

"Is that when decided you wanted to …" He did a hand movement that was half aimless wave and half stretching his fingers towards himself.

"My plans aren't that elaborate. Don't get cocky." Colm leaned closer, breath hot on Micah's ear. "You're a sweet piece of ass, don't get me wrong." He leaned back. "But I didn't plan this from when you were a kid. Like I said, don't get cocky. It can kill you."

Like you killed Anton? Or made your boys kill him? Instructed them to pour bugs down his throat?  

Micah wasn't one of those boys. Not yet anyway, even if this could be called an introduction to them. Like he was a dog, being made to sniff at the other ones, before merging with the pack. As he grew more upset, he kept sliding his new knife into the table, making patterns. Although it was one of the most beautiful weapons he had ever owned, it was from Colm, and Micah wanted to leave as many marks in it as possible of his own make. 

Colm watched him out of the corner of his eye, content to sit in silence. He didn't seem annoyed by Micah playing with the knife up here, for whatever reason.

Micah side-eyed him back. He couldn't remember the last time he'd been around so many people, but for some reason it helped that Colm was there, close enough for Micah to smell him, to slip into the thick atmosphere around the man, to hide in it like a shadow. 

 

A few minutes passed before the shadow was breached. 

"Mind if me and my friend join?" said a new voice. It belonged to a man with dandy clothes, hair black and slicked back, with a friend of his standing behind him, his hair ratty brown and in a slightly worse outfit. Both of them looked younger than Micah. 

When Colm didn't immediately reply, the man who had spoken added, "Uncle Colm."

"Which one are you, again?"

"Why, Theodore, Uncle Colm!" Theodore clarified, laughing it off as though it was a joke between them, though Colm seemed genuinely disinterested in his nephew. He pulled out a chair for himself, watching Colm for a rejection but not waiting for his approval, either. His friend remained standing until he gave the go signal, and then they were four at the table.

This was Owen's son? Micah had hoped there weren't more O'Driscoll siblings than the two brothers who had given him more than enough trouble. Maybe they were all related, a bunch of incest-loving leprechauns. The whole gang, all related, all fucking each other … 

"Who's this?" the nephew asks, nodding at Micah, but waiting for Colm to respond.

"A new recruit."

"Oh? You don't often take interest in new recruits. I mean, the one time you did ..." 

Micah tilted his head to the side. Was this about Anton? Shit, if he could only get one of these guys alone and ask, no, demand an answer ...

Colm stared at Theodor until he lowered his head, the smile still there but with a nervous edge to it. His friend appeared to be a ball of nervous energy in comparison, but he met Micah's sneer with his own when he spotted Micah judging him as the coward he was.

"Getting him introduced to Marvin's crew soon," Colm said.

"Really? Daniel here is on that crew, isn't he?"

The friend – Daniel – nodded. His eyes betrayed a fresh gleam of interest when he looked Micah over.

"My, and I thought it was hard, getting all the way to the top," Theodore said airily. "I wish my father could pull similar strings. He doesn't want me anywhere near the action. It's not good, when I'm next in line."

Next in line? If he were Owen's son, did that mean he thought he was going to be the new boss?

"Sure," Colm said neutrally.

Micah jabbed the knife harder into the table. He had no real interest in politics, but wanted an overview of the hierarchy.  

He did not startle at another knife was put in it.

"You play?" Daniel asked, the first time he'd spoken tonight.

"Sure I play."

Daniel looked at Colm. Micah didn't.

Whatever the O'Driscoll boy saw must have made him convinced he was allowed to play.

"Me first," Micah said, splaying his hand out on the table, so familiar he could've done it in his sleep. The surface was sticky and had a few errant peanuts spread about, but he'd practised Five Finger Filet in far messier places, like the whorehouses his father used to frequent, where the women pinched his cheek when he tried to question how much they cost, unless he had a knife in hand.

He began hacking the knife between his fingers. He was fast about it, and despite the beer he concentrated better than before. There was only his own flesh and the knife, so close to each other, yet unable to meet without loss.  His jittery energy pooled away, leaving his mind clear, and his movements precise. 

He had a hell of a good start.

Daniel wasn't quite so lucky, scoring less than half his points due to pauses after accidentally cutting himself.  

The rest of the game followed the same pattern: Micah beating Daniel into a pulp. Metaphorically, that was. He won and won and won. He could feel the power swell within him. So what if he grew sloppy near the end? A cut to his ring finger had him cursing. The other nicks hadn't been quite so deep. But he liked risk, he liked danger, he liked games.  

He was about to start a new round, sucking up the blood that welled up from the deepest cut, when he felt a hand on his shoulder.   Micah whipped around, ready to gut anyone who interrupted a guy when in the middle of the game … 

Anyone but Colm, whose hand tightened on his shoulder, looking pissed.

"Quit showing off. You won the first round."

He hated it, being chastised, especially in front of others.

"Sorry, boss."

"Congratulations," Daniel said, trying in vain to hide his sarcasm while he put away his own knife.

"Be nice to your new colleague, boy," Colm told him curtly. "Tell Marvin to visit me in my office, around midday, in four days."

Colm clapped Micah's back a little too roughly. Maybe a punishment was forthcoming due to getting too wrapped up in the knife game, and not remaining wrapped up in Colm. It shouldn't make him excited, but it was a while since the needle incident, and Colm was nothing if not creative in his punishments. Unlike Daniel, who was a boring, sore loser.

"Sure, boss," he muttered, scowling at Micah.

"And be good to him out in the field. Show him what a crew like yours can do. He's not used to playing with others. Itty bitty lone wolf, this one. But then again,   homo homini lupus.   Man is a wolf to man."

"Well, directly translated, it's man to man is wolf, Uncle Colm."

"You're of Owen's seed, alright. Can't even let me finish speaking in peace."

Theodore shrunk. Micah successfully fought the urge to stick out his tongue, going back to studying Daniel, who was withering underneath Colm's attention.

"And by the way you get along, I'm sure you can be a friendly type, when you wanna be."

Colm had one of his thinking pauses, which used to make Micah impatient, but Daniel interpreted it wrong and began to speak.

"Yeah. Thanks. Maybe he can give me some tips on how to rise through the ranks by - "

In less than a second, Micah had grabbed the knife from where it laid and driven it right in front of Daniel's thumb, close enough to touch the nail. Daniel startled. If Micah had been any less precise, he never would've been able to pull back the hammer of a gun ever again. In their line of work, it would've rendered him more useless than being gelded.

"Don't interrupt the boss, you fool," Micah said coldly.

Daniel cradled his hand, likely realizing what he'd almost lost. 

"Leave us," Colm said, a dark note in his voice.

They did. The people around them engulfed them once more, leaving Micah alone with Colm.

Despite the man's mood being rather bad after the knife game, Micah felt relieved, though some of that relief faded as he met Colm's gaze.

 

The two of them went back into the silence from before, but it had a different edge. Gone was the calm mood, and the promise from the morning of Colm implying he'd struggle with keeping his hands off Micah.

The only time the man had touched him tonight had been a warning.

Colm ordered himself a coffee, but gave no room for Micah to ask what he wanted. Only after a few slurps of the drink did he speak, and when he did so, he was massaging the side of his face. 

"That could've gone better. You'll win nothing by making enemies of those two."

"Why? I thought they were your men, not enemies?"

"I'm speaking on your behalf. There's a hierarchy. Probably like it was between you and Amos, but on a larger scale."

"Don't fucking mention him." 

The hand on his neck was like a thousand knives, both terrifying and tantalizing. While his blood turned to ice, he was shook back and forth, scarier due to the softness. 

"Your disobedience can be cute sometimes, but up here it's annoying. Maybe it was a mistake, letting you out of my rooms, thinking you'd amount to more than a bedwarmer."

Micah flinched, and Colm surveyed his expression. For moment he looked satisfied, but then his left eyelid twitched and Micah knew he would say something terrible.  

"Maybe you really are too young for me."

Micah twisted to the side as the air left his lungs, the word   young   like a phantom punch. He felt startlingly sober, hurt, and   too   young . The feeling was not all that new due to his father's temper and harsh words, but it was weird feeling that way around Colm.  

They rarely discussed their age difference directly, Micah preferring to use it as fuel for insults, and Colm insulting him right back. It'd been a fun game, more fun because of the risk, but when the risk was abandonment, it didn't sit well with him.

"Should I …"   Should I leave?  

He sounded like he was five years old, not even able to mutter the "I" without his voice fading. Perhaps he'd never gotten used to being alone, not even in the months where his father was too ill to join him on jobs.

When confronted with the aspect of going back to that loneliness, it was as if ghosts rose from his skin and bellowed louder than the people around them.  He realized he didn't want to leave, and that was more terrifying that anything Colm had said.

"Should we leave?" Micah asked again, drawing strength from the   we , sounding more secure than he felt.

Colm looked at him with the eye that wasn't squashed behind his knuckles. He removed them and left behind a red-veined glaze, lid twitching as if the light pained him.  

 

As Micah followed Colm out of the saloon, he noted how his hand twitching at his side like he wanted to shield his eye again. Micah tried to locate the source of the man's pain.

Due to not being left alone?   No, Colm had been unruffled during the exchange, even if it annoyed him.

Due to Theodore's words?   No, he'd shaken those off, even if had not bettered the situation.  

Something more physical, maybe?   Well. It was easy to forget that Colm had a body, when his webs reached so far and wide, when he had eyes and ears everywhere, when his men acted like his arms and legs. 

"Do you have a headache?" Micah asked as they descended the stairs.  

Colm stopped mid-step so that Micah nearly crashed into his back.

Due to the stairs, they were of equal height. However, Micah felt no power, only dread. Blackish brown eyes - with a small touch of green in them - unreadable, Colm didn't answer. He turned away fast enough for his hand to seek the side of his head again as a hiss left him.  

Had the knife game triggered it? 

Shit. Shit. Shit.   Each step down made the dread grow. 

Colm didn't check to see if he was following, leaving it to Micah to close the door to the office behind them.

 

Five minutes later, they were in bed, with Colm having left a trail of his own clothes on the floor instead of folding them. Micah's nostrils had flared when entering the room, because it smelled of clean cotton, and he discovered that the bedsheets had been changed while they were upstairs. They were softer, and from the light of the candle on his side, he saw that these new sheets were dark marine instead of dark gray.

The first thing Colm did was swallowing a couple of pills from his nightstand drawer with the water always on the ready on the top of it. Morphine, maybe? Or some kind of prescribed painkiller? Then he sat up in bed, massaging his forehead with both hands, something he hadn't done when surrounded by his men. Micah sat beside him in bed, not lying down.

No words had been spoken. No orders to go wash, no mention of any night snacks somewhere in the basement, not even a demand to be quiet. Micah was quiet, anyway. Though there wasn't much light, he wasn't used to seeing Colm in pain. He supposed he would've triumphed of it, earlier that year. He mostly felt weird, knowing he was the most likely source of it. And he felt helpless to do anything against it. He loathed feeling helpless. 

"Can I try something?" he asked.  

Colm looked at him.  

Gingerly, Micah reached out.

Colm grabbed his wrist.

Micah pulled at first because of instinct, but then he forced his arm muscles to go slack and waited. He'd gotten better at waiting after spending time with such a feeble old geezer.

Maybe feeble wasn't the right word, because Micah's heart beat faster when Colm stroked his thumb over his inner arm as if gauging his pulse, finding it satisfactory enough to let go.

Micah put his thumb Colm's brow, the other fingers filling the space on the side of it, above the nose. Slowly, he applied pressure, waiting for the rejection.

He didn't move, he just held it there, feeling the skull beneath the skin.

"Harder," Colm said.

Micah was taken aback by the vaguely erotic command and did the opposite, until he saw - felt - Colm's brow narrow, and he applied more force.   Despite all the shit Micah had gotten from his father and grandfather for not being as physically strong as other men, he had more than enough strength in his thumb to keep up a pressure that would've tired others out. The pad of it was rough from pulling back the hammer of his revolver that he barely felt Colm's features ease out, even as he saw it.  

"A little to the side, now," Colm mumbled, voice more slurred than Micah had ever heard it, even when they'd woken in the middle of the night. The morphine, probably.  "Down.  There ."

It wasn't all that different from giving him a handjob. Micah felt his own cock twitch at the memory. There was power in what he was doing, but also a kind of relief, not only for Colm. He felt like he could hold it forever. Hold Colm's skull, that was.

"Where you'd learn this?" Colm asked, and it sounded less pained as it'd been before Micah's intervention.  

"... My brother used to get headaches when we were little," Micah mumbled.

He barely remembered it, but they couldn't have been more than eight, walking home hand in hand from Sunday School under a scorching sun. Amos had to stay in bed, hiding his eyes because light hurt them. Suffering was such a strange phenomenon, consuming to the ones in the yoke of it, invisible to the others. But he'd seen Amos push his thumbs into his forehead, especially at the sides of his temple, and he'd taken over.

It wasn't to be kind. It was just something to do. A way to test his strength. With the added bonus of Amos' furrows easing out, his breath growing calmer, his gaze grateful and … and … loving. Micah had found it cute and ironic, because he was, by default, an unlovable person. Even as a child, he knew himself to be completely unlovable. He told himself he preferred it, especially after Amos' love was suddenly and eternally withdrawn.

"Hm. I got headaches too, but Owen never did anything for me. They haven't been this bad since they killed him."

Him? Owen? No, Anton? Colm used to get headaches around the time that he died? Why?

Bursting over with questions, Micah sharpened his ears, but no continuation came. In fact, Colm looked to the side, like he was expecting the questions, almost daring him to say them. But Micah pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, keeping it there.

"I know you're curious. But you do well to leave him alone. I'm saying this for your own benefit."

Micah withdrew his fingers, doing a few of the hand exercises his grandfather had taught him, but a different intent. His grandfather would've hated this, but then again, he was dead. Micah remained, and he could do whatever he wanted with the name, because he'd earned it.

"Seems like you're doing lots of things for my benefit, lately.   Boss ."

"Sure. Let me see your hands."

The side of Micah's upper lip twitched before he could stop it, but he still did as ordered. His hands had small cuts on them, the one near the ring finger particularly mean, but mostly just nicks here and there.

Colm studied them, assessing the damage Micah had done to himself, using the Bowie knife. Then he kissed them. His lips were sluggish, dragging at the skin, making the cuts sting and burn.   Micah simply watched him do it, unable to think any thoughts at all.  

And then Colm pulled him closer for an actual kiss. He was sparse with them, and Micah appreciated that, because it was embarrassing how uncertain he felt around anything more than a peck. He was forced to taste the metallic tanginess of his own blood like they were trading copper coins with their tongues.  Colm broke the kiss with a wet noise, and Micah held the taste of his spit in his mouth, traces of blood and warm beer, mostly just Colm.  

"Such deadly hands." He hadn't let go of them. "Deadly for you, too, if you don't keep them hale."

He reached out behind himself and towards the nightstand. The action and sounds were so familiar, almost ritualistic, signaling the end of a day. But when Colm opened the bottle of whiskey, he gagged. The smell clearly made him nauseous. 

"I can do it."

Colm looked at him, searching his expression for something, then gave the bottle and rag over.

He felt strange, just like he had when soothing Colm's headache. It had the same kind of … using hurt as a means to heal. And disinfecting his cuts did hurt. But he did it, just like he dabbed another side of the cloth against his nipples. When he was done, he put the items on his own nightstand, the one with the crooked candleholder on it.

The ritual had felt lonelier than when Colm did it for him. But not as lonely as when he'd tended to his own wounds back at various hideouts. Especially the main one in the prairie.

As he stretched out in the bed beside Colm, his face turned away from the man, he felt tired and giddy at the same time.  He'd used more energy than expected when out at the party and during the aftermath of it. He wasn't used to being around so many people. It was weird, how the saloon had been over their heads all along and brought so many new thoughts when they actually went up there. He wondered if it would affect his dreams. Or his one dream, more like it. The prairie ground, opening up to reveal a thick black oil, like Colm's mind liquified.

"Why do you get to have limits, when I don't?" Micah asked, the question slipping from him before he could stop it.

It was quiet for so long Micah thought Colm had fallen asleep.

"You're the one insisting that you don't have them. Why, we're finding out what you can stand and what you can't together. I like pushing you over the edge of your limits, but I also like being there when you get up again."

Colm dug his nails into the back of his neck. Micah's breathing eased out.

"I think this thing, whatever it is, would be easier for the both of us if you didn't obsess over things that you shouldn't know. Just enjoy it while it lasts. It's the first vacation in your life, isn't it?" 

Micah hadn't really looked at these weeks like a vacation. If it was, he didn't want it to end. But it had ended for Anton, and so he needed to find out what had gone wrong, so he could avoid it. As he turned around, the questions as thick as the spit in his mouth, Colm's hand settled around his throat like it belonged there. 

They seemed to have reached an ambivalent standstill. Close but not close enough. Distant but not distant enough.

Micah wondered if what Colm referred to as "the excursion" - as if there were some sort of educational purpose to burning down a house - of his men would change anything. He wondered what he would learn, and what he would do with that information once he had it. From watching the boss at work, he had gotten a larger appreciation for blackmail. 

Colm's hand slid up along the airway in his throat, softer than Micah had been with his forehead. And he did not know why, but an exhale followed that finger upwards, ending as a sigh.

Notes:

Next chapter is going to be almost pure action, with Micah attending his first O'Driscoll mission! He reeeally ought to be more careful when playing with fire …

Chapter 16: Dragonaut

Summary:

Micah experiences his first outing with the O'Driscoll Boys.

Notes:

Warning: Human and animal death, arson, implied torture, attempted murder …

Chapter title song is by Sleep. Listening to this track, I imagine a four-year-old Micah (with a full mustache) cruising around on a three-wheel-bicycle with the same coloring as his revolvers. Somehow it kind of manifests the plot of this chapter.

The house was quiet, beautiful and dark. It was luxuriously sized, the wooden planks still new and unpainted, the style like a farmhouse or a cabin but too elaborate to be intended for only work or leisure. It was surrounded by vegetable gardens and a large, thick pine forest.

What better way to destroy someone than to destroy a home like this?

If seen from the porch of the house, the five lanterns moving between the trees must've looked like spider eyes, blinking or squinting when behind trunks or branches. The light was low enough that it barely caught the faces hidden behind bandanas in shades of beige and browns, secretly faded purple, and only one of them bright and new: that one that belonged to Micah. 

The one with the palest bandana was Marvin, who walked ahead of them. Though they were all covered up, and the night was dark, the man was so goddamn huge there was never any doubt who he was. Tall and muscled, with an uneven bald head and cauliflower ears from what Micah assumed was fist fights. Marvin was one of the ugliest men he had ever met, but he also had the clearest air of a leader. Entering the garden, he fired a shell into a wooden box of strawberry plants before leaning his shotgun on his shoulder. 

The flicker of torchlight was lit in four windows of the house.

Shadows ran around inside.

Shouting. Barking?

Marvin sought cover behind a tree.

The rest of the men - including Micah - followed his example. Closest to Micah's tree was Daniel, sneering at him from behind a crooked pine that made it necessary for him to stand equally crooked. On the other side of Micah was Hill, whose quiet, large form had found a large tree, and whose rifle signaled his role as the sharpshooter. Beyond there again were two cousins nicknamed Pudgy and Skinny, the names a reversal on how they looked. They twirled their revolvers with no style, likely better as melee enforcers rather than gunmen. 

Micah's introduction to the crew had been short, and had happened a few hours ago, around midnight. In the basement, Colm's hands had been tight on his shoulders while he spoke to Marvin, before pushing Micah forward, handing him over. When he was about to leave, Colm put a bag of rock candy – tiny lumps with crystallized brown sugar, meant to be added to coffee or tea, even if Micah ate them as they were – into his pocket. Like a treat. 

Marvin took him to the stable outside the saloon.

Once there, he introduced Micah to his small crew, and called this his "test ride", before listing the names – or nicknames – of the people there, already mounted and with their guns ready. Micah's horse was the one he'd stolen from the jewelry coach. It was well kept by the stable boys, and was easy to steer, but it held no loyalty for him.

While they rode out, Marvin asked what Micah called the horse. Micah replied, "Fourteen. Or well, Thirteen, but you know what folks say about that number." Marvin nodded and said that someone in their line of work never could be too careful. The prospect of more conversation was swallowed by the sound of hooves, riding for an hour, before the work of the men began.

The lights inside the house became concentrated near the entrance. The door opened and a small stream of men exited, seeking cover behind the railing of the porch. Lastly, an old, thin man wearing red pajamas came out, moving his head from side to side with the flesh of his chin dangling along with the pompoms of his night cap. The barking came from right behind him, and Micah struggled to focus on the conversation, knowing what waited inside the house.

"Who's there?" 

"You know who it is, old man," Marvin said, voice rough and loud. "You've bothered one of our girls too many times." 

"O'Driscolls, huh? You low lives quit leeching off my daughter and then I'll quit!"

"Your girl belongs to us, and we," Marvin did a mocking bow as if asking someone to dance, "to her. And as the gentlemen we are, when one of our girls comes asking us to commit a bit of violence for her sake, we heed the call."

"Scoundrels, all of you!" The man threw himself to the side. "Henrietta, let out the dogs!"

From the open door of the house, a pack of dogs ran out, all teeth and lolling tongues.

Most of them didn't make it across the garden, peppered full of bullets or shells from Marvin's shotgun. But a particularly large and vicious dog ran straight for Micah. Maybe it could sense his hatred – his secret fear – and see that his legs and arms locked up.

The moment before the dog reached him the creature turned into an explosion of gore.

Some of the blood splattered into Micah's face, so when he could breathe again, he got some in his mouth. When he furiously wiped at it, he saw Marvin reloading his shotgun and turning the barrel back towards the house. Humiliation, relief and a sense of camaraderie welled up in him, just like it felt like whenever Amos had saved his hide.

"Shoot them!" the old man at the porch called, even as he backed inside.

Marvin threw an arm forward in a similar command, clear without words. Bullets sliced from the porch and into the forest, quickly answered in the same fashion, albeit more precise from the O'Driscoll Boys (and Micah).

Smoke hung between them like a magical garden decoration. Giggles bubbled out from Micah's throat. It was magical to be out shooting after so much calmness.

Though the year had ended with a snowstorm, January had been a dry sort of cold. The forest was no different, the tree bark crackling as bullets hit it rather than holding on like wet bark tended to do. It sounded like firewood. Cozy. Despite the danger, Micah risked glancing at the men around him, cataloguing who could shoot and who couldn't. 

Marvin was alright. He didn't waste shells, but when he hit an enemy, his mouth curled into a smirk. Hill was the best gun in the crew aside from Micah, taking his time lining up a shot, but when he did, someone always fell. As Micah had guessed by their earlier handling of their revolvers, Pudgy and Skinny kind of sucked, holding their guns horizontally instead of vertically, which had no practical benefit at all, other than them looking slightly cool.

While Micah was busy analyzing the others, Daniel aimed at his head with a humorless sneer, only turning the gun away when Micah's reflexes allowed him to catch the movement in the corner of his eye. That piece of shit had it out for him! He kept an eye on him even as he also had to seek cover from their assailants and remain aware that he was proving his own worth to the crew. 

There was one more crew member on the other side of the house, nicknamed Toothpick.

Back when Micah had entered the stable, he'd been in the shadows, a tall, thin and bald man with round eyeglasses and a black goatee, riding a gray mare. The glasses made him hard to read when they caught the light, like after the ride, when they had dismounted a small distance from the house. While tying a large barrel of moonshine to his wiry but considerably strong back, Toothpick paused beside Micah, making him feel weirdly slimy.

"What do you want?" 

"Oh nothing, really. Just admiring Colm's taste, that's all."

"Yeah. Not everyone can fuck their way to the top,"   Daniel said, breaking the staring contest between them. Micah snarled at the implication, lighting himself a smoke and breathing like a dragon. Like a shitty copycat, Daniel did the same thing. 

"That puts you two boys in the same boat, doesn't it? One boy for each brother. Oh, I like our bosses, I really, really do." 

And with that, Toothpick had left the small group of men, while Marvin began giving orders.

Orders to attack the house at the front, drawing the attention to it, while Toothpick "fixed some stuff" in the back.  

Or, rather, on top of it. Toothpick was almost invisible against the night sky, looking like a second, thinner chimney, making his way across the roof. Like an evil Santa Claus. Micah was too busy shooting to laugh at his own joke. He kept glancing up though.

Toothpick was untying the barrel from his back, making sure the highly flammable liquid ran down on both sides of the roof, first the opposite and then to the direction where the men were standing. The shots from there grew distracted, as something more strongly smelling than rain drizzled over them. Quickly, Toothpick climbed on top of the chimney itself, raising his arm in a slow wave before ending it by striking a match.  

As it fell, so did he, jumping down into the chimney while the roof erupted in flames. 

One of the men, who'd gotten moonshine right into his face, erupted similarly.

As they bathed in orange light, their lives became shadows. The panicked movements and shouts made them easy targets. The old man in the pajamas got hit in the leg, and once their boss was out, some of the few remaining men tried to escape. They held their arms above their heads as they backed to the side of the house, mouth forming words like please don't shoot, which fell to deaf ears.

"We'll leave no survivors,"   Marvin had ordered, "except one."

"Bastards!" the old man in the pajamas cried out, limping towards them, until Marvin blew away the foot that wasn't hurt. When he fell to the grass, screaming, Marvin walked over. He put his boot down on top of the man's upper back to force his face into the grass.

"It's over," he said. "You lost."

Damn it,   Micah thought helplessly, he's kinda cool.

And then Marvin turned to his crew approaching him from the forest, holstering their guns and some equipping their melee weapons, looking as hungry as Micah felt. He inclined his head at them, seeing their violence, directing it.

"Take what you can but avoid the upper floor. The fire will eat through it quick. Go!" 

Pudgy and Skinny ran. Daniel and Micah walked. Hill went back towards the forest where they'd come, probably off to retrieve their horses and hitch them closer to the house. Marvin stood outside, but he tended to the old man's wounds and moved him into a position so he could watch his home being robbed while burning to the ground. It was beautifully chaotic.

Micah had burned down houses after robbing them but never robbed a house while it was burning down. Luckily, he did like new experiences, or he wouldn't be out here.

 

There was a strange creaking from upstairs, like a giant continuously rubbing their ass in a squeaky padded chair one last time before going away forever. 

Similarly to the outside, the interior had a cabin style. The hallway was lit with torchlight, but in the rest of the rooms one needed lanterns: a big dining and leisure hall, a kitchen, many small rooms for storage or for servants, and a built-in toolshed with a door leading to the back of the house. It smelled like pencil shavings and old fur. Maybe the geezer had been meaning to spend his retirement here, when not showing up at The Flying Dutchman, demanding his daughter. Maybe he'd built the house to be closer to her and gotten too close.

It was every man for himself. Pudgy and Skinny went straight for the dining room and the display cabinets, uncaring if the glass doors got shattered by the force they used to open them. They helped themselves to things like fancy alcohol, silverware and heirloom decor plates. None of the cousins spared Micah a second glance. Daniel was nowhere to be seen.

Micah was a bit distracted, walking towards the fireplace, looking for Toothpick. But next to it was an interesting, big terrestrial globe in shades of brown. He stopped to run his hands across the globe, absorbing the names of places that meant nothing to him, before he found a mechanism and wrenched off the top part, revealing the globe to be a secret liqueur cabinet. 

"Nice one, Micah!" Skinny said.

Micah waved at him, letting the cousins fill their bags while he studied the fireplace, as had been his original intent. This wasn't about the money for him. Not even about the alcohol. This was about proving himself to the crew and them proving themselves to him. So far, he had gained a degree of insight into everyone except Toothpick.

He lifted his lantern. Soot had exploded outwards.

He followed the black footprints leading into the hallway.

The sound of burning was stronger out there, coming from the open staircase, and it wouldn't be too long until the ceiling would collapse. He thought he saw a movement in the corner of his eye and raised his pistol, but didn't see anything more.

The footprints led him to a closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood, and he swore he heard a feminine voice, sounding hushed and terrified. Carefully, he opened the door.

There were flickering candles on the sides of what looked like servants' cramped dining quarters, with a heaving body sprawled over a narrow table, long brown hair and arms hanging over the edge. The hands were strangely crooked. Terrified mumbling came from under the hair. God was mentioned among an onslaught of words. Was she praying?

Micah startled when a blackened creature moved in from the side, grabbing his revolver and holding it upwards, nearly making him set it off. Micah saw himself mirrored in the finger-wiped areas of Toothpick's glasses, his own face pale and tight-lipped where Toothpick grinned in a flash of pink and white among black soot.

"Go play somewhere else. This isn't for you." 

As Toothpick closed the door carefully, Micah saw the body stir, and realized the hands looked crooked because they were halfway cut off the wrists.

The door shutting in his face made him flinch. A wave of nausea followed. He shoved the bandana down and struggled with understanding why Toothpick's actions got to him as much as they did. He'd seen people tortured before. Hell, he'd helped his father interrogate folks. And Colm had probably done far worse things. Micah shook his head, not wanting to think about it. Whatever Toothpick was doing wasn't about him, so why care?

He stomped off towards the built-in toolshed at the back of the house. He tipped over boxes but found nothing of interest except a particular smell of rancid oil. When he looked up, he discovered that the shelves held a horrendous collection of stuffed birds. Their colors, even if they had once been bright and exotic, were faded. They had evidence of a hobbyist's clumsy enthusiasm. The eyes were replaced by the same black beads, too large for most of the birds, giving them a creepily hungry look.

He heard loud cracks from the outside and the above, and decided it was about time to get out of the house. He tested the door to the back porch and garden, but it was locked ... and seemingly bolted from the outside?

Behind him in the hallway, floorboards creaked. At first his stomach dropped, thinking it was Toothpick, but he didn't feel much calmer seeing it was Daniel. 

"Sorry about this, I got orders," Daniel said with far too much joy, and then he shut the door and bolted it with a loud thud, locking Micah in the toolshed.

He was on it a second too late, beating his fists against the thick wood. 

"You yellow-bellied fuck!" 

He lost himself completely in the anger and the yelling, and didn't know for how long he punched and kicked at the door, using a chair and a steel bucket to slam into it at some point.

When he was done gasping for breath, he heard the fire begin to crackle all around him, knowing that it was making its way inside. There were no windows to break through. He had to switch tactics if he wanted to survive.

"Hey! In here! Anyone ..."

His voice was getting scratchy already. He put his bandana back on, crouching down to avoid the smoke. He looked around, desperate for something he could use. The black eyes of the stuffed birds gazed at him, unhelpful, waiting for him to join them in death.

Still crouching, he reached out for anything to use and found a couple of bottles of chemicals used for the stuffing. He sniffed some of them, and he trusted his nose enough to find some sort of alcohol. He stuffed his bandana into the chosen bottle. Sliding out his belt from his pants (that stayed up without it, unlike last year), he used it to wrap the bottle of alcohol around the door handle. Then he lit the bandana, hoping it was dry enough. 

"Shit!" 

He thought it exploded too quickly, but it was a piece of the ceiling falling down, a plank that could've sliced through him hadn't he thrown himself to the side. He hissed at the impact, then shouted as loud noise and hot air erupted, the bottle of alcohol having exploded right afterwards. Despite more planks falling and blocking his path through the room, he saw that only some chunks of the door had been broken open, making him wonder if the alcohol had made up a lesser percentage of the bottle than he'd presumed. Maybe getting pampered had dulled his senses. It was an unnerving thought even amid the panic.

He tried to kick his way through the fallen planks. He also tried to shout for help when he wasn't coughing. He made it to the door before he sank to his knees. He hated coughing, just like he hated cramps or crying, feeling like his body was betraying his mind.

"Bell? Bell, you in there?" 

It was Marvin's voice. Micah blinked tears out of his eyes and tried to shout back, barely managing to wave his hand in front of the holes in the door. 

"Step away from the door, you hear?" 

Micah backed away just in time for it to break apart. Marvin, shoulder first, breaking the wood apart like a superhuman force. Grimacing, he looked even uglier, and Micah had never seen something as pretty in his entire life: the promise of survival, in the expression set on him.

Marvin lifted Micah up like he weighted nothing. He carried him a few steps before throwing him over the back porch in the motion of a battering ram, landing on his stomach in a patch of earth, knocking the little air he had left out of his lungs. 

His sight was so blurred Marvin looked like a demon, hell blazing behind him, boots cracking open the earth; the blackened floorboards of the porch, unable to hold his weight. Micah coughed too much to see him approach further, and he began clawing at his throat. 

Then there was a new pair of hands on him, guiding his head up in order to help him drink from a bottle of water.  

"That's it. Good boy. Like a babe at the tit." 

Micah tried to glare at Toothpick despite sucking desperately on the water bottle.

His throat hurt as water ran through it, but stronger than the hurt was the fear of never being able to breathe or drink without pain. Toothpick hummed and moved closer. Micah tried to shove him off but whined when the water was pulled away from him.

"Not too much, or you're gonna be sick. You don't wanna be sick, do you? Especially not all over me."

Toothpick wiped Micah's face with a handkerchief, which was absurd, because his own face was still so sooty. 

"What happened?" Marvin asked, brushing off pieces of soot, wood splinters and bird feathers from his coat.

Micah tried to speak, but it only came out as a hacking noise.

Toothpick crouched beside him, seemingly looking for something. He dragged a random carrot up from the ground, eating it without brushing the dirt off or plucking off the roots.

Attempting to ignore him and his strange behavior, Micah moved into a crawl, glaring up at the men who were staring down at him. Skinny and Pudgy, Hill, and … Micah took one look at a blank-faced Daniel before reaching for his revolvers.

He would've shot him hadn't Toothpick thrown himself on top of him, holding him down, crushing the violence out of him. Micah tried to shout but nothing came out but a wheeze. Toothpick patted his back as if he was choking instead of hurting from mouthfuls of smoke.

The damn creep was still chewing on the carrot.

"What's that about?" Marvin asked Daniel, who shrugged. "You don't know why he's trying to kill you?"

"Not a clue."

The disbelief was clear in Marvin's stance. "I don't look kindly upon infighting."

"Maybe it isn't infighting." Daniel lit himself a cigarette. Hadn't the other men been there, Micah knew he would've blown smoke in his face. He was that sort of person. "Maybe there are greater forces among us than you realize, old man."

"Ooh, a hidden power struggle! How exciting," Toothpick hissed into Micah's ear, making him shiver, before he flinched at the sound of the carrot being bitten into.

"Don't hide behind big words, little guy," Hill said. It was the first time Micah had heard him speak. He had a melodious voice, making his words more cutting, "If it's not Owen or Colm giving the orders, it doesn't count. And if the kid had burned to a crisp, Colm wouldn't have been too happy."

"He wouldn't give a shit! He didn't care about Anton, remember?" 

With a strange new force filling him, Micah finally managed to sneak out from underneath Toothpick, standing up on shaking legs. 

"It's bad luck to speak of the dead," Marvin said, looking Micah up and down as if seeing someone else, expression somber.

"Especially those that deserved to die," Daniel added sullenly, but he scowled harder when Micah took another step towards him.

Like crooked mirrors, they reached for their holsters. One more second and they'd be locked in a standoff. 

Marvin grabbed Micah's arm, and glared at Daniel, before turning back to Micah.

"Can you ride on your own?" 

Micah nodded, but the mere motion of moving his head down tickled his windpipe, and so his voice was scattered in wretched noises once more. Marvin seemed to be waiting for the coughing attack to subside when the Toothpick touched Micah's other arm, interlocking them more intimately than how Marvin held him. It was humiliating, the two men walking him towards the horses like a sickly old man.

Fourteen exhaled and greeted him more like an acquaintance than a master, backing away, which might've been the fire smoke or the chunks of a dead dog permeating his clothes. Trying to get up on the horse, Micah had another coughing fit. If this was his chance to show off his resilience and worth, Daniel had ruined it. Bitterness grew within him.

"The boy can ride with me," Toothpick suggested. 

"Not a chance," Marvin said, voice flat where Toothpick sounded bright.

"Well, technically, you're not my boss. I just tagged along because I like fire!"

When Marvin just stared him down, he stood still for a couple of seconds, until he cackled.

"I'm sorry, old pal. The rebellious nature of the young is infecting me. He'll ride with you." 

Marvin sighed. Then he whistled. His horse was a calm Shire who could hold them both. Marvin climbed up first, and Micah followed, helped by Toothpick, who shoved him upwards by holding the back of his thighs and knees and chuckled when Micah kicked at him. It wasn't comfortable sitting behind Marvin, bouncing on the animal's rump, but at least the bruises back there were gone.

"Hold on tight," Marvin said, manhandling Micah's arms around his waist, while they rode up ahead to face the others. "We're going back. Most of you have done a decent job tonight. Drop off the loot near the stable, then we'll go have a drink. Expect payment by tomorrow. If I figure you're holding on to stuff that should've gone to sorting, I'll cut off a finger. Okay?" 

"Yes, sir," came from the men with varying levels of enthusiasm, and as a bitter cough from Micah.

He turned around to watch the house burn and saw the man lying in the garden as he cried and bled. Maybe he could drag himself to the main road and hope someone would help him. Maybe he would prefer to die out here. Such a display of despair was fascinating to Micah in the way a pit of snakes could be fascinating.

But when he tilted his head to the side in order to contemplate the moment, he began coughing again.

Hadn't it been for Daniel, whose glare never faltered where he rode behind Micah, he might've been interested in becoming a part of this crew. 

Notes:

Oof, it feels risky introducing so many OCs at once, but I hope they were alright! Originally I was going to have the O'Driscolls remain a faceless mass. Now I kind of want to include Kieran later on when he's not a tween, and write a darker-than-the-norm take on his character or else he won't survive in this fic 😎

Chapter 17: Suspiria

Summary:

Micah confronts his would-be-killer in the stable.

Afterwards he seeks out help from the man in the attic rather than the one in the basement.

Notes:

Warning: Torture, gore, Colm's brother being creepy

Chapter title song is by Goblin. (I was originally going to go with D.W.S.O.B. by The Electric Hellfire Club, but then I'd end up using the whole Gummo soundtrack, because it's what I imagine is Micah's favorite film if he was a movie snob. Colm would probably enjoy Sátántangó, and put it on saying, "Cats die here too," neglecting to mention that it's seven hours long. The Drisbell movie nights would be 90% bickering.)

Edit: Thank you to a nice friend who suggested the color of Owen's revolver (similar to Dutch's but without the gold), and who is also the mastermind who made me add white gloves to his character design later on 💜

The herbal drink was golden in color, with a good portion of whiskey, pieces of dried ginger, and chunks of honey that hadn't quite dissolved. It soothed his throat as Micah gulped it down before the taste materialized. He sat the cup back down on the bar counter with an, "Yeeesh," so disgusted he didn't realize he'd gotten some of his voice back. 

"It's not supposed to taste good," Marvin grumbled from Micah's left side, the bar stool creaking and threatening to give out under his weight.

"But it did help, didn't it?" Hill said from Micah's right side, nursing a beer.

Dark blue light filtered into the saloon of the Flying Dutchman. It was five in the morning. The space was almost abandoned except for a few drunks, passed out or about to pass out. Hill had served the three of them, knowing where they kept the beer and the ingredients for the shitty herbal drink. Pudgy and Skinny had gone straight to bed. Toothpick cited urgent business, took some cocaine and galloped away from the saloon. Daniel stayed out in the stable, saying something about his horse needing brushing.  

"So," Marvin said. "Million-dollar question. Did he try to kill you or not?" 

"He locked me in," Micah answered hoarsely, then took another sip. It tasted terribly, but it did help.

"Door was barricaded from the outside, so he must've planned it."

"Guy likes laying traps," Hill said with the same distaste as he'd had when speaking to Daniel directly.

At hearing his suspicion confirmed, Micah rose to go pummel the asshole in the stable, before Marvin grabbed the back of his coat and lifted him back on to the bar stool. Hill tried to hide his laughter behind his beer, until Micah took the bottle from under his nose and took a swig. There wasn't much left, and when he slammed the bottle back down, Hill only raised a brow. 

"Did my spit taste good, Bell?" 

"Tastes about as good as you look, H-" The last part was strained until the exhale of a letter vanished into coughs.

Hill looked more pleased than expected and went behind the counter to mix some more of that terrible drink, readying a flask of it. Micah sneered at him the whole time, but didn't say anything, watching his movements with a little less suspicion than last time he prepared it.

He was still simmering with anger and embarrassment on how the outing had ended. When he tried to light a smoke, Marvin plucked it out of his fingers and threw it away. Micah stared at him, then did it again, only for Marvin to repeat his own actions, too.

"They're bad for your throat when it's like this. Oh, come on ..." 

For a third time, Micah tried to take a cigarette, only for Marvin to snatch the whole pack from him. The struggle was so brief it couldn't be called a fight, more like Micah trying to withdraw and Marvin carefully making it impossible and pocketing the pack.

"Listen, kid. You did alright. Especially with shooting. You're - "

"Don't," Micah said.

Marvin frowned, then shrugged as he looked away.

Micah didn't want Marvin's sympathy, pity, or misplaced compliments. He knew the night hadn't gone as it should've. Could taste it every time he breathed or tried to speak. Could smell it on his own skin, the messes of soot and animal gore. Could feel it in the way his pants hung lower due to the lack of belt, and how his beautiful leather coat had been scraped up and covered in embers, burnt in some places, which he disliked intensely.

While cutting dried ginger, Hill watched Micah with interest, and said nothing until Marvin's frown was broken by a yawn.

"I'll follow him downstairs, sir. You just get to bed."

"Yes, mooom," Marvin said in a bizarre bit of camaraderie that had Micah blinking until Hill gave the larger man the middle finger, making him lift his arms in surrender as he wandered off. 

Hill took his time finishing pouring the drink into the flask, and Micah wondered if it was perfectionism or more of that bizarre camaraderie. There were no attempts at conversation. The only real exchange was when Hill poured in the alcohol, and said, "Say stop," which Micah took as a personal challenge, causing the flask to be filled to the brim. Micah bent forward and slurped up the top of it before screwing the lid on.

Hill chuckled, then gestured at them to leave. They walked to the hallway, and Micah felt calm until he saw the stairwell, leading down to Colm. It was unreal, seeing the black door down there, the place he'd been for weeks.

"I assume you can walk the last few steps yourself?" Hill asked.

Micah nodded. He took a step down, before his body froze up.

What was he going to say to Colm? That there was some kind of conspiracy against him, or that he'd just pissed off one of the boys bad enough for them to want him dead? That Marvin had to risk his life to save Micah's? Colm wouldn't kill him for it, and he might not even chastise him, but he might allude to the thing he had said before, that Micah was too young for this, or had no other use than in Colm's bed. It ate at him.

"Huh," Hill said, stretching his arms over his head, making a show of walking away. "I think Daniel's still in the stable. Strange. Like he's waiting for something. Or someone."

Micah straightened slightly.

Hill mumbled, "Night," before his shuffling footsteps went towards one of the doors, closing it a little too loudly, because Micah had already read him to be very quiet when he wanted to. That stuff with Daniel was clearly bait, but damned if Micah didn't get curious.

Slowly, he placed the flask down on the step.

Whether it had been an urging from Hill or not, Micah turned on his heel, ran back up and headed towards the stable. When outside on the muddied porch, he saw a human figure in the low light inside the wooden structure, one of the shadowed arms extending into a blade. 

It seemed like Daniel wanted the fight as much as Micah did. 

Taking out his new Bowie knife with one hand, he reached into his pocket with the other, crushing the rock candy that Colm had given him to a sugary dust.

 

As soon as Micah put his boot inside the stable, he heard a mechanism get loose somewhere above his head. His training saved him: allowing him to shove himself forward only for a bucket filled with rocks to swing by and crash into the other side of the wall. 

The rocks spilled out like his brains would've done hadn't he been quick enough. Some of the horses whinnied or changed positions inside their booths, but most of them acted rather calmly, outlaw horses as they were. The light inside the stable came from two torches on two wooden columns, creating what looked vaguely like an hourglass of golden hay on the floor. 

Micah remained kneeling, extending his arm so his knife pointed into darkness behind the circle of light, pointing it at his adversary. This is the second time you failed at killing me, asshole. He cleared his throat but saved his words.

Daniel was leaning on the wall there, arms crossed, his own knife pointed out where the handle was resting on his elbow. 

"Didn't even wash the blood off, did you? You're disgusting. No wonder Colm likes you."

Micah cracked his neck around and around. When he rose, it remained turned to the side, like he was hypnotized by the thought of his upcoming vengeance. His mind quieted, ready to erupt in crimson actions rather than crimson thoughts, but the slow walk led to abstract fantasies like blood blooming among the hay in his steps. He licked the inside of his mouth, and he caught the spiciness left after the herbal drink, but he didn't find his voice, not yet. Oh well. He wouldn't need to say much when he gutted the bastard.

And said bastard was moving into an attack stance like a mirror edging towards him.

"Why so quiet? I don't think the smoke ruined your throat more than he's been doing."

Micah showed his teeth. The two of them moved into the hourglass of light on the inside of the two wooden columns. The black of horse eyes shone where they were watching them. Strangely gentle, sensitive to moods, them being prey animals and all that. Nothing like Micah and Daniel, as they began to circle each other.

Like in the more innocent knife game between them, where the point of the game had been reversed, Micah was the first to move, with three precise slashes against the other man. It was harder hitting another person's flesh rather than avoiding one's own, but the principle was the same. Cut. Slash. Hack. Or more important than that, dodge and duck and deflect; the latter, only if the opportunity presented itself. 

And if one was clever about it: scream in the opponent - Daniel's - face and kick him away. But Micah had no voice, and so the trick ended up not being as effective as usual, leaving him with his first cut across the shoulder, opening up the sleeve of his coat. It stung. But not as much as Daniel stung, probably, already covered in three wide cuts from Micah's knife.

"Invert," Daniel said as he tried to return the favor.

Micah dodged with a sidestep.

It was dangerous. It was wonderful. If he could love, he loved knives, so quick and deadly and near silent. Holding a blade was like holding his own life in his hand, because if he lost it, he lost his life. As he deflected a blow by elbowing Daniel in the chest, he thought of Colm in a flash of joy, before he drove the blade into Daniel's thigh and twisted before jumping back.

Daniel now had cuts on his face, his chest, his arms, and the newest and largest one on his thigh. All those holes – or smiles – were draining his body steadily and surely. He looked better than he'd ever done, now that he was closer to dying than Micah was.

Maybe if he were an honorable guy, Micah would've finished the fight without tricks. As the wound on his shoulder began to bleed, he couldn't help being clever instead.

He reached into his pocket and grabbed a handful of the pulverized rock candy. 

Like a sweet but cruel sandman, he threw it into Daniel's eyes.

The moment the other yelled and reached upwards, Micah grabbed his wrist with his free hand, dragging him forward like a dancer, driving his Bowie knife deep into Daniel's gut.

The losing knife fell to the ground.

Micah moved his own, twisting and twisting and twisting, buried in Daniel's stomach while he slapped a hand in front of Daniel's mouth. The man fell to his knees, and then backwards. Micah followed him all the way to the ground, settling on top of him, grabbing the skin around his lips rather than to try to close his jaw.

Daniel's screams came out like a wretched hum. Micah held on.

Was he hard? Probably. Was this erotic? Yeah.

Daniel had gone to a place beyond pain, and Micah wanted him there, both because he did not want to not alert the saloon, and because he liked bringing others to that place.

The horses kept watching them, not spooked enough to make a ruckus.

There was not enough conscious thought left for Daniel to bite: because Micah kept shoving the knife around, making ground meat of the organs there, surprisingly easy. Despite having gone through countless whetstones, he'd never had a knife as sharp as this. There seemed to be a reason it was put on display beside slaughterer knives in the stores.

Micah withdrew his knife from Daniel's stomach with a wet gurgle, like the flesh on the sides of the cut were lips that didn't want to let go. It looked like a kid's drawing on Daniel's stomach if the crayon was red and the kid got bored halfway through drawing a big smile.

Micah smiled back at the wound. He felt mad with power. He could make Daniel do whatever the hell he wanted. Find out why he tried to kill him. Find out who had sent him. And ... 

He raised his eyes to Daniel's face, sweaty underneath his palm. 

"Tell me who Anton was," he said close to Daniel's ear, so he didn't have to strain his voice.

Something about saying that name out loud, after keeping it locked inside for so long, resulted in a burst of violent need. Micah brought his knife down again, and for the first time in his life he wished the O'Driscolls had a kennel, because the stuff beneath his gory hands looked a bit like fresh rolls of strange sausages. He'd never been the best at interrogation. He had watched his father question men, but considering the Bell way was to never leave a witness regardless of age and sex and whatever else, the interrogated didn't last. Old habits die hard. Beneath him, Daniel was wheezing, only the white of his eyes visible. Yeah, he wouldn't last. Maybe it wasn't all that wise to stab someone right after asking a question, without waiting for the answer? Or maybe it wasn't too late.

"Come on, now," Micah muttered. "Tell me who Anton was. Come on ..." 

"Colm's ... second in command," Daniel whispered. 

"What he'd look like?" This doesn't matter, but he couldn't help it. "Like me?" 

"N-No. Like ... Like ... Marvin." 

"Really?" Micah laughed, which caused a vibration to the knife that had Daniel whimpering. Those noises gave him a sadistic glee because they were truly pathetic, and it was easier to focus on the glee than the slight relief. "How did he die?"

"T-To-torture. Dunno ... details."

Micah was a little disappointed, but at least it checked out. "Why did he die?" 

Something resistant flashed in Daniel's eyes. Micah took hold of the handle with both hands and pushed the blade down until he was certain it hit the ground on the other side of Daniel.

The gurgle sounded like someone's last words: "He betrayed us!"

"Anton betrayed the O'Driscolls?" Micah asked.

A nod, barely there. 

The adrenaline after the fight was fading, allowing the relief to grow stronger.

Micah wasn't a traitor. And he never would be one. So, he wouldn't give Colm the chance to end him like Anton. It should calm him did. It did, to a point.

He sat back on his hunches, wiping the blood off the blade on Daniel's coat.

And then he paled. Anton had been such a huge thing in his mind that he'd almost forgotten the exchange after Marvin saved him from the burning house, too busy coughing and being creeped out by Toothpick. He wiped some sweat - or blood? - away from his forehead with the sleeve of his coat. He had acted as if who had tried to kill him mattered less than any reason that could lead to Colm wanting to do so in the future. Fuck.

"Wait. Wait, who made you try to kill me? You said it wasn't Colm or Owen." 

Daniel stared up in the ceiling. Life was leaving his eyes. Micah noticed the black blood that started oozing out from the wounds on his stomach. He had accidentally hit Daniel's liver. There would be no saving him now.

"Shit," Micah said, not fascinated this time. "Wait, no ... Ah, damn it!"

He put the knife back into his boot and became more aware of the mess he'd created, a little too messy to be called a starfish of gore, but not too far off. While most of the snow had melted around the stable and the saloon, it would be stupid dragging the body out of here. 

Micah settled on dragging Daniel by his ratty brown hair farther into the stable, towards a large pile of hay. He left marks of blood after him. While it had felt cool to drive the knife right through the body, it hadn't been wise to create such obvious evidence of the kill.

Feeling less like a professional hitman and more like a stable boy with advanced syphilis, he tried to hide the body among the hay, before taking a chunk of the latter and spreading it about on the floor to cover the tracks left in the middle of the building. They were golden like the drink he'd been served, and while they both could soothe, they did not vanquish his problems.

The horses watched him walk out of their abode, no judgement in the blackness of their eyes.

Walking across the dirt path and into the saloon, he felt more and more lost. He'd done a sloppy job, getting too caught up in his emotions, not asking the questions in the right order. His father would beat him if he'd seen him. Even lawmen might laugh. Best not ponder what Colm would do, considering how renowned he was for being good at torture, where Micah had failed. Hell, maybe Colm had been the one to torture Anton? Micah didn't know if it was the chill outside or the chill of his thoughts that made him shudder.

He didn't want to go down there. Didn't want to be chided like a dog. Told that he'd been reckless, childish and in the wrong to kill Daniel, who had more of a rank among the O'Driscolls than Micah did, even if he was under Colm's protection as long as he kept his jaw slack. Thinking about it, Micah shut it to the point of feeling pain shoot through the roots of his teeth. His skin felt dry and stretched tight across his skull. He was overtired. And there was something else to, underneath the mess of his mind.

He barely managed to consider it, because it was coiled up like a pit of snakes underneath the rock of reality.

(Was he a Bell, or was moving closer to becoming an O'Driscoll? Was staying a Bell, betraying Colm? Was staying with Colm, betraying his heritage? Was actively considering all of this shit betraying himself, his will to gain wings, and fly above questions like these?)

Micah shook his head. The moment of dizziness served as a distraction of all the things simmering deep within him, taking him back into the more present mess. Inhaling the scent of the blood and soot all over him, he considered one last time to go down to the basement, wrapping himself in the things that Colm gave to him. He thought about the man grabbing the back of his neck and shuddered again, not even bothering to pretend it was the temperature around him and not the memory of those long, harsh fingers. But why not shake those ghostly fingers off himself, and go straight to the top? Why not show Colm that he wasn't a fledging, a bedwarmer or an expandable O'Driscoll Boy, but a power in his own right? 

He stepped backwards, and then a little to the side, tilting his head up as if staring at the endlessness of the night sky when all he saw was a muggy wooden ceiling. 

Owen had, after all, invited him to his room on the upper floor. 

With a trembling smile, Micah ascended the stairs. 

 

The man guarding Owen's rooms looked like someone chosen for their looks and not their guts. He smelled like cherry cologne, and he was clean-shaven, with a purple silk handkerchief around his scrawny neck. It took almost no effort at all, intimidating him.

Micah just had to step into the light and expose the filth he was covered in.

"Owen sent for me."

"Y-You?"

"Mhm. I didn't even need to get Red to," he looked the man over, "shave me. You know?"

The guard flinched. And then he nodded and went over to the door behind him, knocking, pressing his ear the wood and nodding as if he responded to something, opening it a crack. 

"Whatever is it now?" said Owen from somewhere inside.

"There's a boy here. Says you sent for him."

"Who on earth …?"

Micah told the guard his name, and when the guard repeated it, he opened the door for Micah after a few moments.

Close to him the cologne was strong, but in the room, it smelled intensely and was more complex, though just as sweet. If the saloon itself consisted of the tired old wood that was typical to most saloons, this room was like a bedroom taken out of a stereotypical rich man's mansion. Micah recognized the style, because he'd robbed places like this a few times, scanning their lavishness for value and finding a whole lot of useless stuff.

Confectionary bags and what looked like toys, model ships, painted plates, and a collection of children's books. The wallpaper, the curtains, and bedsheets were flush with purple and gold flower patterns. This was the source of Colm's candied gifts, and it stank of it. 

"Oh, good morning, little Micah."

There was so much stuff and so many colors that it took a moment for Micah to spot Owen.

Lying among a horde of fluffy pillows, with what looked like a mask of pink cream and cucumber slices on his eyelids, Owen was reclining in bed. He only turned up one of the cucumber slices to look at Micah, then put it down again, which was a bad move.

"Hello," Micah rasped. "Anton," he added, clearing his throat, "I need to ... I need to know."

"Ah, so quick to the point! But I only have about twenty minutes left of my necessary restoration routine, and then we'll have all morning to ourselves."

One of the two fluffy pillows in the crooks of Owen's elbows yawned. Micah realized they were in fact two longhaired white cats. Owen stroked both cats at the same time when he spoke again.

"My my, I wonder what my darling little brother thinks of this."

"He doesn't know," was what Micah tried to say, but mostly coughed instead.

"God, your voice sounds terrible! Colm -" and there it was again, that odd pronunciation, Colom, " - really is insatiable … Go, my dove, go get yourself a glass of wine. It'll wake you up and calm you down at the same time. Top shelf stuff, I promise."

It annoyed Micah that Owen implied the same things that Daniel had done. He knew the O'Driscoll Boys must've gossiped about him like hens, but he didn't have to like it. However, he did walk to the wine cabinet, finding an expensive bottle he otherwise would've sold to the highest paying fence. He cracked it open with his teeth and drank from the top. Owen, who had removed one of the cucumber slices, shook his head with a sad smile.  

"Anton," Micah repeated. 

"You're as insatiable as him! But unlike him, I'm sure you can be taught. As an aperitif of our upcoming evening, I'll demand a little sacrifice from you." A dramatic pause. "You have to call me Uncle Owen."

Micah nearly choked on the wine. 

Owen kept on stroking the cats. 

"There now. I know it might sound lewd, but I truly see myself as a mentor in the lives of my boys." A pause, and then he drawled, "Not a father, by goodness no, I am only a father to my children worn in wedlock. But as a helpful older man." A longer, more dramatic pause, before his voice darkened, "Call me Uncle Owen, or you'll get no answers from me."

Micah drank more wine. The rush of alcohol helped a little, dimming his true reaction. He slipped into the usual blankness. It still felt worse than pulling needles from his skin.

"Uncle Owen."

"Good! That's very good. Now, ask me about Anton. Speak softly."

"Tell me about Anton, Uncle Owen."

"No please? We'll have to work on your manners, but I'll let it go, as I know Colm is lenient with the manners of the ones he keeps close … Well …" A deep breath. "Anton used to be Colm's right-hand man. They met when one was a poor, lost boy, and my brother was at the cusp of manhood, mean already back then. Very mean. The rumors say he kept him in a shed for a few weeks, and afterwards, he was blindly devoted. For years. Or so it seemed, anyway."

"I know."

"Oh? Did Colm tell you that?"

"Yes, Uncle Owen," Micah lied.

"He must truly be over it, then. Well. It was my son who saw Anton, speaking to a certain woman that have sought to make things very difficult for our ... organization. Theodore always respected Anton, who had been around him since his uncle started dragging him everywhere as a boy, so Theo must've felt so sad! And yet, like the good son he is, he immediately came to us with the information. Do you want to know what Colm said?" 

Owen grinned so wide the facial mask got cracks, a reversal of Red's smiles, who only ever cracked lipstick and not her entire face. 

"He said, Good riddance. Imagine that, Anton was Colm's dog for two decades, and my brother discovers this boy is a rat, and says good riddance. And then, instead of putting him down himself as any respectable dog owner would do, he let our worst boys torture Anton to death. I'm told they used rats. Actual rats. To fit the story, and all that."

Not insects? Rats? Micah was familiar with both creatures, and he imagined a pit of the latter, eating a face that he had never seen, yet imagined as similar to his own. 

"All men are romantics. Except Colm, perhaps. He's the most unromantic man I know."

Something changed in Owen's gaze, and he scowled in the direction of the books in the room.

"He might appear intimidating, but at his core, he is an uncivilized, childish and awkward man. He's always associated with criminals so he can look like a genius among them. As a child, he struggled to make friends. Not that there were that many people to befriend in our hometown, our slice of heaven, but the point remains. I think he slipped up, letting Anton get away with too much, getting too fixated on his own projects. He doesn't really care about plans as much as projects, you see. If you stay with him, he will get you killed one way or another. Me however … Like I said, I'll treat you like an angel. One that's fallen into my lap, just begging for me to help him even if he can't sing it for me just yet."

Micah was trying to wrap his head around Owen's monologues. They were as dense as the interior of the room and the complexities of the wine. It was difficult to tell what information was worthwhile and what wasn't. Even if he believed in it, his truth was colored by his present experience, and Owen was a colorful man in a colorful room. 

"Yes. I've given you what you asked for. I rather think I'd like you in my bed, now."

Micah took a step forward, though he had no plans to join him in bed.

Like the window of a ship, Owen lifted the second cucumber slice. And then he startled, only now seeing all the blood on him. The cats peeped in surprise and ran off and under the bed.

"What the bloody fuck – "

Putting one dirty boot in the bed, Micah touched the handle of his Bowie knife.

"One more threat and I'll give you a bloody fuck, Uncle Owen." 

But Owen did not speak. He just pointed a revolver at Micah. 

The speed surprised him. In usual circumstances, he would've been quicker on the draw, but he had fallen too much in love with the knife. And Owen was surprisingly competent. The handle of his revolver was an opalescent white, free of ornamentations, like his relationship with murder was ... pure?

"Get out," Owen said with a mix of anger and unease, in that way that Micah knew was actually dangerous, more likely to pull the trigger than a witness who wasn't in fully in control of themselves. 

Micah was careful when walking backwards. A slightly mad smile hung by his lips. He put the bottle of wine down on the floor. He used the last bit of moisture he had in his throat, not bettered by the wine, to get the last word. 

"Thanks for the information. You've been very ... ah, helpful."

And then he exited the room and closed the door behind him.

All the temperature and security and damn coolness ran out of him. When his back hit the door, he heard his own breathing pick up. It was too much. Too much happening, too much information, too much sleeplessness.  

The guard was staring at him. With pity? No, sympathy. An almost flat look that could only be colored by one's experience. Pity, in comparison, almost had a note of curiosity in it, even among the dismissal. And it not being pity, Micah did not manage to dredge up enough rage from his hurt to threaten the guard. 

Micah rose, and his coat made a slick noise, having left a smear on the wood behind him made by a mixture of blood – human and animal – and soot. It was like some sort of reversed Biblical ritual, a sign that didn't mean let your wrath pass this house, but be wroth with the owner of this room. 

As he passed the guard, Micah held an index finger to his own lips, not wanting word to spread. It was meant to be like when he threatened a witness, but his face felt too worn to properly navigate the gesture. It felt like it looked pleading rather than threatening.

The guard returned the gesture, looking earnest. Maybe all of the O'Driscolls weren't so fucked in the head. It was just mostly the ones Micah got into the radar of that were like that.

Like Colm, down in the basement, the worst of them all.

 

For each step Micah descended, he felt dread pulsate inside him. It was like when Colm had gotten a headache, but this time the consequences could be even more volatile. Micah made it down to the exact same step as where Hill pointed him in the direction of the stable, where the flask still stood, lukewarm to touch. He sat down next to it. He stared at the black door down below. He tried to will it to open and simultaneously will it to stay closed forever. 

Behind him, on the plateau on the top of the staircase, floorboards creaked. 

And then Colm walked towards him, the gait recognizable, and the breaths too, like little sighs at the end. Had he been looking for Micah in the saloon, maybe speaking to one of the guys from Marvin's crew? Had he seen him ascend and then descend?

As Colm came closer, Micah tried to turn around. Couldn't. He could barely breathe. All that he had done, all that he had learned, it merged into that pit inside him. He had to wrap an arm around himself to keep the snakes contained. They felt like they were about to slither out his nose and mouth. It worsened as Colm sat down beside him, saying nothing. There was none of that awkwardness or childishness about him now, even if Owen had said it existed. Micah only dared to look at the line of Colm's jaw, hoping that its tightness was a smile and fearing that it was a sneer.

Chapter 18: Paradise is Mine

Summary:

To join or not join the O'Driscolls …

As if Micah had any choice.

Notes:

Warning: Coercion, boot worship, Colm's style of comfort, nasty dirty talk, dehumanization, surprise kink (check bottom author's note, but if you've survived all the kinks so far you should be fine), somnophilia

Chapter title song is by Swans.

Sitting beside Micah on the staircase, Colm was smoking, not offering to share.

Micah hunched under a silence that was heavy with things that couldn't be undone. The building creaked. O'Driscoll guards, most likely. Or the house settling. Rats, insects.

The staircase smelled oily like old wood, with a concentrated scent of dust, stronger down here than the one that led to the attic. This was a place that was walked through, not for stopping by. And yet here the two of them were, side by side. It felt as though it was a big part of Micah's training under Colm: patience and acceptance, waiting around to kill or die.

Colm put out his cigarette in the sleeve of Micah's coat, more ash ruining what had once been lush leather.

"Rough night?" He wore a neutral expression, but his lip was still quirked and looked slightly more like a smile than a sneer. The slightness was enough for Micah to find what remained of his voice. 

"Yeah," he croaked. 

"I heard about that. Got myself an update from Marvin's favorite. The sharpshooter, called the Mountain or something like that. He showed me the guy who tried to burn you to death. Kinda hard to miss a gurgling haystack."

Micah's Adam apple shook like a hatching egg.

"Oh yeah," Colm said, leaning back on the higher steps. "The boy was still alive. Not anymore though. I'm not in the habit of ending suffering, but that was just cruel, Micah. A hacked-open stomach like that? There's a layer of pain that just destroys the mind. You're not good at torture, but usually you're better at killing. Imagine if some poor stable boy had found him among the horse feed."

It was Micah's turn to quirk his lip, unwillingly and fearfully so. 

"You left bloody footprints on your way up to Owen. They're gone now, cause we have cleaners upstairs. He's the one who insists on that. Bet he wasn't too happy to see your state."

An index finger poked him in the neck. Colm was wearing leather gloves. A jolt of anticipation went through him at that realization.

"You reek. Fire, animal, human. And a touch of his cologne. What a mess you've made of your night out."

Colm grabbed his collar and forced him backwards. Micah was so tense he struggled to give into it, and then he was sprawling like Colm was, like they were lovers taking a well-earned rest among some hills. The thought was absurd, because the staircase held a too orderly form, and the roughest landscape around him was Colm.

"What did you talk about with Owen?" 

Quietly, dumbly, Micah summarized the events without using Anton's name, referring to him as the traitor. The forced title as a trade for more information. The information itself. Micah's threat, at the end. He had to take breaks to drink from Hill's flask.

Colm had no outer reaction except for a sigh. Micah was so alert to his responses he almost sighed along with him, but the breath came out stuttering. Colm nodded, maybe grounding himself in the fear he inspired. Micah wondered if his unwillingness to talk about Anton wasn't a choice, but a lack of ability, because the betrayal had genuinely surprised him despite Owen saying he hadn't cared. Him sending Anton to get tortured by the very worst of their men … Would that fate await Micah? His mind was messy.

"Awkward, huh?" Colm said finally, referring to Owen's description of him.

Of all the things, that stuck out the most? Micah didn't dare question it.

"You're not mad?" 

"... Are you scared I am? Mad?"

It might've been his faded energy and lack of rest, but he didn't have it in him to lie.

"Yes, Co- boss."  

These days, it was Colm downstairs and boss upstairs, and Micah didn't know what the correct thing was to say here.

"I suppose I would kill you if I saw this as a betrayal. I didn't forbid you from visiting Owen though. Nor from asking around. I just warned you against it. And I'm sure he's not going to forget how charming you can get with a knife. Safe to say you're not going back upstairs, yeah? That's nice. Still leaves the other mess though. I suppose it could be a betrayal, when you end the lives of one of my workers while giving me nothing in return. One thing is paying a loan for your daddy, another thing is paying me back for a life. All of those enemies of mine that need killing ... Do you want to become one of them, or do you want to survive?" 

Colm twisted his hold on Micah's collar until Micah looked at him.

"If you want to survive, you'll take Daniel's place. You already proved your shooting skills to Marvin's crew. They specialize in murder and major robberies, and arson when Toothpick tags along."

Micah's mind reeled, but he didn't miss that these were some of the few names Colm remembered. It meant they mattered to him on some level. 

"It's a perfect place for you, isn't it? And this way, I'll know where you're at, since Owen doesn't want to have anything to do with them. Thinks they're, ah, sordid. Or did you come to like him during your visit? Want to work for him, instead?" 

Micah grimaced. 

Colm stood up, raising his leg to a higher step, leaning on it. 

"So what do you say? You wanna be a part of the crew, little Bell? Do you want to become an O'Driscoll Boy, officially so?"

Micah felt airy. He had wondered when the question would come, cutting through the bullshit. He hadn't imagined it to be in a staircase in the middle of the night. He'd assumed it would be grander, and that he would yell into Colm's face how he didn't need his support, his gang, his stupid name clinging to him like full-bodied glaucoma. 

"Yes," he said, and then met the man's eyes and added, "Colm."

Because damn it all to hell, he wouldn't bow down to anyone else. And he did bow, tipping his head down. He told himself there was no other way.

Colm laid a hand on top of his head. Like a priest had done to Amos sometimes, with Micah watching from the church doors, guarding the premise in case their father came snooping. But Micah wasn't praying then and he certainly wasn't now, fingernails digging into the wood of the steps. Unlike the priest and Amos, Colm ruffled Micah's hair, demanding intimacy like he owned the rights to it. He ran his fingers through it and ended up getting stuck in tangles and kinks, blood and soot. Micah grimaced again, but this time it was just the usual face he pulled around Colm, some of the discomfort stemming from the comfort.

The gloved hand was withdrawn and then extended, wrapping around his own bare one.

"Congratulations at becoming one of us."

A hard handshake; leather and bones creaking. Micah lowered his eyes, then raised them as Colm pulled him to his feet.

"Or one of mine, yeah? After we complete a little rite of passage."

"Rite of passage?" Micah repeated, the term foreign in his mouth.

But Colm had already turned around, stepping towards the basement.

"Not every person I take under my wing gets one, but I think you need it. Like I said, you smell pretty bad. Let's get you out of those dirty clothes." 

Oh.

  Colm was intending to fuck him, wasn't he? He'd alluded to it previously. He'd said he would do it if Micah was behaved. But he hadn't behaved, not really. Would he do it differently now? Or had he planned it? His mind was buzzing with so many questions as Colm opened the door to his rooms.

"Distracted, ain't you? I'll give you something to focus on. But I don't want you to speak much, because of your throat. When you do speak, however, you'll refer to me as boss. Understand?" 

"Yes, boss," Micah said, licking his lips as if the aftertaste of the words could help reveal what he really felt about this.

Colm kissed him. On instinct more than principle, Micah reached out, touching the buckle of Colm's belt. He kept his touch as light as the kiss had been. Colm stepped backwards into the office, and Micah followed, careful so as not to step on the tips of Colm's boots.

 

And it was boots, he noticed, not the dress shoes he often wore, but thick riding boots in black leather. Judging by them, combined with the gloves, Colm had been planning this. Micah felt both safe and unsafe. The soles were reinforced and protruded slightly. It made his steps more secure where Micah's soles were so worn he slid when Colm reversed their positions.

A single candle was lit on the desk. He saw details that had been scrubbed out when he "vacationed" here; green bloomed among the brown of the bushes outside the greasy windows, one of the few sources of life in the otherwise dead room, silent except for the crackle of the coal fireplace. Spring was coming and he'd barely noticed. Huh.

Without a word, Colm kicked the back of Micah's legs. Micah grunted as he went into a kneel, or more like a crawl as he caught himself with his hands on the rock floor.

Colm began removing the purple scarf from his neck. The knot pulled at his skin. He tried to reach up to help Colm loosen it, but in response, it was pulled so hard that the fabric ripped.

When he tried to touch his neck to assess the damage, Colm put his boot on his back. The pressure was intense, and Micah squirmed as the floor came closer. His dick was half hard. It'd been so since he discovered the gloves.

"Colm," Micah said and spit splattered down on to the floor.

"Shush. Forgot my title, didn't you?"

The reinforced sole pushed upwards along his spine until it was between his shoulder blades. 

"Hurts to think, doesn't it? You don't need to think. Just do as I say."

Colm stepped off him, and Micah could finally breathe again. It hitched when the man stepped in front of him.

"They're new. Do you like them?" 

"Yes, boss," Micah mumbled, dully wondering if Colm had a specific tailor for his torture outfits.  

"Go on then, have a taste." 

Some part of his mind responded with a What, really?, but it was thwarted by how fast he moved to lick Colm's boots. His tongue was dry, and he sucked up more of the oil that hadn't dried all that well along the laces. Except for that, it tasted predictably of leather and dust. He liked it, and he kissed it, the same light kisses he sometimes pressed against Colm's lips.

Colm made an amused, slightly disgusted sound that had hellfire climbing through Micah's nerves, flaring at the trail of boot prints he imagined was on his back.

"Good. Take off your coat. Slowly. Then the rest of your clothes." 

Colm walked towards the fireplace, and there was the sound of the lid opening and closing as he fed the scarf to the fire. Stiffly, Micah pulled his arms out from the coat. His shirt smelled like smoke, and some of blood had leaked into the front of it, like berries spilled when eating. While he undressed, expected Owen's cologne to fill the office as the purple scarf burned, but the burning cotton did not smell different than burning paper or leaves.

"Let's get you cleaned up," Colm said, gesturing towards the washing room.

"Yes, boss," Micah said, clearer and lighter than before, like it was easier respond like that while naked.

Outside, the bushes swayed gently in the early morning wind, greener due to the gray of the dawn. He looked towards Colm and caught another source of life; the greenish tint to his eyes, discovered when Micah's mind felt similarly woolen as it was now.

 

Greener and greener, brighter and brighter; his eyes were shining when Colm poured another bucket of icy water over him. Micah grabbed the edge of the wooden tub, shaking badly.

The tub was the sort that had a thick lid, currently turned up and vibrating against the wall. Micah was trying to contain his trembling so he wouldn't get concussed by the lid slamming shut on top of him. People said that the healthiest baths were the ones in cold water. But one said little about ice-fucking-cold water, especially one that was so bad it made his teeth clatter.

Colm did not have the gentle hands of a bathing girl; he had removed his gloves and was using a rough sponge, rubbing off the dirt, soot and blood. The bathwater became an ashy pink. The sponge was particularly painful against Micah's many cuts, and against his upper arm, probably from the time he had tried to use his elbow to open the barricaded door to the burning room. Colm noticed him steeling himself and waited until the pain subsided somewhat, before he began thumbing the spots that hurt the most, putting his claim on them.

"You bruise easily, being so pale," he said in that low, hypnotizing voice he reserved for special occasions. "My kinda doll …"

And then he scrubbed Micah until his skin was stinging. Using such force over bruises was its own kind of pain. It used up so much of Micah's remaining energy to not flinch away. He sat there focusing on his own breathing, feeling sensitive and shivery from Colm's words as well as his actions. His arms were on the edge of the tub, forehead on his crossed wrists.

He felt Colm's fingers trail lower and spread his legs at the touch to the back of his thighs. A finger prodded his ass, seeking entry. Water sloshed around as Micah shifted so that the finger slipped inside. The friction was weird. The water made him pay more attention to the stretch. He'd never been fingered when submerged in water before. 

"You wish it was Owen, doing this to you?" Colm asked.

Micah opened his eyes, lashes brushing against the damp hairs on his arms. 

"I threatened to knife the guy," he said, then tried to make up for the sourness by adding a cracked, "Boss." 

"Yeah, you told me. I guess you weren't made for him like you are for me." 

Colm targeted the spot instantly, pressing deep.

The pleasure was muted. Like scratching a wound, something one couldn't help doing even if it was bad. And it could get bad. He was sore already. Micah didn't believe Colm would fuck him in the bath, too vain to want to get his clothes wet, but he knew it was coming.

While he was distracted trying to predict his moves, Colm added a second finger.

He hissed at the pain.

"Bear it. It's just an aperitif." 

I know. 

And he did bear it, for a while, loosening up. He hissed again when Colm withdrew. He heard water splashing behind him and saw that Colm was cleaning his hands in the bathwater. He knew that the man wasn't shy about filth, and he didn't want to be either, so did not look away from Colm's knowing smile. He still startled when he saw the hairbrush that Colm picked up.

Fuck no , he wanted to say. But he couldn't. He'd been told to be quiet to not strain his throat.

It hurt worse than the sponging, when Colm worked the tangles and chunks of filth from his hair. Yet he liked that it gave him something to concentrate on, until Colm started using his fingers as well, rubbing against the scalp after it felt like it had been torn off, then tearing it off again. The mix of torture and caresses drove Micah a different kind of mad than the madness that had been plaguing him all night. Only when the brush could pass through without catching, did Colm withdraw, beckoning him out of the tub.

Micah rose. The temperature in the room was slightly better than the water. He stood there, dripping water all over the floor, and snorted like a surprised horse when Colm threw a towel at him. He dried himself as quick as he could.

When he started on his hair, Colm interrupted him. "No. Leave it to me."

He stood by the dressing table where he did his shaving in the morning. Micah had seen him do it, and in the beginning, he'd wished he was the one who held the blade to Colm's neck. Like the tub, the dressing table had to be opened; a larger lid with a mirror, free of dust, and then Colm pulled out the sides. Maybe it was to make moving the furniture easier when changing headquarters. Colm retrieved a tin of pomade and a greasy flacon.

"Let's see how curly we can make it." 

Micah bit his tongue as Colm rubbed the pomade into his hair, squeezing the ends free of water in the process. To try to ignore the ache in his ass, he tried to guess where the man had learnt that technique. Not on his own hair, certainty, which was straight regardless of length. 

"Remember this one?" 

Micah did remember the flacon when Colm began massaging the oil into his body, smelling like salty apricot, the one he'd stolen from Owen's collection. It stung whenever it got into the cuts left after the knife fight, maybe that was why Colm liked using it.

Afterwards, Colm applied alcohol and bandages like always. 

"Get to bed and get yourself ready for me. I'll come along shortly."

 

In the bedroom, Micah was caught between the state of panic and dread.

He was pacing. He was naked. He was damp, and his hair itched where the pomade was close to his scalp while his curls corkscrewed. 

Get yourself ready for me.

What was that supposed to mean?

If it'd been one ... no, two months ago, Micah might've grabbed the crooked candleholder, and waited by the door, ready for a second attempt to bash in Colm's skull. Now he ended up sprawling in the bed. He always felt weird right after washing up, as if all the necessary dirt and oils had been scrubbed from him, leaving him feeling prickly and sensitive. Thinking about oils, he reached for Colm's nightstand. And then he fell back again. He'd never actually gotten permission to search it.

But then what the hell was the order supposed to mean?

He sucked hard on his fingers, struggling to make them wet. It didn't exactly feel nice, sliding them into himself when he was that dry. Colm had penetrated him more in the beginning, but that might've been due to the length of time between their encounters. Micah was dizzy with tiredness and anticipation, and he was rough with himself, rougher than Colm had been in the tub.

When the door opened, he was stretched out on his stomach. It gave Colm a good look at his ass, spread open, fingers shoved in as far as they could, then pulled out. A tremble went through him, but perhaps the view would pacify him if Micah hadn't done as he ordered.

Colm didn't look pacified, but he did look. He had dressed in more comfortable clothes, all black, without buttons. His gloves were back on, and his boots were as beautiful as they'd been when Micah was licking them. 

"Oh, you're still shaking. Just how I like it." 

So, that was what he meant.   Get ready, get expectant, get scared.

Micah showed his teeth like an animal uncertain about how threatened it was. 

 

The threat turned out to be real. As soon as he had tried to get up, Colm ordered him back down. He tried to wiggle when Colm's weight made the mattress dip a little, gloved fingers dug into the back of his hair, keeping his face down while pushing his ass up. The pose was a classic, but the suspense was larger than it ever had been with others. 

"I wonder if you acted out so badly because of your ass not being fucked properly in what, a month? It must be throbbing down there, eating all your thoughts."

Sudden, rude knuckles pressed against his ass.

Micah tried to close his thighs. Colm slapped them open.

"If you were a girl, you'd drip. Not that you're a boy, either. Right now you're just a toy."

Micah quit trying to close his thighs, the words opening up a second set of pores, ones who licked up the attention despite the meaning. His eyes were glazed, close to crying. Mind and guts, empty; waiting to be filled. Arousal washed over him in hot and cold waves. His cock, standing full mast, kept twitching. Colm ran his fingers over it and hummed.

"Good toy."

There was the sound of a bottle of slick, opened, warmed by adept hands.

Usually, Micah liked watching him do it, but he hadn't received permission to look. Their changed roles - of boss and worker - gave a different hue to their relationship. Even the bed sheets had a different vibe, the dark blue color like a fresh sea, even if they'd used them for a week. Had it begun already a week ago, his finalized status as an O'Driscoll Boy? But Colm had said ... Well, he'd only said his plans didn't begin when Micah was a kid.

He briefly remembered sitting on the porch of the house at the prairie, hacking his knife into the floorboards, while Colm - younger then, hair jet black without any traces of gray - had given him an unreadable look before going inside to talk business with his father. Micah had been left with a pang of wanting to be cool like that when he grew up.

The admiration was different now, when in the man's bed, legs spread, ass being smeared in oil. Like a reward. The man's gloves were probably shiny with it. Though Micah kept himself from looking, the thought of such a sight made him clench against the fingers fucking its way into him, pausing in an ominous way when meeting resistance, continuing when Micah forced himself to unclench. 

"You act like a virgin. I don't care for virgins. Show me that you aren't one." 

Micah let out a shuddering exhale when a third finger was added. He pushed himself back against him, and Colm made a noise of encouragement.

It felt a little bit like a religious rite. Colm had called it a ceremony, but maybe that had more to do with the bath. If it was religious - or spiritual - in nature, did that mean Colm was his god? Maybe not always, but in these moments, he wanted the man to own him and let him own some of Colm in return. Like his fingers, stretching him, looking for the spot. Finding it. Rubbing and rubbing, until pleasure bloomed like a sunset.

"Keep facing forward." 

His thighs quivered, and he kept thinking about the time he'd been spanked, though that seemed like a childish word for something that had left him so bruised he could barely sit or ride for so long afterwards. But it was just a memory, creating bubbles on the surface somewhere above him, not reaching him where was submerged. Submerged, like Colm was in him, his hole twitching as oil ran down his inner thighs. He whined. Colm shushed him. 

"In case you're wondering, I don't fuck all my new recruits. Only the special ones." 

The word special eradicated some of Micah's tension, although he knew it was a spot Anton had once had before being thrashed. He ceased thinking about that traitor as he heard the sound of a belt being unbuckled, anticipation growing, the churning in his gut turning liquid. He looked behind his shoulder, wanting to catch a glimpse of Colm, see how hard he was.

In retaliation, Colm slapped his ass, and he whimpered, facing down again.

"I'll let you look soon enough." 

There was the same sound of the bottle being opened, more slick stroked onto skin that was not his own, and then a pressure against his ass. The fabric beneath his mouth and nose was growing damp. It had been too long. No, it had been never.

Colm had rarely used anything but salvia while fucking him. When he pushed himself inside, Micah raised his head and hips and groaned at the stretch, but he wasn't chastised. Colm kept pushing, only pausing to let Micah move to change the angle, before continuing.

When he was all the way inside, he just stayed there. 

Micah wanted to grab Colm's hips to make him move, but he didn't. Couldn't. He knew the other wanted him to stay with the sensation of being filled to the brim. 

It blasted everything away.

After a few moments, Colm sighed as if satisfied and then began moving.

It felt better than when they'd used spit and far better than when they'd done it dry. It was also louder, the greasy smacks adding to the delicious wrongness of this sort of illegal, risky, ugly-pretty activity. It wasn't the first time he'd fingered Micah while using oil, but it was a true first, getting fucked by him when using it. The slide was so much easier, and a more carnal part of Micah regretted not becoming an O'Driscoll Boy sooner if this was the rewards that awaited him. He didn't want to think like that, but he couldn't help it.

"Listen to that, huh. Your ass is bouncing nicely. I've been feeding you well." 

Micah thought of the sugar candies he'd crushed and thrown in Daniel's face, and he nodded.

"Don't even have to -" a wet slide in "- tie you up -" a wet slide out "- cause you want this so much." 

Maybe the spot inside him had gotten swollen from being rubbed against, maybe it was more sensitive due to the rest of him being so sore. No matter why, Micah's erection was slapping against his stomach, already leaking at the tip. There was a shift of fabric, and then something hard was pressed against his spine. The bottle of oil? No, the object seemed differently shaped.

"Boss," he whispered, wanting to look.

"Not yet," Colm said, sounding more aroused than before, while the thing on top of Micah's back was tilted. He felt Colm's knuckles, seemingly wrapped around something, being moved around. Maybe it was to increase his curiosity. It worked, especially as it kept travelling up his spine, something thin and blunt sliding over his skin. 

"Now, look." 

He did, and discovered that there was a knife pressed against his skin. At first, the brand was unrecognizable, no longer covered in grime. But the letters were still engraved in it - he spotted Colm's name before his own - showing that it was his own Bowie knife, expertly cleaned.

"Oh," Micah said loudly, breaking into an animal moan, lasting longer than any of his previous noises.

Colm stopped moving.

"Did you just come?" he asked, equal parts amused and exasperated.

Micah blinked, then reached underneath himself, but all he felt along the tip of his cock was more precum than usual.

"N-No, boss." 

"Good. Otherwise I'd have to punish you. But you had to check, didn't you?" A short laugh. "You really are special. My very special toy."

There was a wet pop as Colm pulled out, and then he pulled at Micah's hip, trying to get him to turn onto his back. Micah obediently flipped over, spreading his legs so Colm could kneel between them. He even grabbed a pillow to put underneath himself, flushing at his own eagerness, but knowing it was the right thing to do judging by the man's nod.

"Grab your knees. Keep them as far apart as you can. That's it."

Only when Micah had Colm inside of him again did he relax more. He guessed the new game had something to do with the knife, that was now pushed with the dull edge against his stomach, just to the left of his belly button.

"You know, I thought it was kinda adorable how you disemboweled that guy. It seemed like you lost yourself in the carnage. So, I thought I'd give you a lesson."

Was Colm going to cut him open?

Micah moaned at the thought, and not because of despair.

Colm settled on a slower tempo but didn't stop fucking him.

It was really goddamn dangerous, especially when he held the knife above Micah's stomach. One wrong move could open him in a more direct way than he'd ever done before. Like Daniel's body, smiling up at Micah through its cuts. Smiling, like Colm was.

"Disemboweling a target while they're still alive is up there among the most painful stuff, sure. They can live for a surprising amount of time afterwards. The record that I've set was about two days. The only problem is that the pain, when too much, makes the target lose focus. Just like pleasure. So while fun, the target becomes useless at being interrogated." 

He was still moving within Micah while sliding the knife around with the tip pointed down.

Micah had to hold his breath. There was a scrape sharper than any nail, and if there were no direct cuts, there would be white scrapes and the dusty trail of scraped skin.

"My advice is to keep it simple. Next time, make a single cut, right here. Don't hit the liver, like you did, that'll end your fun faster. Go slow. Make sure they see the knife. And that they feel every move. That they'll spill their beans and their guts. You get it?" 

Micah nodded, managing to get out the usual yes, boss, but struggling to unsee the comparison that Colm was fucking him like he was stabbing him. The hand on his left hip did not waver as the right hand raised the knife. If it let go, even from such a small height, the sharpness would lodge it deep inside him. It would hurt like hell. It might even kill him. The threat was erotic. He felt like he could come from this alone.

Helping him along, Colm let go off his hip to run his fingers up Micah's cock, one of the gentlest touches he had given him. While so much of him was about survival, he was so tired and so on the edge, he might've actually preferred death if it meant staying like this. The mass of contrasting sensations was unlike anything he'd felt before with anyone else, and it sent him tumbling towards a climax. The moan he made was even more animal. He came into Colm's hand, dripping cum down to the gut he'd threatened to open.

"God," Micah breathed, a word he uttered rarely.

"I'm not that omnipotent," Colm said while pulling out. "I just have an idea what you like." 

The moment he threw away the knife, clattering against the stone, all the energy sagged out of Micah. He was panting. He wanted to curl up and lick his wounds. He wasn't sure he'd manage to listen to Colm's orders, much less carry them out. 

"Please," he said. 

Colm studied him. "Tired, huh? I can understand that. I have an idea, though ..."

Leisurely, he crawled beside Micah, but when Micah tried to follow him so they laid front to front, he pushed Micah over - with almost no effort at all - so he could lay down against his ass. Lifting one of his ass cheeks, exposing his puffy hole to the cold of the room, adding more lubricant. And then Colm pushed himself back in. It was the third switch of position in less than half an hour, but Micah was too exhausted to tense much. They were as close as they'd been when in the staircase, except they were lying down. Colm's hand on the back of his neck was to make him curl his body down, submissive even while side by side. 

"No more," Micah said, tearing up, and to his surprise Colm stopped moving.

"Really?"

"Am I just a toy to you?" Micah asked, unable to meet Colm's eyes. "Some weak thing?" 

"I wouldn't have taken you into my bedroom, or ended up hiring you, if I found you weak. You'd be useless to me if you were. To let me do this to you requires a bit of strength and a bit of strategy. Survival skills, yeah? They're important to you." 

"To you, too," Micah said quietly, absorbing the words as a kind of balm. There would be a greater balm tomorrow, because Colm usually took care of him afterwards, a comfort he couldn't admit he craved.

"Sure." He clicked his tongue as if slightly annoyed, before he smiled. "How about you just sleep through the rest? I'll be here when you wake up and take proper care of you."

"Yes, Colm," he said, maybe a tad suddenly, voice deeper, sleepier.

And then he squeezed Colm's side, to show that he answered the old question with an affirmative: Colm had permission to fuck him while he slept.

"Really? You up for it? Damn. I think you have a real crush on me, finally letting me do this. You wouldn't, earlier. Maybe you're falling in love."

"Fuck o -" 

"Sure," Colm said, and began to move. 

"Fuck off," Micah forced out while lifting a leg so Colm had easier access. 

"Relax. I won't tell anyone. Try to sleep."

The descent into dreaming was slow.

Colm kept lazily thrusting into him, the pace suggestive. Sometimes Micah thought he was falling from a height and jolted awake, only for the rocking to calm and annoy him at the same time. Sweat broke out across his body in waves. Warmer than any fire and cooler than any sea. Whatever this feeling was, it felt less innocent and more claustrophobic than a crush. If it was love, it was an impossible one, downright idiotic, even if Colm O'Driscoll was so deep inside Micah he was on the cusp of his dreams. When a final heat spilled inside of him, he fell into the dark blue sheets around him like into a very dark sea.

Notes:

Spoilery surprise kink: Colm brandishes the Bowie knife on Micah's stomach mid-fuck.

Chapter 19: Fuel to Fire

Summary:

Honeymoon days.

Notes:

Last part in arc III 💀🖤

Chapter title song is by Agnes Obel.

Everything hurt. His ass. His throat, too. His lungs felt shriveled like abandoned moth cocoons. His stomach, but not like he'd eaten anything bad, more like it felt when he woke after nightmares that made it go so tight he could barely breathe. His legs, his arms, his hands.

He'd been in similar positions before, but now there were bandages around his shoulder and a warm weight at his back, but the pain in his ass took most of his attention, because no matter how much he shifted among the sheets, he was acutely aware of something foreign within it.

Only when he twisted to the side did that otherness slip - no, scrape - out of him. His thighs itched as a fresher liquid oozed out, adding a layer to the one that'd already dried. His eyes had crusted shut, and so he had to use his hand to feel what was going on back there, and he forced his eyes open when he felt the unmistakable sensation of a soft cock and pubic hair against his palm. The weight at his back stirred. Micah squinted over his shoulder.

Colm looked less terrible than Micah felt.

But he also squinted, half asleep like Micah was, slowly entering the conscious world.

Their worlds were the same in their lack of moisture, and the first thing Colm did was to reach for the bottle of water. He did not pour himself a glass but simply drank from the bottle itself. Micah felt even drier as he watched Colm's Adam's apple bob, to the point of wanting to lick off the water that slipped through the sides of Colm's lips.

He was given the bottle, and he barely had the chance to watch Colm wipe his lower face before drinking the water that remained.

When he put it away, he saw the man rub his temples.

"Do you have a headache?" he asked, voice not all that croaky, but meeker than he'd intended.

"Good morning to you too. My head's fine. Are yours?"

"Dunno," Micah said as he sunk back down among the covers. "I feel weird." 

Light-headed. Empty. Weird just about summarized it.

"Probably still coming down from yesterday." 

"Yesterday ?"

And then it dawned on him like a storm. But a layer of ice laid between him and that reality, and as he was at the bottom of a body of water, he watched the storm happen above him, all those difficult emotions and events happening outside of him. 

He had become an O'Driscoll. Officially so.

But hadn't he already been that, from the moment he entered Colm's bed? No. No, that'd been a vacation from who he usually was . This was ... This was something else ...

"You said  god, " Colm said, together with Micah  down there in the dark, never having left. "You don't say that often. Can't remember the last time I'd heard it from you." 

"I said it a lot, one time," Micah answered, feeling weird and open. If the present was a whirlwind, then the past was something more settled, near the bottom of his feet rather than ever-changing above his head. "I said god, god, god ..." He liked parodying himself, kicking and swirling up the sand below.

"When?"

"Riiight after I killed my granddaddy."

"Why'd you kill him?" Colm asked after a beat, sounding a little too careful.

Micah frowned. Didn't Colm know? Couldn't he see it all, spilling around him?

"Cause …" he scowled, concentrating on making the memories into words, "... he said only one of us could live. The old man was dying anyway, but he kept his old revolvers under his pillow. And Amos kept sitting there, right beside his bed, praying. Amos must've known he had lost to me, so my grandaddy had to kill him. Or made me kill him. Dunno. "

"What did Amos lose?"

"The right to the name. The right to live." 

O'Driscoll or not, Micah still had his own name. 

No matter what happened, it would always be his. 

That heritage was what gave him the strength to turn towards Colm, pushing close to him. The man idly stroked his back, moving his hair out of the way so he could touch the back of his neck, but he was quiet in a way that meant he was thinking. 

Micah swore he heard the wheels of Colm's mind turn. It wasn't an unpleasant sound.

"So it was like a competition? Which one of you twins would inherit the name?"

"Uh-huh."

"So that's the full story behind Abel? Damn. I've been to theatre showings with less drama." 

"He had to die," Micah whispered, a secret he'd sworn he'd carry to his grave, even if he wasn't sure if the "he" meant his grandfather, Amos, or himself. The latter was uncomfortable but rang the truest despite being paradoxical.

I had to die, to survive.  

"A tragedy for little Abel, but a comedy for little Micah, yeah? You survived. You got married to your gun. Or guns, more like it." A pause. "And that led you to me. You being who and what you are, I mean. Micah Bell the Third, more of a weapon than a man. Yeah?"

"Y-Yeah." 

"So that's just fine and dandy," Colm said softly. "I reckon I like you more than I'd ever like Abel."

"Yeah?" Micah said eagerly.

Colm put an arm around his shoulder, so he could brush a hand over his heart, two fingers scratching at each side of a pierced nipple. The gesture was strangely sweet. But Micah craved that strange sweetness, especially when he was feeling kind of sorry for himself, mostly due to the pain in his ass. Colm had put it there, but he'd almost begged for it, wanting to lose himself in it. And now he had the opportunity to feel that, again and again. 

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, being an O'Driscoll Boy, as long as he was a special one. 

And a loyal one. 

Colm reached into the drawer of his nightstand and got out a pack of honey-covered almonds. Micah recognized them by the smell, and he had it so nice in the crook of Colm's arm that he allowed the man to feed them to him, one by one.

 

He spent the next couple of days in bed. 

Unease began to roar its ugly head early on, but whenever it got too strong, all he had to do was to eat something sweet, drink something warm, play with his Bowie knife (Colm didn't mind as long as he used a rag beneath it to absorb the sound), or offered his body up to Colm simply because he wanted to. 

The man let him take the lead, not playing coy, saying that Micah had earned it. 

He respected Micah's mumbled  " T oo sore"  when they tried another round of penetrative sex, even if he slipped a finger into Micah when he blew Colm on all fours in bed, just to check that he was healing nicely down there , or so he said . The finger had felt as large as a cock, but Colm had simply kept it there. The atmosphere between them was calmer than it'd ever been.

"Honeymoon days," Colm said, like it would have to end sometime.

Micah didn't really know what that term meant. But he ate a lot of honeyed stuff, and often felt like Colm's words had the same golden consistency, so he guessed it had something to do with that. After the ceremonial fuck that they'd had, involving a knife and a particular kind of threats, it was always night in his mind. He didn't see the moon from the basement windows, but he supposed Colm could act as a lesser moon pulling at the waves of his mind. 

 

After a week or so, his mind was a lot brighter. Not sharper, but it was easier to move around and not just stare into space.

Micah was sitting on top of Colm's desk, kicking his legs back and forth, the noise of it less annoying than it could've been due to the fabric of his wool pants and wool socks. The clothes belonged to Colm, not to his men, but from the man's wardrobe. That was nice. It made Micah feel a bit too feminine, being dressed up like that, but it also made him feel special.

The desk was currently covered by a large, new map. Colm was drawing and making notes across it, not bothering to hide his scrawls. Micah had tried to stop kicking his legs for a while now, but the excited vibrations made their way up the rest of his body. He liked seeing the man spin his webs so openly. He liked being allowed to see him make notes, make small comments, treating Micah like he was a part of it in a way he hadn't before.

"There," Colm said after having drawn a large circle with a black marker. 

"There?" Micah asked, scanning the map. 

The circle included the saloon they were staying on, but extended far beyond it.

"That's the size of our current territory. Quite the feat, ain't it?" 

The O'Driscolls had swallowed up quite a few cities as well as small towns. It didn't extend to other states, but it was impressive. He'd mostly associated the O'Driscolls with controlling buildings, rather than controlling entire settlements and trading routes.

The constant sound of people moving above them in the saloon gained a larger echo.

"Not a lot of our boys know about this. Especially not the ones answering to Owen. You won't tell him, would you?"

"Course not, Colm," Micah hissed, a fire in his chest at realizing that Colm trusted him. 

"Good. And speaking of Owen ..." 

Colm opened the upper drawer of his desk. 

Micah managed to sit still as he took out a green scarf in thick cotton. It had a subtle checkered pattern of black highlighting the green, making it seem more alive.

"Purple wasn't your color. This, though ..." 

Curious, Micah bent his neck. 

Colm put the scarf on him, tying it gently , quite the contrast to how he'd ripped off Owen's one. He fussed over the knot, making it tighter than Micah would've preferred, too much like a noose.

"It suits you."

"Thank s ." 

Micah held eye contact. Colm raised a brow, before both brows narrowed and Micah looked away. His heart always beat faster when issuing a small challenge like that, but he didn't want Colm to forget who he was. 

A second later, Colm was checking his pocket watch, nodding at it like there wouldn't be any meetings or other interruptions, before standing up from the chair. He forced himself between Micah's legs like he belonged there.  His eyes were very green.

"Remember. When we go outside of this room, you gotta call me boss."

"Mhm," Micah said, busy watching Colm's eyes, and then his mouth. 

And he was right to do it, because a moment later, it came closer. The new scarf was roughly pulled down so Colm could suck at his neck and mar it with fresh hickeys on top of old ones.

It was often a prelude to something nastier. Micah tipped his head back, hands slithering up to touch Colm's back. He didn't like having any ironed shirts messed up, but he tolerated Micah touching beneath the white fabric as long as he was careful not to crease it up. His own shirt was also white, but full of wrinkles because he'd napped in it earlier.

Colm planted his palms on the side of Micah's body, kissing him slowly. Building it up. Licking at his bottom lip. Rubbing a palm against his chest; against a pierced nipple, not yet healed. The other palm went to Micah's ass, slipping beneath the waistline to massage his tailbone. Maybe the term honeymoon days referred to what felt like honey tiding in him, the waves sluggish, and yet among the brightest things he had ever felt.

"Open your shirt. Do it slow." 

Micah did as ordered. Colm looked towards the door as if daring someone to interrupt them. 

Shirt open, Micah wanted all of Colm's attention on himself.  So he began kissing Colm's jaw, but was more careful about not leaving marks, only allowing his teeth to gain an edge near the man's hairline and behind the hollow of his ear, where people weren't as likely to look.

Colm clicked his tongue in irritation and pushed Micah down on his back, so he lay down on the side of the map that the O'Driscolls hadn't yet marked as its territory. But with how Colm was hovering over him, circling his nipples with callused thumbs, Micah did feel marked.

" Come on, Micah ," Colm said, while pulling at Micah's pant legs until he raised them. 

It was uncomfortable, and he had to lift his hips to make it easier to balance his legs on Colm's body, until his ankles were on each side of Colm's head. An arm came to rest at his knees, keeping him steady. This way, Colm could rut against his ass. He could also hike Micah's pants off more easily, but he didn't, maybe because of the earlier soreness.

"We can try again," Micah said. "I might be better?" 

"You're sweet." 

Colm pushed closer, so that Micah's ankles on the side of his head became the back of his knees, spread to keep up with the stretch. The pose was humiliating, but his gaze was fixed on Colm's groin. He wanted the man to be hard. He wanted to be wanted.

"Want me to take you over the desk?" 

Well, he kind of wanted that too, but he refused to say it. Instead he lifted his elbows, knowing that he balanced entirely on Colm now, to use his hands to open Colm's shirt. He had more chest hair than Micah did, and he paused briefly to touch it, the gray among the black more visible in the afternoon light.

Colm slapped his ass as if to urge him to hurry up. Micah didn't even flinch.

At the third button, the door slammed open. Micah froze, moving his head back to see who it was.  The world became upside down in two ways. One was physical. The other, far deeper.

His father stood in the entryway of the office.  He looked as dumbstruck as he had done when finding Micah standing above his grandfather's deathbed, dual wielded revolvers smoking, nothing left on the pillow but a gory mess.

The memory wasn't as hazy as before, becoming more real with his father there.

God,   Micah thought, and would've fallen down from the desk hadn't Colm moved him back into a sitting position. The storm that had been outside of him was here, cracking the ice.

 

"Oh," Colm said , breaking the silence with a sigh. "You're early." 

Where there had been warmth, cold ran through Micah's veins. 

His father was shaking his head. Chest heaving as though he'd been running. Expression fish-like. Uncomfortable at the sight,  Micah turned back to Colm.

Was this why he'd checked his pocket watch? To make his father walk on them? Micah should've felt betrayal and rage. But Colm was pressing even closer to him, intoxicating him with that peculiar scent and less peculiar power. Power, which his father had given away. And if Colm wanted to play a game, honeymoon days or not, so could Micah.

"Don't you ever kn-knock?" he drawled against his father, not managing to avoid the stutter , but managing to avoid the sir.

"You ..."

"Me." Micah tilted his body to the side and slung an arm around Colm, willing it not to tremble. He had never seen his father like this before. Giggles, a mix of hysterical and horrified, made their way out of his - sore, always so sore around Colm - throat. His father wasn't watching his face. No, it was a little lower than that. The spots of silver and gold. 

"Is that -" 

N ipple piercings , but it was clear he had no words for them. 

Micah's giggles became hysterical.

"Well, this is awkward," Colm said, not sounding awkward, but like he'd won some sort of bet. "How about we have a talk elsewhere? You can go and wait for us at the saloon. Doesn't that sound nice?" 

"I ..."

"We can discuss the matter of your," Colm patted Micah's head, "payment, out there."

A shadow fell across his father's face. The Bell madness was about to erupt. 

In his grandfather's case, that madness had been a cold and dead thing, always calculated. 

(Dragging him down in the basement, flinging him into the chest, stomping his boot on the lid as he locked it because Micah's smaller form tried to shove and scratch himself free).

In his father's case, the madness was more alive, and also more spontaneous. 

(A sudden pull to his hair because he didn't move fast enough, a backhand because he refused to answer, a knife to his face because he got scared as a kid once when his father was drunk.)

Micah supposed he was a blend of them. 

But his grandfather had always said that his father was a coward. It was the very first thing he'd said when introducing them, dragging Micah's father by the hair and throwing him to the floor in front of twin sons hiding behind their mother. 

"The earlier the training starts, the better. As you see, boys, I started too late on him."  

His father did what he had probably wanted to do in that situation, faced with a family he didn't want, and he walked out, closing the door with a bang.

Maybe slamming doors – or the lids of treasure chests – ran in the family.  

And then the storm of emotion was numbed again. Micah was dizzy, heart hammering like he'd drunk a dozen cups of coffee and was only now registering the effects. He didn't really know why he shook so badly, because there were still a few giggles escaping him. 

Colm engulfed him, and the sensation was so foreign to Micah, it took him several seconds to understand that it was a hug. So tight it hurt, yeah, but an actual embrace. It managed to make the shaking die down in combination with the words.

"There, there. You handled that really well. I got the best Bell, didn't I?"

Not knowing what to say, Micah nodded. 

His eyes were very dry. He'd lost his erection as soon as his father had stepped into the room. Thank god for that. Thank god. Huh. Funny how being around Colm made him more likely to seek the higher powers he usually scorned, and in general, more likely to pray.

 

When they walked upstairs, Colm first and Micah second, he was feeling nauseous.  They were fully dressed and armed, because Colm had said they needed to be. Micah was wearing his new scarf, his leather coat, the leather smelling like fire smoke despite the fresh layer of conditioner, his old white hat, and all his weapons. Colm was better dressed, wearing his favorite fur coat, the one that looked like a fluffy wolf pup had decided to expire around his shoulders.

In the hall, Colm didn't pause near the doorway to the saloon.

Micah saw his father sitting by the bar and drinking heavily.

Micah lingered, not able to stop the habit of counting the many empty glasses around the man, but Colm snapped his fingers, and he followed him out towards the stable. 

A few men passed them, and there were the usual curious glances, though more settled than before.  No doubt they'd been informed. And the gang had bigger things to worry about.

It was raining heavily. The mud was thick and slippery. The clouds hung low in the distance, making both the tallest tree tops and the mountains appear to go straight up and vanish into dark gray nothingness. The rain created a slight waterfall on the brim of Micah's white hat, a feeling like he was more protected from the world than he was, seeing it through a veil.

A stable boy jogged towards them, carrying the reins of both Colm and Micah's horses. 

Had this been ... Had this also been planned?

"Here you go, sir," the boy said eagerly, vibrating in joy when Colm threw him a couple of coins.

"Boss...?" Micah said.

" Come on, Micah ," Colm ordered, ignoring his unspoken question.

The order was the same one as before but said less softly.

They mounted. Micah hissed at having to sit on the saddle; for all he'd liked the thought of being taken over the desk earlier, the act would've hurt a lot more had Colm gone through with it. Maybe that was part of the plan, too. The thought was gross, but so was Colm.

Several men came towards them. 

One of them stepped up as a representative, politely inquiring where Colm was going. The representative added a  boss  after each sentence he spoke, and Micah was surprised it didn't seem to annoy Colm.  

"Urgent business," Colm explained, gazing upon the swinging doors leading into The Flying Dutchman.

Micah's father stumbled out, but he was not as drunk as some of the others he'd seen in the pub. 

"Hey, Colm," he called, and for one moment it seemed like his old charisma was back, before it faded. "Hey, I thought we was ... I thought we were gonna talk?"

"Change of plans," Colm said. "Besides, that talk of ours is unnecessary . I think I made myself quite clear downstairs. I accept your payment. Your boy has done some good work for me and will continue doing it. Hell, he's just about ready to start making his own money."

"You can't ... you can't be serious ..." 

"I'm serious, friend. Feel free to drink all you want, free of charge. We won't be returning for a while." 

His father shut his jaw. He walked out into the mud, but the height difference intimidated him, and so did the look of Colm's men, spitting on the ground and puffing up their chests, making themselves as big and mean as possible. Micah looked at his father, knowing he was counting the odds and not finding them in his favor. 

Until he met the eyes of his son, that was.

"Boy," he growled. "You come down here this instant . We're going back."

Micah made his expression into a mask. Usually, he'd find another emotion and hide behind it, but since what he felt was such a mess, he ended up going back to the standard blank mask he'd used until Colm commented on it. It seemed to work, because something in his father's expression broke, making Micah fight to remain expressionless. 

Colm chose that moment to step in, steering his horse so it blocked of eye contact between the father and son, replacing the former with himself.

"We're going now, Micah."

"Boy!  Boy !" 

"I have a name," Micah muttered as he rode after Colm and away from the saloon. 

His father tripped in the mud. It might have been because of an O'Driscoll tripping him intentionally, the slippery staircase, or his own drunkenness.

Micah only heard the splatter and his father crying out with a mouth full of mud.

The only word he understood was vengeance. The last thing he saw of the man was the crestfallen expression on the dirty face. The nausea grew.

He was thankful for Colm speeding up, but even more thankful for the cold rain, running down his face when he threw his head back, lids pressed so tightly shut his eyeballs hurt. 

 

After about ten minutes of galloping through twisty country roads, Colm made them ride less quick after checking that Micah's father wasn't following. The rain had died down to a drizzle, but they were both soaked, the wolf puppy around Colm's shoulders looking deader than usual. But the fresh air helped despite being clogged with moisture. 

"What's so urgent?" Micah asked, sounding subdued.

"Oh, nothing really." 

"...Nothing? Then why'd we leave so fast?" 

"Cause it was getting awkward," Colm lied. 

Micah stared. For some reason he knew it was an obvious, almost playful lie, hiding a sinister truth of forced choices and no turning back. He began laughing. It was crazy and held no real relief, sounding almost sad. Colm smiled as if he liked it.

"I thought I'd use the opportunity to show you some of our other establishments. You haven't really gotten an appreciation for it yet, but you're pretty far up in the system. So I'll need you to know certain things. Want a smoke?" 

His voice was light, and he got out a few cigarillos from what looked like a miniature cigar box.

"No thanks. What things?" 

"Oh," Colm waited until he'd lit one for himself, and exhaled smoke. "Big things. You'll be amazed how lucky you are, joining us in these times. Wait and see." 

He rode ahead. Micah followed. As he did, the world expanded, and he began to register shapes in the rainy mist, like buildings belonging to farmers or ranchers. Forests gave away to farmlands, where tiny human figures seemed busy with repairs, planning ahead for spring. Farmers and ranchers lived such a distanced life from his own, following the seasons rather than opposing them, or in Micah's case when he lived in Colm's basement, ignoring the passing of seasons in favor of a space carved away from the world outside it.

"Are we really not going back?" he asked, raising his voice to carry it over the sound of hooves and squelching mud. "To ... To ..."

"He doesn't own you anymore," Colm replied, the volume making it sound like an order.

Micah slowed down. It took a few seconds for Colm to notice and do the same.  

What had happened? Why was Colm suddenly like this, when he had been …   nice? 

Because it had been nice. The food, the sex, the relaxation. Even the murders had been kind of fun. It had happened so fast, his father randomly showing up in what must've been planned for a while, knowing Colm.   Did this mean the honeymoon – the relaxation, the training, the   sweetness   – was over?  

Riding beside him now, Colm waited for an explanation for Micah dragging his feet (or hooves).

"I own myself," Micah said. "I'm my own person!"

"No you're not. You belong to me."

A nervous lick of lips that shouldn't have tasted like Colm but did.  

"Does that mean you're mine, too?"

Colm's grin was sly, "That little crush of yours has an ugly jealous side, don't it?"

"I ain't got a crush!" 

"No, you're right ..." The grin grew wider.   "It's grown deeper than that."

Micah sucked in an angry breath.

The black hole feeling increased its vortex, and his lungs began hurting.   Colm must've seen it on his face, because he stopped their horses, and Micah faced away.  

"Hey, now. Don't be a coward. Keep looking at me."

There was a big white river that went through the landscape like an angry snake, closing in on the path. Micah was content with watching the river come towards them, until Colm spoke again.

"Abel."

That got his attention.   It felt worse than being whipped or stabbed.   It   felt like   betrayal.  

"How dare -? " Micah began, but Colm cut him off.

"If you act like a victim, I'm gonna treat you like one."

"I'm not a goddamn victim!"

"Then what are you?"

"A survivor!"

"Good. Good, Micah. I haven't got a use for victims. Neither have you, if you're going to thrive in my gang. I'll keep you close, don't worry your black little heart, but I also need you to stand on your own."

Along their path, the river cut zigzag through the farmlands, hissing with the force of winter melting. It grew larger and louder, and Micah's eyes kept darting between the river and Colm.  

"You're mine. Face it. Learn to …"   Like it? Love it?  

But he was drowned out by white noise.  

As if it had struck but changed its mind last minute, the river swung to the side until it was beside the road. No, Micah realized, it was the road that swung to follow the river while it kept eating into it, until the path's side became a small cliff.  

Should Colm slam into Micah, he might fall. But he had already fallen so much under the man that Colm now trusted him.   He could see Colm's lips move, before he made what looked like a rough exhale, which the river also drowned out.  

Only a blazing ambivalence remained where there had been security (not awkwardness, as Colm had claimed) in him leading Micah off.   Micah still followed, but he also loosened the knot of his scarf.

Notes:

Arc III is finished! Whew. I did not expect it to go where it went. Arc IV will take place in fairs, cities and parties, and with Dutch and Annabelle.

Before then, I'll be taking a hiatus from Salt to finish some of my incomplete works.

A big thank you to everyone who follows this story and has left me feedback. It's inspiring. If you want to see more, please consider leaving a kudos and/or a comment, but I'm not holding a gun to anyone's head or anything. Most likely I'll be back anyway, because Salt has a lot more in store for us 😈

Chapter 20: Scarborough Fair

Summary:

After some time apart, Colm reunites with Micah.

Notes:

Annnd we're back, baby! Thank you for your patience ☺️

I'm aiming for an update once a month. I've added a few new ship tags as they're central to the story, and especially arc 4 and 6. Also there will be a bunch of threesome scenes, and I'm mentally referring to this arc as the one where Micah gets molested a lot (thank you Dutch and Owen). I've added some recap elements to this chapter, but honestly this fic is more of a(n evil) slice of life story than anything too heavy on plot, so you should be fine.

Chapter title song is an old English ballad. I like the famous version by Simon & Garfunkel.

In late spring, a letter arrived, lying on Colm's nightstand when he woke.

C,

A little bird told me you've been spending a lot of time with a little bell. I hope he isn't distracting you from our work, nor do I hope he is anything like your previous boy. Shame if a similar fate should befall him.

Teaghlach thar gach uile ní.

Colm knew the word teaghlach meant something similar to family, but did not know nor care about the rest. He saw the threat in Owen's fancy penmanship, and the fact that the bastard - or someone who walked as softly as he did - somehow had visited Colm's rooms as he slept despite the guards and locks. 

He lit a candle on the crooked candle holder, and let the letter burn in his hand, before he lowered it to the stone floor of his room. Seeing it become ash did nothing to soothe his bitterness. But then again, very few things did. 

Micah was wrapped in the bed covers, but his eyes were lit by a wary curiosity.

Watching him back, Colm sighed. He'd told himself to take a break from calling the boy to his room when he wasn't out thieving and murdering. Mostly murdering, if Marvin's updates were correct. But spring meant new possibilities. Maybe an actual break was in order.

"You have work to do," Colm said instead of a good morning, tipping his head towards the door. "So do I."

"Right," Micah said and got up without complaints.

As long as he was healthy, he never complained about early wakings. The discipline that had been beaten into him in his childhood remained unfaltering. Hell, it'd become better from his jobs in the crew, his confidence solidifying as an O'Driscoll Boy, and even if he wore the purple bandana when out in public, Colm knew he kept the green one close.  

They dressed in silence. Micah, in clothes that Colm had picked out for him. He didn't need as much fur as he had in the early spring months, but he did seem to appreciate clothes without holes. His gray shirt was Colm's, his pants and socks too, though the rest was a part of his uniform. The leather coat still had marks of burning on it, but he had taken care of the gift.  

"Some time will pass before we see each other again," Colm said while fixing his tie.

"You going away again?"

"Something like that. As you know, Owen keeps wanting us to expand."

Expanding the gang, the expectancies, the chains around me.  

"When will I see you again, boss?" Micah asked, facing away, trying to make it sound businesslike.

"Dunno," Colm said. "It might take a while."

He walked over, and saw that Micah was wearing the thin green bandana, holding up a thicker purple wool scarf in his hands, to hide it. As though he didn't care about the stupid color, Colm took it from him and wrapped it around his neck, but he still kept his hands on Micah's throat, feeling the green bandana beneath the purple scarf. The soft skin beneath, the bobbing Adam's apple, which looked so biteable. 

Colm bent close, dragging his lips over Micah's skin, but not biting him just yet. It did not taste like apples, but it was sweet all the same. There were quite a few bruises from the previous night. His hand came to rest on the back of Micah's neck, pulling at the thinner locks underneath lengthening blonde hair. Like always, Micah melted into the touch.

"As we spent time apart, do make sure to show me how irreplaceable you are to this gang," Colm's voice became a whisper into Micah's ear, "and to me. I will compensate you accordingly."

"Like some sort of test?" Micah asked, maybe thinking about the competition for his name, orchestrated by his cleverly cruel grandfather. But he was watching the ashen remains of the letter on the stone floor, too perceptive for his own good. It was one of the best and worst things about him.

"Not a test. A game of remembering who you belong to."

Colm lifted the fabric and kissed the side of Micah's neck, underneath the wool and the cotton. Even better than his Adam's apple, which protected his voice, was his quickening pulse. Colm started gnawing at the skin like he could suck out Micah's life force. Letting him, Micah stretched to give him better access, and he put his hands on Colm's back. It was a lover's gesture, and it made Colm withdraw.

He should've corrected him, but he couldn't, too fascinated by how Micah cupped a palm around the bite mark, even as he put the scarf back over it. He was still cupping his hand there when Colm dismissed him with a look towards the door. They watched each other out of the corners of their eyes as they parted.  

Afterwards, Colm sought a mirror. He looked deader and colder than usual. But he had never been a sentimental man. He had seen so many boys come and go, burning bright like gasoline before abruptly being snuffed out, while he remained the same, burning slowly like seasoned hardwood. There was no reason that the Bell boy should change anything within him.

 

During the year that followed, there was a change in Colm's life: 

He began to drink green tea instead of coffee. 

He had felt adventurous one summer evening, ordering it during a restaurant visit with Owen in Blackwater, along with the half-senile chief of police, Vernon Dunbar, and his son Oswald, who was next in line to his father's title. Owen's influence was growing in the city, and not only because of his connections to these two lawmen and the law itself, but because plenty of rich folks enjoyed his machinations across the country, including the gambling dens, whorehouses, and steady supply of hard liquors and harder drugs. 

Through his usual indirect, flowery prose, Owen spoke of how the O'Driscolls planned to become a fully respectable company. The younger Dunbar muttered that all sorts of organizations, when they grew up to a certain point, would have to work hard to remain clean of rot. The older Dunbar elbowed him and said that kids these days were too damn serious, sending an apologetic look to Owen, before grinning with a mouth full of gold teeth.

"Yes. Kids these days, hmm?" Owen said, smiling at Colm. 

Colm did not respond.

The restaurant was out of coffee, but the server suggested green tea. It tasted bitter, but surprisingly good, and it suited his mood. However, it was here this change began to alert him of a larger one, as he couldn't recall the last time that he'd felt adventurous enough to try changing his habits. It solidified the idea that he needed to keep his distance from the Bell boy.

At a rather respectable saloon, this time in autumn, Colm caved in and ordered green tea again. He wasn't the one to deny himself items he liked, especially not luxurious ones, because he liked so few things. Still, it felt a bit like a defeat.

Come winter, he had the boys bring boxes of green tea leaves to him wherever he was staying during his travels; large tents (tolerable), caves (intolerable), cabins (he liked those) and saloons (paranoia-inducing but necessary, because Owen insisted that Colm went all over to oversee the aforementioned gambling dens and whorehouses to make sure they got a new veneer of respectability). 

The last few years had been a fog in his mind that allowed him to devote himself entirely to work. Owen had expected him to step up ever since he abandoned his own work as a fixer to tie closer ties with his brother's gang, and he agreed because he couldn't really see a reason not to. There wasn't just business involved in the decision. Yeah, he needed Colm's skill in blackmail and clean-ups both in terms of paperwork and bloodied rooms - but Owen also knew from experience that Colm couldn't kill him. 

Now the fog was clearing. Colm didn't like it. He had a hunch what and who was responsible for it, because there had been only one other change in his life that last winter: a warm body, shaking and screaming and laughing, whose absence lingered in the beds and bedrolls Colm had since laid in.

He tried his best not to think of Micah. Unlike the green tea, which most of his men didn't care about, he couldn't order Micah to him without people (Owen) assuming he had some sort of fondness for the boy. And it wasn't like Micah wasn't equally busy, working.

Micah's new position in Marvin's crew ate up most of his time, and Colm liked having Marvin watch over him, making sure Micah remained Colm's in other ways too. Surprisingly, the boy acted chaste, saying no to visiting whorehouses. Maybe he'd taken Colm's rules too literally. They were more an active discouragement; Colm discouraged the use of whores and heavy drinking on the job, resulting in diseases and drunkenness, which made it harder to shoot. (Kind of difficult to aim true when one's balls itched something fierce. Colm rarely itched, except than on a deeper plane, a pull that had him engaging in self-care before bedtime more often than before).

Micah sent him letters. Not romantic ones, god forbid, nor anything relating to their more sordid relationship. He tried his best to make them appear like updates of the crew's situation. But where he complained about shrieking women, Marvin gave better though equally coded accounts of the lives they were there to silence. But Marvin never signed his letters with an inverted cross like Micah did, which was something. Once the inverted cross had been signed in blood, and Colm had laughed and kept that letter around as a bookmark, before he realized the action could appear sentimental to an outsider and burnt it.

He reasoned that the time apart would make them realize their positions. And yet, in taverns and in tents, Colm found himself looking at the absence in his own bed, mind a pit of all the things he could've done to a cold-blooded mind inside a warm body, and not just anybody's. 

The cold of winter chilled his skin, but it barely froze the surface of his desires. 

Whenever he felt those desires, and no self-care seemed to make them go away, Colm made himself a cup of green tea instead of asking a whore to come visit him. He soaked the leaves in the warm water longer than advised, and then he drank it, bitter.

 

All those travels across the country, in a web made by a spider on cocaine, they had to end somewhere. Colm was not on cocaine, but he was coming down from it. The hangover came with a particular fever, which broke at noon, and when he squinted against the light, he found himself in another saloon room. 

He was in a double bed, soft and luxurious. The low yellow light of spring streamed from the windows. There were voices outside, even music, which was strange, because as far as he remembered this was a wayward saloon, not close to many cities or towns.

Beside the bed he laid in was a large desk covered in scrawled-on maps and papers. Some had fallen to the floor. Over the chair hung his winter coat with the sprinkle of white dust on the fur collar. If he remembered correctly, he had sneezed the last session of coke away. He remembered none of his great plans. That meant they probably weren't good, but they could've been used regardless as his life wasn't the one on the line.

Owen expected good intel, which Colm provided him with, but it was worse when he expected good plans. What Colm enjoyed was quick strategy and blackmail, and even the odd intrigue here and there that he let go without punishment because it amused him that say, a crooked lawman had a special fondness for pigs that he did not want to go public. What Colm didn't enjoy were long-term plans, concerned with tax fraud and appearing lawful.  

He smoothed out the wrinkles of his clothes (he hated sleeping in his own clothes) and went to the balcony. 

As soon as he opened the doors, the voices became louder, and the light blended him. A fair had materialized overnight, celebrating the upcoming arrival of summer. Most likely it had been there as he arrived, but he had been too tired to notice it as he rode there, and then too coked up to notice. 

The fair was situated in the grassy field in front of the saloon. There were a great many tents, muddy dirt roads going between them. Fires were burning, cooking big pots of stews, or fancy pieces of meat, the fat sizzling like angry cats. Everywhere there were animals, being bought and sold and slaughtered, or pasturing lazily in the area around the fair. Colm could smell them from where he stood. 

He couldn't work in these conditions. It reminded him too much of his childhood village. Like someone he knew - someone small and blonde and scowling - would've said, Fuck that shit. His lip quirked, then fell flat. 

... But hadn't he stayed away from Micah long enough? Hadn't he worked his ass off, alone mostly, while his boys crawled around him like ants that were aimless without a queen? No. No, this called for a reward.

Clapping his hands as he walked to the door of the room, his guard dutifully straightened. He had a particularly beautiful face. Colm lit a cigarette and felt the need to plant it on the boy's fat bottom lip.

"Any news of Marvin's Crew?"

"Uh, not much, boss. Far as I know, they're still busy staking out the Hanson mine. Marvin was in the area though, and he sent his regards for those extra supplies you sent them. Said they'll come in handy now that the heat's rising and it'll all rot faster than usual, but - "

"I want you to find Marvin's Crew and tell them to loan me Micah for a time." 

"Uuuh, I'm not really the best rider you know, I'm more of a ground type of person, but -"

"I don't care. Tell him to come here for an extra supply run."

"Alright," the boy said, his bottom lip protruding, or maybe it was always like that. "But -"

Some needed a rougher hand than others, and Colm didn't feel much of anything as he put his smoke out on the boy's lip, watching him pull back with an ugly moan of pain, nothing like Micah's at all.

 

The whole day was warm and the lingering hangover all the more dreadful for it. Both it and the fair lasted until after the sun went down, and then there was an astounding lack of drinking and whoring.

When Colm bought himself a cup of green tea downstairs, he learned that the locals were deeply religious. They preferred good food and only a bit of alter wine, the saloonkeeper told him with pride.

"How tedious," Colm said, and the saloonkeeper laughed uncertainly.

In the short evening Colm had spent downstairs, his room had already warmed up, the heat traveling from the packed crowd and into his personal space. He shoved the balcony doors open with more force than intended.

In the mud among the tents and torches, the speck of blonde was clearer to Colm than the browns and reds around him. The blonde head stopped, seeing Colm. It wasn't all that surprising, his room being the largest suite and lit brightly enough to be noticed in the dark.

What was more surprising was how that teeny tiny wretch of a person, as soon as he came closer, turned away from Colm with his full body. He took a decisive step towards one of the small tent-shops. It was shut for the day, but he didn't let that stop him. With a theatricality he had after his father, he loosened the green bandana and tied it around his face. He took a look here and there, more for drama than making sure he was alone, before sneaking into the tent as quick as a snake.

How risky and stupid. Colm's lip quirked again like some sort of annoying tic, and he lit himself a cigar to hide it.

The room had cooled down sufficiently, and he closed the doors to the balcony after him, because he did not want the boy to have the satisfaction of seeing him waiting. But waiting he was, even as he tried to hide himself among unfinished paperwork, cigar smoke, and endless green tea. 

 

He'd just finished brewing himself another pot when Micah burst into the room, while the new guard and the one who'd been sent on the fetching mission followed and tried to stop him.

"Leave us," Colm ordered, and the two men scattered like bad dogs.

The kitten remained where he was, head slightly tilted to the side, green bandana now resting at his neck but his short beard damp from his own breath. His blue eyes were narrowed, shoulders high, a quick tongue coming to lick the bottom lip like a mix between a taste of the tension and an invitation. It'd been months since they last saw one another, and yet the memories all slammed back into Colm.

The atmosphere became strangely warm and glittery. Had the room warmed suddenly? Or was it the hangover? 

Micah looked like he was hungry to the point of paleness and nausea. Not hungry for food, oh no, but another kind of filling thing that left a gnawing emptiness if one went too long without. Maybe Micah should be allowed to eat at his own pace, underneath Colm's hold, preferably in his long hair.

"Take off your hat," Colm said. "Your jacket, too."

Micah did, removing the hat - wide and white - and jacket - long and black - and putting both on the commode near the door. The two guards were probably pressing their ears towards it, for curiosity or for something to report back to Owen. It was all fine, of course. They already knew of his reputation when it came to young things like Micah, and Owen would also be aware that Colm hadn't touched this one in several months, enough to demonstrate the unimportance of their fling. However, it might've been a fling, but the knowledge lingered.

Micah dropped to his knees in front of Colm without being asked to.

Good kitten, Colm might've said, but he was busy admiring the newfound fullness of Micah's face, resting with its chin on his crotch, blue eyes almost looking furious with how hungry they were. It seemed like he had missed this, when out doing his new job and doing it well enough for Colm to send him extra supplies; food, mostly, to fatten him up. Maybe the warmth in the room was just the heat shimmers rising from him like a road in a warm country, leading straight to Colm. He was already undoing Colm's trousers to get to the prize.

"Hello to you too," Colm said, patting his head. "Missed me?" 

Micah growled low in his throat as an answer, struggling with the buttons, then making an excited inhale as he found what he was looking for.

"So needy you can't speak, yeah?" Colm said, getting out some smokes from his pocket and at the same time pushing his cock towards the opening of his pants.

Micah swallowed him down as an answer. He kept on glowering. He hadn't said a word of greeting, nor given an update of what he'd done in that tent when on the way over to the saloon, but Colm couldn't blame him. He supposed he'd missed some of this, too. 

He'd missed twisting his fingers in Micah's hair with the hand that wasn't holding his cigarette, enjoying the rush of nicotine along with the strokes of an eager tongue. Colm ended up smoking through the corner of his mouth just so he could get both hands down to hold Micah's skull in place, one around his neck, one in his hair. He counted smoke rings in the ceiling as he fucked Micah's face, trying to prolong his climax.

Sadly, it came and went too quick. Colm closed his eyes as Micah coaxed it forth, easily the fastest he'd ever been, no more than two minutes. The orgasm itself lasted no more than a second, a disappointment after a few weeks of abstinence for no other reason than that he was busy.

Micah drank him down, looking more satisfied than he felt.

When he tried to lick at Colm's oversensitive cock, Colm shoved him away. He put so much force in the movement that he lost his cigarette. It fell to the floor and created an ashen mark.

While Colm sat down on the foot of the bed to catch his breath, Micah picked it up, re-lit it, and smoked the remains, sucking extra hard. He looked far too pleased as he stood up, taller than Colm in his current position, but that didn't seem to be the source of his pride. No, that was more evident as he started checking the pockets of his trousers, then returned to the commode to check the jacket as well.

"I got you something," Micah said, more like a lover's greeting than an employee's. Odd and dangerous.

He held up a silver necklace. It held the shape of two clasped hands holding a crowned heart made of emerald. Colm remembered the symbol being called Claddagh, symbolizing love, friendship and loyalty. Loyalty yes, friendship no, and love...? It was odd and dangerous indeed.

"Is that supposed to mean something, to me?" Colm said flatly.

"It's Irish. There were flags and symbols everywhere in that shop. And like, notes. What it means and ... other useless shit like that."

"You can read? Huh. No, don't look sour, it's just that your handwriting leaves much to be desired."

Micah put the silver necklace back into the pocket of his pants. The movement was jerky like he hadn't considered that Colm might not accept the stolen gift.

"Why didn't you respond to my letters?" he asked instead.

Colm scowled.

Because you don't mean that much to me. Because Owen intercepts my post.  

Both were potential truths, one that was too cutting, and one that was too honest.

"Why do you think you've been so well-fed?" Colm said instead. Maybe it was simply to make sure the evening would go as planned, with no more sourness from Micah. "Did you think all those treats were from Owen?"

"What? No. Weren't they from you?" Micah asked slowly. 

"Of course they were. Why, were you sending letters to my brother, too?" 

"No!"

It wasn't far off from their usual dance, but there was a discomfort in it, like the time passed had not meant what either of them thought it would. Their expectant results kept clashing, and the banter felt awkward, like what would've been paper cuts before becoming knife wounds and vice versa. 

Maybe it would be better without talking.

"Then show me," Colm said. He kicked off his own boots, rougher with the fine leather than he usually would've done. He crawled backwards, and after he'd found his place among the pillows, he beckoned Micah to him.

"Show me," he repeated, letting Micah be the one who made up the meaning of what exactly was to be shown. How irreplaceable he was, how special he was, how needy he'd become? Colm didn't know himself, but he needed to get this back to the usual exchange as fast as possible.

If not, they might appear human to each other. And that would be far too tedious. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Colm felt more relaxed.

It was hard to think about long-terms plans with all that ass bouncing on him. Micah was riding him as though his life depended on it, beginning clumsily before figuring it out. It required him to lean on his arms and spread his legs wide, while Colm had a nice view of his long, blonde hair, the green bandana around his thin neck, the muscles of his back, and that exquisite ass, the flesh of it protruding each time he slammed it down. Colm was stretched out in bed, popped up with a few pillows, expecting the boy to do all the work.

And he did. Quite beautifully, in fact. Sweat dripping down his back, muscled arms strained on each side of Colm, looking so good Colm almost couldn't hold it against Owen to have wanted a piece of him.

But that thought was gone soon enough, as Colm watched with interest as Micah cried out. His arms and legs were shaking from the strain, yet he couldn't keep himself from finding a particular angle that made him cry, edging himself using Colm's cock with no relief in sight.

"I shouldn't give you too much of this," Colm muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Wha- What?" Micah stammered.

"I know you're crazy for my cock in your ass, so it's better as a reward than a punishment."

"Reward," Micah said, looking over his shoulder like he was the one rewarding Colm.

Colm had to hold back not to thrust up into that dry heat to tell him what he thought about that, because in some ways he'd just been confirming Micah's false point.

Oh, there had been some slick in the beginning, but only to make sure he wouldn't bleed. Colm wouldn't mind blood or screaming, but he'd get irritated if he couldn't fuck Micah in the morning before he left to go back to his crew without it causing permanent damage.

But Micah was doing well despite the dryness. It'd been worth being extra nice to the boy, especially when Colm could see it clearly in both Micah's body and his energy level. He'd never have managed this when they first met, stick thin as he used to be, trying to survive on his father's diet of alcohol and tobacco and failing because he was a growing thing that needed nourishment. Colm would give him all the nourishment he needed.

So that solved the issue. This wasn't a reward or a punishment. This was nourishment.

He clasped Micah's hips, fingers digging into the supple flesh, hard enough to create bruises. It would always be harder to come the second time around, so he needed something, and Micah's whimpers of pain weren't enough. 

It took more effort than he'd planned to throw Micah to the side and follow, not even letting him get to all fours before he plunged into him again. The goal wasn't to fuck him through the mattress even if it might've appeared so to others, but damn if the slapping noises weren't lovely. The whimpers, too, stronger now and more delicious than any candy.

But it was bitter how Colm's orgasm was far too quick this time too.

"Stop," Micah said, even as he shoved his ass up to get a better angle.

Colm hissed in irritation because he couldn't help how aroused the refusal made him, and Micah must've known, arching his back and cursing happily when Colm finally came within him with a few erratic thrusts. And then there was nothing. Nothing except Micah's eyes, with the same triumph as before, but also an undercurrent of wistfulness. 

 

They breathed. They smoked. They should've remained quiet well into sleep, but of course things couldn't be that easy. It was a late spring night's kind of dark in the room, the last candles having burnt down, but not entirely dark.

"Why didn't you want the necklace? Could be worth something." The voice was less wheezing than it was when Micah wanted something, but he wanted something all the same. He just didn't realize what it was. 

Colm closed his eyes hard, afterglow fading, headache returning. He needed to settle this once and for all.

"This is not how this thing works, you know."

"Not what how ..."

"This," Colm snapped his fingers in front of Micah's face until he turned his head and met his gaze, and Colm pointed between them, before pecking his index finger into the spot between Micah's bushy brows. "This right here. I'm your boss. Not your friend. Not your father. And certainly not your lo -"

"I know you ain't him," Micah cut him off, but his voice was shaky. "Sorry, boss," he added a moment afterwards. "I know we're not ... those other things."

"Well. I remind you more of your grandfather, don't I? Old man in the rocking chair in a corner of the room, while you're locked in a chest downstairs, forgetting your name. Or am I mixing it up?"

"Quit it. You said ... We agreed ..."

"No talks of family in bed, I remember. But a lot of things have changed since then, haven't they? Like I was so kind to show you, our organization is expanding. You must've noticed the increasing jobs." 

"Of course," Micah said, scoffing. "Been doing nothing but work."

Same here. "And the money is good, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

The silence stretched on.

Colm leaned closer to Micah's face. Both of them were at the same height for once, lying side by side and face to face, but the gravity made Micah's face look a bit different. That, combined with the time spent apart, made Colm slow to register that Micah wasn't sour or angry; he seemed ... sad. 

"Do you think you're precious to me?" Colm asked, voice dripping with irony.

Micah betrayed the hurt in a single motion: a wrinkle above his brow, a twitch and then gone. Then he shook his head, but it was too late.

"Precious," Colm repeated, but with more warmth in it. This was truly his favorite part of the Bell boy; the way he fed Colm's sadism not only with his body and his noises, but with his very expression, shattering so beautifully.

And then the kid had the audacity to pull away and snarl. 

Or well he did snarl, and he did get a few centimeters away, but then Colm had grabbed his shoulder and dragged him back with a force that could've dislocated his shoulder hadn't muscle memory made Micah yield. Colm idly wondered if it was his father who'd beaten that into him.

"If you leave my bed, you leave this gang. I'll put word out that you're a traitor, and I'll have the boys hunt you down like an animal. Do you know what they do to people they consider animals? Even if you haven't joined in on one of their hunts, I'm sure you can imagine the frustration, simply from being so very frustrated on your own campaigns of murder and mayhem." 

Micah didn't answer, but he didn't scram when Colm let go off him. He did, however, tense all over when Colm touched between his legs. He wasn't disappointed to find him soft, not when he responded so fast with the harsh squeeze from fingers that knew him better than he did himself.

"Was I too cruel? Talking to you like that? Or making you wait for this?" 

Another squeeze, gathering his cock and balls up, to hurt him in that particular way that he liked, and also using the tone of voice he loved, with words he disliked immensely.

"Or was it me mentioning your ... family competition?"

Micah whined, but he was already pumping into Colm's hold.

"Don't."

Colm blinked lazily at him, before he went closer, kissing along Micah's shoulder. He had to be more persuasive. The boy tasted like freshwater, and Colm idly wondered if he'd stopped by a creek on the ride here to wash himself, trying to make himself more presentable. It was a nicer gift than any necklace.

"Damn. I really want to say it. Your old name, I mean."

"Please don't," Micah said, stretching his neck, giving him all the best angles.

"I'll whisper it. I know you like my voice, I see you shivering from it. You'll barely hear it." Colm kissed the skin behind his ear. "I won't let you get off until you let me say it." He put his teeth on his earlobe, his bites wet. "You'll always be Micah to me, I just wanna say it."

"Okay, Colm," Micah wheezed.

Colm didn't say it immediately. He kept his motions hard, and then gentle, stroking him a little near the head, watching him keen from overstimulation, before finally giving him the harsher tugs he needed to get off.

"Abel," Colm said sweetly.

Micah came all over his hand with a delightful squeak. He kept at it for a long time, spilling so much that Colm wondered if he'd not even been touching himself properly, saving it for this encounter. It was cute in a dumb sort of way, better than the more manipulative charm of his brother. 

He wiped Micah's seed on his belly, another place that had gathered more fat, but just as hard as last time, due to beer. So he was drinking a little, even if he stayed off the whores. Remembering that last part made a strange sense of kinship come over him, as if Micah was as trapped in work (and this complicated thing between them) as Colm was.

He took hold of Micah's chin and kissed him on the mouth, the first time in a long while. Felt those lips part, letting him in, shuddering at how wet and nasty he could make it, breathing audibly through his nose. His eyes were wide open where Micah's were closed, and he saw how his brows loosened, that same pained twitch from before mixing in with the wistfulness. It seemed distance also made black hearts grow fonder.

Colm let Micah catch his breath before he spoke.

"We're going to Blackwater together soon. I have business there, and we'll be a while, so I'll need a personal bodyguard. You happen to fit the bill."

Micah tried to nonchalantly grunt an affirmative and hide his grin. Then his brows narrowed.

"But ... Marvin ... He said he expected me to be back to help out with the new jobs." 

"He'll understand. You're a good gun, but you're not irreplaceable." A dangerous pause, waking Micah more up before he let him off the hook. "Not to him, anyway. At least not at the level of your current job. That mining family will be gone in no time." A lighter pause. "Sweet dreams. Dream of Blackwater."

"Will Owen be there?" Micah asked, voice rough but forcefully neutral.

"Yes," Colm answered after a brief silence, and he forced his voice to be neutral, too. He reached for the cup of green tea on the nightstand and drank it even though it'd gone cold. It tasted bitter. Bitter.

Notes:

I also got myself a Twitter recently, so feel free to check it out. Posting more than I thought I would, but there are a lot of cool fans of Micah/Colm there. Come *old man Micah voice* joiiiiin us!

Also a special thanks to my kind friend SkelosBadlands for teaching me that green tea was popular at the time 🖤

Chapter 21: Just Dropped In

Summary:

The first day in Blackwater leads to an evening with Annabelle and Dutch.

Notes:

Warnings: M/M/M, violence, threats; nothing all that new.

Title track song is by Kenny Rodgers.

Carriage trips were far nicer when Colm had someone there to debauch. 

The landscape on both sides of the country road was flat yellow grassland. Six horses were pulling the carriage, along with two in the back; Dearg Dubh and Fourteen. The driver had been working for Colm long enough to not care of the noises - nor any potential screams - that came from behind him when a boy joining Colm in there.

Micah was squeezed in between the corner of the seats and Colm's body. The one foot he had planted on the floor kicked like an angry rabbit's, the other leg was curled around Colm's, and his hand was on his back. He looked good beneath him. He was biting his bottom lip so hard he might actually start bleeding there too. His neck was certainly bleeding, because Colm kept biting at it, having loosened the green neckerchief for his own simple but violent pleasures. They hadn't spoken much, and they didn't need to, because Micah's hand at his back was rubbing at the shirt fabric more than he was trying to get him to stop. His lips were swollen because he kept dragging them alongside Colm's face, muttering curses. His soft, blonde beard had grown, only a smidgeon coarser than before, which could just as well be dirt from living in the wilds for so long.

Colm sat back up and licked blood off his teeth.

Then his grin faltered as he remembered how he needed to get some final reports done before they reached Blackwater. Sighing, he reached out to a leather satchel, not caring too much that Micah's panting breaths were turning uncertain. So much was uncertain, with Owen now not only getting acquainted with the elite, but getting so friendly that quite a few of the jobs Colm had overseen - and Micah had carried out - had been more in the interests of Owen's friends than their gang. Tedious really.

Micah wasn't quite so tedious. He was daring enough to crawl closer. Colm raised his eyes from his notebook, gazing briefly at him, before going back to work. Slowly, Micah slid to the floor, and with a few shuffling movements, it was clear he seemed content to rub against Colm's boot. Colm smirked and lifted the top of his boot, pleased at the quiet groan Micah made in response. They seemed to understand one another well without words.

They would have to speak sometime, because no doubt Owen would try to lay his claim to Micah once more, and that could make Colm's carriage trips a bit emptier after the summer was over. As he nodded to give permission for Micah to get off, he reached out and touched the boy's neck, driving his fingernails into the many cuts left by his own teeth.

"Look up," he said. 

Up, up, up, above basements and saloons and carriages, to a place without stars where there was no one else but the two of them. 

Micah looked up, eyes half-lidded in lust. Colm opened Micah's mouth, and then he spat into it. Micah jerked slightly but still swallowed. He made a noise that was a mix of pleasure and discomfort, and the lust in his eyes turned sharper. Due to his bad back, Colm couldn't sit bent forward like this for long, but he still used a couple of moments to simply kiss Micah, while the boy kept rutting against his boot. He thought he could taste his own spit on Micah's lips, and it tasted sweeter somehow. 

The conversation could wait. 

 

The rising summer heat made Blackwater less lively than Colm remembered.

The wind from the sea made people along the shorelines move quicker, but between tall buildings in the city centre, everything slowed down. Colm yawned as he exited the carriage, barely remembering to cover it with his hand.

Micah had no such grace, stalking after him, shoulders tense at the sight of so many people. Though used to high temperatures from his family's preferences for hideouts in prairies and desert climates, he didn't seem to like it. He looked more at peace among snow, Colm knew that from experience. He also knew from experience that Micah's presence wouldn't be tolerated for long here if he didn't clean him up and get him to a proper tailor and barber soon. What was acceptable for a young gunman living in the woods was not acceptable in a city that prided itself on its modernity. 

Still, where Owen stayed with friends, Colm settled for a mediocre saloon, one by many owned by a certain Miss Dubois. The carriage was parked right outside, and the rider was in the process of moving Colm's things into his old room.

Colm grabbed the back of Micah's neck both to guide him, to scrape at the bite marks, and to ground himself.

 

The room was smaller than the last one they'd shared; the one at the saloon by the fair.

Here, the walls were dark red, a plush carpet in the same tone, and golden fixtures on the sparse furniture. A small window, staring into the mirroring blueness of sky and sea, and the winds playing with the golden dust on the shore. A bed, large and soft and luxurious, which it needed to be for Colm's back and apparent inability to stay without a bed partner for long.

Micah seemed interested in it, trying to dive into the first bit of softness he'd seen in days, but was stopped by Colm telling him to take a bath first. The carriage rider, who'd just finished carrying the things inside, hurriedly dragged forth a wooden tub from a closet and began to run in and out to fill it with soap and warmed water, before he excused himself and left.

Sitting on a nearby chair, Colm washed himself with a rag, not bothering to step into the tub to do so.

Micah was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around his legs.

"You're quieter than usual," Colm remarked as he dried himself off. 

"So are you." 

Colm hummed, then gestured for Micah to get in the bath.

"Has Marvin managed to beat the delinquent out of you?" 

"He doesn't beat me," Micah said while undressing. "He's not fast enough."

"I guess he isn't. Careful, the bottom's always slippery. Use the green soap, not the white one."

Micah washed himself efficiently, nothing like when he'd been bathed by Red. Colm supposed he was tired enough to showcase how he'd been taught to do this as a boy. No enjoyment in it.

He was done in less than five minutes, and then he tried to get up, startling when Colm pushed him back down. 

"Give me a show, would you? Then you'll get your nap."

"I don't need a damn nap," Micah said, but he spread his legs in the tub all the same.

He reached down into the bathwater, whose contents were murky, topped with a pearly layer of soap. His lips thinned as he began to touch himself, keeping up eye contact with Colm. Without breaking it, Colm reached for a bottle of whiskey.

Then there was a knock on the door.

"Colm?" 

"Come in, Miss Dubois," he said, recognizing the voice. 

She had grown fuller than the last time he saw her, but it gave her a soft and youth-like look, despite being roughly the same age as Colm. Unlike her mother, who was a greedy charlatan, she had a grace about her movements that contrasted the hungry redness of her painted lips. Her dress was red, too, just like the interiors of her saloons. A rich red, a whorish red, a lovely red all the same. It split open and revealed a row of yellow teeth as she set her gaze upon Micah in the bath tub. He had gone back to putting his hands around his legs like when he'd been on the floor, but he was tenser.

"Oh, I didn't think anyone was joining you, this time," she said in her usual airy tone. "I'll have my servants bring you some extra necessities. Would the two of you like to join us for dinner? Our mutual acquaintance is dying to see you." 

"Sure, Miss Dubois," Colm said, kissing her doughy hand on the small ruby ring she wore on her middle finger, both of their expressions sharpened like someone who enjoyed the parody of affection more than the affection itself.

"Please," she said with a flicker of warmth in the facade, "call me Annabelle."

 

Where Colm could say he liked Annabelle Dubois for her business sense, the parties she held in her lavish winter garden and her intense hatred for the law, he had a slightly more complicated relationship with her latest boy toy.

Dutch van der Linde was easy to spot in the bar and restaurant section of the building, long black curls tumbling over his shoulder as he raised his cocktail glass in greeting. He had changed since the last time, with lines around his eyes that weren't there in his early twenties, when he had made use of Colm's old work of making crimes "go away" by offering an exchange that'd made Dutch's lips plump with effort. Annabelle had tailored him to her taste, with a black bowler hat, a steel gray wool jacket with leather accents, and a red scarf, pocket square and gloves that matched her outfit and the interior.

Smiling at Dutch, Annabelle guided Colm and Micah towards his table and couches, in a hidden corner complete with velvet curtains for privacy. The saloon didn't have a direct connection to the O'Driscoll name, existing alongside Owen's businesses and associates like a neutral zone. Colm and Micah took the other side of the table, and after pulling the curtains more closed, Annabelle sat down next to Dutch, both of them smiling like sharing a particular secret, as if everyone with eyes couldn't see their liaison, especially in how traces of lipstick lingered under Dutch's scarf.

Dutch might be one of those larger-than-life figures, but Colm knew that he was still smaller than death.

Therein lay their understanding and their difference.

"Colm," Dutch greeted him simply. "Who's your young friend?" 

Micah wasn't much younger than him or Annabelle; he was simply more unused to fine company. Colm inclined his head, then curled a hand around Micah's shoulder, and introduced him by his first name and not the second, just in case the Bell family remained infamous around these parts, and a way to tell Dutch and Annabelle that this boy was not theirs.

Annabelle got it, but Dutch struggled. He kept glancing at Micah with interest, and Micah simply scowled, but there was a slight twitch of his brow that betrayed a kind of bewilderment. Dutch didn't look like he wanted to kill Micah, he was checking him out, and the youngest among the four of them should've been used enough to that by now to know what it meant.

Colm scratched the stubble near his chin. This evening could get interesting and annoying.

 

Annabelle ordered food and drinks for all of them, knowing Dutch's and Colm's tastes from before, and glancing respectfully at Micah's bewildered look before ordering for him too. She was an admirable hostess, updating Colm on her business, and subtly inquiring after Owen. In return for her hospitality, Colm answered her inquiries. They were served ox tail soup in large bowls, accompanied by buttered white bread, and tall glasses of sweetish dark beer that were like meals on their own.

Micah's atrocious manners charmed Colm too much for him to correct them, and it also made his own seem less bad, slurping soup less loudly than his companion. Dutch hid his smirk behind a fluffy piece of bread, and Annabelle liked street rats too much to care. Micah ate fast and finished first as if expecting that any food could be suddenly withdrawn from him. Interestingly, Dutch ate similarly fast and was second to finish, though he left some beer in his glass so he could swirl it around until Micah looked at it as if hypnotized, giving an opportunity for a conversation between them.

"How do you find Blackwater, young Micah?" Dutch said with a serious voice that would fit better if he ever got to forty.

Micah stole a glance at Colm – who shrugged - before he answered with a similar shrug.

"No one's called me young in years," he said instead, raising a brow at Dutch.

(That was a damn lie. In early spring, at The Flying Dutchman, a lower ranking man had caused a ruckus saying Micah was too young to be so high up on the hierarchy. The man parodied Micah by waving his hands in the air and kicking his legs out from the bar stool he was seated on, until Micah planted a knife a finger's width away from his balls. Colm thought the whole ordeal funny and had let Micah get away with it, simply waving the near-eunuch away so they could drink in peace.)

"Just Micah, then?" Dutch said after a pause.

"No one's called me just, either."

"Neither is Blackwater," Annabelle said, bringing the topic back around.

"I guess I haven't seen much of it," Micah said. "But, uh, civilization ain't exactly my preference."

"You prefer the wilderness, then?" Dutch said, smiling. "A man of my own heart, truly. There's nothing like waking up beneath an open night sky, except-" a glance at Annabelle through dark lashes, "- waking up beneath a beautiful woman."

Though her fine habits caught up by making her hide her mouth with a bejeweled hand, they did not catch her laughter, a characteristic "Oh-hohoho!" that Colm had forgotten. She slapped Dutch's knee. He bowed as if sheepish. They were all playing their roles here, in a private theatre that allowed for gentler drama than the one Colm played with Owen.

"What about you, Colm?" Dutch continued. "Do you miss the wilderness?"

"Nah. Getting too old to sleep on the ground. But I was fonder of city life before. Feels like I've seen it all before."

"Before you partnered up with Owen, yes?" Dutch asked.

Colm regarded him for a moment. He felt Micah's eyes on him. He hadn't told the boy much of his past because he wasn't prone to discuss it in general. Suddenly he craved a cup of green tea, but something kept him from asking.

"Yes," he said eventually, letting the pause speak for itself.

Dutch wisely did not chase the subject of his past, but could not keep himself from inquiring about his present.

"I'm sure your new work comes with new responsibilities. Word on the street is that you're doing well for yourself. Earning your place within the ranks. On better terms with those outside of society, than inside of it, a mode of being of which I can relate. Excluding lovely Annabelle, of course, who has an understanding for both sides of life."

"All are welcome in my establishments," Annabelle said, putting a hand on Dutch's shoulder, maybe to shut him up before he got too deep. "Life just isn't very ... interesting, if you shut yourself off from new experiences, sinking into the plush chair and never getting up. I'd rather live a short and interesting life than a long and boring one."

"Yeah," Micah added, too fast to be polite, but Annabelle's smile was kindly.

"It's not an ideal," Colm said at length, his mind having centered around that point in the conversation. "It's simply a preference. I have always preferred the company of men and women who society deem as low. It's easier to walk among them, guide them, appear when needed as a leader should."

"Easier to create purer relations, perhaps," Dutch said, doing another one of those little bows towards Annabelle, trying to appear like the earnest beggar boy that he wasn't, not with how he'd held his spoon. That skill came not from weeks in her care, but from years in a finer family. The boy was an enigma that Colm liked in some respects and disliked in others.

"Purer? I don't know about purity. Easier to guide, I'd say. It's easier to use a rusty blade of iron than a butterknife of silver. If you still have ambitions of leadership, I suggest you learn that ideals will only get you so far. Fear can get you further."

"Excuse me for interrupting," Annabelle said, no doubt sensing that the conversation was headed towards blood and murder and others things that could be a bit too interesting if one wished to remain neutral. "I have an appointment soon. But feel free to continue your little debate. Drinks are on the house. Oh, and," she held up a flat hand as if whispering a secret to Micah, "do feel free to explore the kitchens if their debates become too much. To-de-loo!" she said, and Colm frowned, associating that goodbye with Owen. Dutch kissed her hand before she left, Colm nodded in goodbye, and Micah blinked like a confused chicken.

As she was gone, Dutch stretched his back up to his full height, carrying himself with more sharpness. "With all due respect, I disagree," Dutch said while throwing his curls over his shoulder, getting back into the debate. "I don't think fear is what makes a good leader. You were right though, that my ambitions remain as they were when we ... when I needed your services."

Here was the boy Colm remembered from his various backwater offices, growing fancier as Colm's own reputation grew darker, though Dutch's lips around his cock remained sweet no matter where they'd been. Where Micah sucked him off like it was a battle of wills, growling if Colm tried to push his head off, Dutch was slow and refined as if he'd had better access to lollipops in his childhood than Micah had. Maybe Colm should arrange a little competition between them sometime.

"Fear is effective," he said, and put his arm around Micah's shoulder, knowing he'd freeze up. "It's also very honest."

"And honestly is very important in our work, is it," Dutch said dryly.

"In a sense, yeah. I thought you were all about honor among thieves."

"You're not just a thief, Colm." It sounded heartfelt in a nicely reversed kind of way, as though Dutch could feel his own heart in his throat. "I read the papers. I recognize your touch. All those lost coaches and ruined mines ... But I suppose we were talking about leadership itself, rather than examples of it." He cleared his throat so that his voice grew smoother. "Ideals, yes?"

"I can show you both, in action," Colm said, then ordered Micah, "Up."

Micah had been absorbed in the exchange, leading to clumsiness as Colm manhandled his ass into his lap.

Again he became more aware of Micah's new weight, squishing his own bonier knees. The boy figured it out on his own soon enough, spreading his legs over Colm's, on his tiptoes on the floor to take some of the weight off him. He tried to cross his arms to appear more in control than he was, and but Colm grabbed them until he had Micah's arms behind his own head like a makeshift pillow. Like he was reclining, stretching and showing off because Colm allowed him to.

It was a lovely exposure, turned towards Dutch, who was watching them with uncertainty and interest.

"Uncertainty and interest in a subordinate are good growing grounds for fear and loyalty, which authority needs."

As Colm spoke, he began to unbutton Micah's shirt, shushing him when he squirmed as though instinctive movements were something to silence. When it was opened at the last button, he splayed his palm over Micah's crotch, just keeping it there in a gesture of ownership. Micah did not fight him. He'd not fought him all that much after becoming one of his boys.

"Loyalty," Dutch said mildly. "Are you sure you're not talking about love?"

"I don't know about that," Colm said, resting his head on Micah's shoulder. "Many parents who love their kids, but who do not demand loyalty, are undone by what the latter become. The kids grow hateful, looking upon authority with contempt, with a silent shame over how dependent they were on parents' words and choices for a time. In the case of leadership, subordinates only love them as long as there is prosperity, or a feeling of fight against a foreign force. If times get rough, and the foreign force gets too big, they start blaming their leader for their downfall. Anything not to blame themselves."

Colm's mouth lingered near Micah's neck, his rising heartbeat. He felt a childish desire to bite into his jugular and tear and chew his way down to his heart, as though the love that Dutch was talking about would become less foreign if he'd held Micah's heart between his teeth.

His jaw almost snapped in the air in the air when Dutch stood up from the chair, feeling strangely possessive.

"May I see?" Dutch asked, bending his neck like when he'd addressed Annabelle, which helped.

Colm's mind dripped from his own empty mouth and down along his own arms, which had been spreading open Micah's shirt without thinking about it, forcing exposure upon a weaker being as a way of soothing himself.

Dutch's gaze was locked on the stiff nubs of Micah's nipples. The gold piercing glinted in one of them, and the silver one in the other. They were further complimented by the blush spreading over Micah's chest and up his neck. He was a rough little thing, full of scars, but he had places of grace – the fat, the redness, the wobbling bottom lip – that made him all the more lovely.

"Fascinating. Do they hurt?"

"No- Ah," Micah choked on air as Colm twisted the silver one.

Dutch sat down on the table in front of them, and bent forward to make sure his head was a fraction lower than Colm's.

It was different from the time when Colm had made him kneel on the floor in front of him and crawl forward with an open mouth, ready to be fed and watered. But now his lips were closed-lipped, and his new liaison and clothes had given him more confidence; in terms of rank, Dutch was above Micah by belonging to their hostess.

"They must be sensitive. May I ...?"

"Go ahead," Colm said lazily. "I think he likes you."

He took hold of Micah's cheeks, pressing them together like a fish mouth, "Don't you, boy?"

"Well. I like you too," Dutch said in a lighter tone as he addressed Micah, reaching out to run his index and middle finger on the sides of the golden piercing. "Your shade of blonde is rather pretty. Like hers, but paler."

Micah shuddered, one nipple being caressed, and the other, poked and prodded. Colm increased the pressure, feeling Micah go taunt against him, and when he let go, Micah sank down. Colm used his distraction to unbutton his pants and hold them open. Predictably, he was hard, and grew harder as Dutch took it as an invitation to rub both of his nipples with adept thumbs.

"Owen is trying to buy out Annabelle," Dutch said suddenly but quietly, raising his eyes to Colm's before lowering them.

"I know," Colm lied, because he'd genuinely not gotten that impression. It did not sit well with him as it would leave Blackwater, among other cities, without a haven from his brother. "But she can hold her own, can't she?"

"In many ways, yes. But where the wilderness is decidedly more yours, the better parts of this piece of civilization belongs to Annabelle. I am positive that you could forge easier agreements with her if you were the head of the O'Driscolls."

Dutch was wearing an expression that he had a grandiose plan in mind.

Absentmindedly, Colm decided Micah was sufficiently erect.

If Dutch had been his plaything and not Annabelle's, he might've forced him to suck Micah's cock as a punishment for even daring to suggest the alternative of Colm leading the O'Driscoll Gang. Because it was a gang, they both knew that, even if Owen insisted upon them becoming a respectable organization. As it was, he snapped his fingers while he held Dutch's gaze.

The man was a quick thinker, quicker than Micah, who stiffened a few moments afterwards.

But with the way he had been staring at Dutch, darkly curious, he yielded without a comment. Colm wasn't surprised, nor did he feel threatened. He thought Dutch attractive, too; he wouldn't have taken the payment he had if he wasn't, if not only to see those black eyes raging up at him with his mouth too full to blabber on about a pure world, free of the chains of modern civilization. It was almost too bad that little anarchists like him looked so good when fucked by authority. As it was, Colm shook his head when the anarchist in question started to peel off his gloves.

"Keep them on." Besides, they were fingerless, and Micah had liked that. "The boy likes leather. Don't you?"

"I g-guess."

"A man of my own taste," Dutch said, gracefully lifting Micah out of his pants and wrapping his fingers around him. But even as he seemed to devote his attention to the task, he raised his eyes, "Are you a man of my taste, Colm?"

"You just won't let it go, will you," Colm said, wrapping one arm around Micah's throat, tightening it when Micah tried to grab his wrist, only loosening it when the hold became more pleading than demanding. "I do not know if I care enough to lead his fractions of our men. Which would mean more power to Annabelle. Hell, she might even become so powerful that she could marry whoever she wanted, morals be damned, and that'd put you on the top. I'm not sure I want you on the top, Dutch."

"She would be on top, not me."

"And do you think she sees it like you do?"

"I will make her see," Dutch said, something dark in his tone: a suggestion of loyalty and love all wrapped up like snakes. Judging by Micah's strangled but ultimately pleasured whine, Dutch had squeezed his cock hard. Dutch heard it too, and frowned, before his expression softened in apology. Clearly, he wasn't as experienced with pain as Colm. "Poor thing, I'll let you come as soon as your boss allows it. Tell me, is he good to you? Marking you up like that? Do you enjoy being his?"

Micah squirmed against Colm, looking away from them, which was answer enough.

"Let him have it. He's earned it."

"He has," Dutch agreed, pretending he was agreeing and not heeding Colm's order. 

With an elegant flick of the wrist, Dutch held Micah on the edge for a couple of more seconds. Colm snuck a hand around his throat, squeezing just so, and wrapping a hand around his mouth and thumb and index finger squeezing his nose the moment he came. The lack of air made the climax last longer, and his blue eyes wider, staring at Colm like he was staring at God. Smirking, Colm spread his fingers enough to give him some precious air. Micah's cheek ended up pressed into Colm's shoulder, breathing explosively against the hand, while Dutch milked him dry. 

"Such a nice boy," Dutch mumbled, making him whimper.

Nodding in agreement, Colm fished out Dutch's pocket square and threw it out to the handkerchief, to wipe Micah's cock and Dutch's hand like mothering a pair of a couple dirty kids, in an order that made Dutch twitch with dissatisfaction. 

Micah, however, did not react to the afterglow like Colm expected him to.

"If Owen disrupts the business that badly, why not kill him?" Micah asked in a rough voice.

Clearly, being debauched was secondary to listening, and the climax hadn't taken much out of him at all.

Colm and Dutch froze. If they'd been dancing around a knife's edge, then Micah spun the knife around and hacked it into the subject matter. A flash of heat flooded Colm and he was so unused to embarrassment he barely caught how it differentiated from rage. Dutch had the good sense to step back before Colm threw Micah to the floor.

The boy caught himself easily enough, experienced with rapid changes. Colm was nothing like his idiot father, but he could not keep his temper in check enough to keep himself from delivering a kick to Micah's exposed rear.

"I'm sorry, boss! I just, I just don't like him, you know I'd never - "

A moderate kick to his balls finally shut him up, arms reaching underneath him to cradle them, which were probably sensitive from their handling. At least he didn't try to pull his pants back up. He looked better like this. Colm back sat down and smoothed out his hair. When Micah tried to get up from the floor, Colm planted his legs on his back to keep him on all fours.

"Stay down there if you can't be better than a footrest."

Dutch watched them, expression unreadable.

"Little Van der Linde," Colm said, then tapped the bridge of his nose with his finger when he had Dutch's attention. "What do you think Owen would say, if I told him of this? Better yet, what about Annabelle?"

"Don't," Dutch said, nostrils flaring.

"Micah here might've taken it too literally, but I heard hints of it, all the same. Annabelle is arranging a party soon, isn't she? Doubtlessly, Owen will be there. Maybe I should wait till we're all comfortable in those lovely chairs of hers, smoking the usual cigars and eating pink pieces of cake, before I tell them a story of a cute little traitor, but a traitor all the same."

"Please. Don't," Dutch forced out. His obvious distaste was soothing to Colm. So were the few seconds of tension before he fell to his knees. And his sullen silence when Colm gestured towards his own unfinished glass of beer until Dutch gave it to him.

He liked having two boys kneeling, one as a leg rest, the other one as a drink holder.

"Alright, I won't tell," he said after finishing his beer. "But stay as you are, for a while. I want you to update me on the best tailors in Blackwater."

"Tailors," Dutch said blandly, and then he fell back to a knowledge Colm was certain that he possessed, dressed like he was. "Yes, I do have some experience with that. If you're looking for good quality for a decent price, I'd recommend Oliver's, but if you're looking for something more special ..."

As he droned on, Micah shook a little but otherwise stayed put. Colm expected he'd throw a tantrum later, but that could wait, because he needed this information in order to enhance Micah's wardrobe for the summer. 

When Dutch was done speaking, his silence reeked of sullen defeat.

Colm supposed he could give them a little treat.

"Micah, get back here. Let's see if you can do better."

Limbs trembling before locking into stillness, Micah sat back down on Colm's lap. Muscle memory from beatings, probably. There were tear streaks on his face. Colm might've been a bit too brutal. Just a bit. 

"Did I hurt you? Was I too cruel?"

Micah didn't answer, he simply leant his back harder into Colm's chest. He shuddered when Colm touched between his legs. He wasn't completely soft, which surprised Colm even if Micah had masochistic tendencies. Well, he was still young.

"Does it hurt here?" 

He knew it was hurting, but he couldn't help it, Micah made such beautiful sounds at having his sore cock and balls touched. The kick must've messed them up quite a bit, even if it wasn't half as brutal as it could've been.

"You're injuring him," Dutch said, actually looking genuinely upset. 

"It's fine. He likes it."

But Micah didn't like it. Not completely. The circumstances weren't right for that. And it confused him, pained and aroused as he was, to be punished in front of someone else, someone he liked. Micah did seem to like Dutch judging by their earlier flirting. 

"Kiss him better for me," Colm told Dutch.

Dutch's brows rose, then narrowed. He got up. Hesitated. But then he looked at Micah's face, and found something there. Sympathy and power, maybe they were one and the same for someone who dreamed himself away from reality.

But before he could bend too low, Colm grabbed Dutch's chin, guiding him upwards. 

"Nothing so crude. On the lips, little Van der Linde. Like how you sway the ladies."

Dutch's lips became a thin line, but they returned to their protruded state when nearing Micah's. 

They had met less than two hours ago, but that wasn't a problem for Dutch, Colm knew that well. Easily as nothing, he slipped into the shape of a lover, tilting his head to the side before capturing Micah's lips. Taking hold of his jaw, too, pausing at the texture of the chin scar, before dragging out Micah's lovely, fat bottom lip, opening him up to kiss him deeper. Dutch didn't spit into it like Colm might've done. He had a more reserved tongue. Slower than a snake's.

Colm was bending to the side, watching them kiss, judging their efforts. Micah stayed true to Colm's observations, shyer in this than he was when sucking cock. His best efforts were little pecks when Dutch withdrew slightly just to have him follow. They were such nice young things, both of them. Reminding Colm of himself at that age, so ready to fly above it all, yet stuck in the muck of their pasts. 

Dutch's eyes slid to the side, meeting Colm's. Plotting. Always plotting. 

Micah tensed, then withdrew. He liked attention, and when it vanished, he noticed. But the kiss was over anyway. 

"What do you say, Micah?" Colm said, wrapping his arms around Micah's waist, liking the fatty hardness from alcohol there, not soft like it looked. "Should we keep Dutch's dirty, murderous secret from Owen and Annabelle?"

Micah's body let out some tension, getting some power back, though lodged on Colm lap like a throne of needles. 

"Yeah, boss."

"Hmm. Alright. Dutch? Thank Micah for saving your reputation."

"Thank you, Micah," Dutch said, subdued, but genuine. A sliver of nobility in the growing rot of him. But not as rotten as Colm. 

"Uh. You're welcome," Micah said. He was less noble. Colm liked that about him. The honesty in his bouts of awkwardness, taken by others as creepiness or inauthenticity. Telling everyone with the right eyes how lonely he was, how much Dutch's gratitude actually meant to him.

"I think we're done here," Colm said, waving Dutch away and getting up to leave.

"Quite," Dutch agreed. He nodded at Colm, "Goodbye for now."

And then he looked at Micah, gaze warming up ever so slightly, "I'll see you around, Micah."

"Uh, y-yeah. See you." 

Charmed. Disarmed. Colm wondered how quickly Dutch would forget Micah when he'd served his purpose. What that purpose was, was uncertain, but Colm vowed to keep an eye on them all the same. 

 

There was no tantrum, only silence. A cleaner had removed the water and put the tub back in its place, and Colm didn't like having a stranger in his space, but he trusted Annabelle's discretion. Micah undressed completely and went to bed without a word. Some of it was pure exhaustion, but the way he curled up while facing the wall spoke of pain. When Colm had washed his face with water, undressed and laid down beside him, he'd started clutching his balls; the source of the pain.

"Let me see," Colm said, and had to nudge his thigh twice before he yielded. Micah's testicles were swollen and purplish like a pair of plums, but had no burst blood vessels, because Colm had experience kicking someone into submission and had not used full force. "You'll be fine." But he did not stop touching them, putting a leg over Micah's to keep him on his back.

"Are you gonna fuck me?"

"Why? You getting aroused? Now?" Disbelief slipped into Colm's voice; Micah didn't seem to be in the mood, and neither was he.

"That's why I'm here, ain't it," Micah muttered, and there it was: the tantrum. Rather weak, though.

"I have no wish to fuck a disloyal dog in the ass. I'll make use of your mouth, if you want it bad enough to beg for it. That's it. Anything else you gotta earn, boy."

"I'm not disloyal!" 

When Colm spoke next, it was into Micah's ear, because he needed to phrase this as the secret it was:

"I've already told you, I'll allow some dissent in private, but not among my men, and certainly not among my enemies."

"Dutch is an enemy of yours?" Micah asked, turning his head to their faces were close. "Annabelle, too?"

But though Colm very nearly withdrew from him, he held on to the desire to warp the fear and loyalty into a secret.

"Everyone but us are enemies," he said, and then he kissed Micah, short and sweet.

When he pulled back, he expected ... something other than Micah's usual scowl, but not how his face had become perfectly unreadable. It reminded Colm uncannily of Dutch's face when he was planning something.

Chapter 22: Material Girl

Summary:

Colm and Micah go shopping together in Blackwater.

Notes:

A shoutout to Atlas for talking to me about Irish history! Arc 5 will explore Colm's upbringing in full, but enjoy the crumbs until then. Also, I updated the chapter amount and tags (for the umpteenth time) as I think I have a better grip on the way forward now.

Chapter title track is by Madonna. Because this is a sugar daddy AU, and I couldn't not.

During the following mornings, they stayed in the room.

The hours of travelling had taken its toll on them both, or maybe it was just the spring itself lingering like the aftermath of a bad allergy, Colm having used his mind where Micah had used his body to spread fear and chaos upon so many. The scores resulted in a lot of paperwork, which he had procrastinated finishing, and Colm found the room with its little desk sufficient enough to work in.

He had said no to Annabelle's offer of telling Owen that they had arrived in Blackwater earlier than planned, and that he had company. They took their meals in the room. If Owen were to find out through her, Colm would prefer it if he did, just to send an indirect message that he went as he pleased (even if he had arranged the trip to the coast city as soon as Owen's first letter arrived).

Micah was as quiet as he'd been during the height of winter, and Colm wondered if that was how he managed the rest of the year, hibernating rather than sleeping and then surviving on little sleep the rest of the time. Boredom would come and gobble him up soon enough, but until then, Colm left him - and his poor swollen balls - alone, except when he needed the boy's mouth.

Sometimes he didn't even fuck it, choosing instead to trace Micah's lips, teeth and tongue, checking that his gag reflex remained gone and his jaw loose.

"It's nice to have a home, out here," he said once, and Micah frowned, then laughed against the cock in it, which made drool fly. But even his laughter was hollow; he seemed shaken after meeting with Dutch.

And then, after a few days of a strange mix of work and leisure, Micah was gone one morning.

 

He hadn't gone too far, but it still left Colm disoriented as he got up from the bed. He left his vest and jacket back in the room and looked downright disheveled when he found Micah at the bar. He could've chastised Micah for vanishing like that, but Annabelle's presence stopped him, sitting beside him with her hands folded on the bar table, facing a Micah who was staring forward while eating something. She was wearing a dark green summer dress that suited her, and her lips were painted in a similar shade of purple that Micah's testicles had been a few days ago, which had suited him more than it did her.

"Colm," she said in greeting, smirking at him. "Please forgive me for feeding him without your permission. The poor little darling was raiding the kitchens for sweets."

He thought he saw another figure vanish into the kitchens, a flash of red and black. Van der Linde. It seemed like both him and Annabelle were interested in his boy, and he didn't like it.

He sat down on the other side of Micah, quickly ordering a cup of green tea for himself. Micah had paused, and the piece of orange jelly on his spoon jiggled, betraying his tremble. By the looks of it, he was eating milk and orange pudding topped with dried raspberries and chocolate shavings. Raising a brow at Annabelle, Colm could suddenly see why Owen had been enamoured with her, long ago. 

Did she know of Dutch's plans to create a rift between the brothers? It was hard to tell.

"My own dear pet told me you're in search for a proper tailor for your own, Colm," Annabelle said, tone sweeter than the desert, clearly sensing that she had overstepped just a little through Colm's silence. "Whether you chose to use it or not, I had a favorite shop of mine ready a discount for you."

She slid a piece of paper across the table, towards Colm. He picked it up without checking.

"Dutch told me your debate went sour. In apology, he wishes that you two join us for my upcoming, yearly grand soirée in my winter gardens. I know these sorts of debates can get too heated." Her tone dropped from the feminine lightness and into her actual voice, which held an odd but natural harshness, "I hope you don't think lesser of me, Colm, for letting Dutch off the leash around you. Say the word and I will tighten it."

"No need," Colm said, finally regarding Annabelle. "I remember how it was like, being young. Do you?"

Her lips tightened, looking insulted. Then she burst into the usual "Ho-ohohoh!" laughter. Wiping away a theatrical tear, she said, "Oh, I hope to see some of your humor in the soirée. I expect you both to be there, nicely dressed. My pet will be doing a monologue."

"Mine will not," Colm said, and slapped Micah on the back so hard that he spat out orange jelly.

 

The tailor shop was the one Colm had been the most interested in trying out, and Dutch must've picked that up and told Annabelle, so that she arranged the discount. The place specialized in fine materials like silk, leather and fur, with a basement for the more expensive pieces, which held less sunlight to potentially lighten the creations. But though covered in curtains, there were windows, big enough for someone to escape through if something should go amiss; Colm nodded at them rather than the tailor by the counter, as if the man was just a part of the surroundings. 

Colm did not have an interest in clothing as much as he preferred being dressed nicely; and so he told the man to give Micah something that was nice, dark, and with a touch of dark green. The materials needed to be more durable than usual, and Colm's voice softened a bit when he added that the shop's leather products had been recommended by a mutual associate, and that he might make purchases of the more risqué variety as he had a dog at home about the size of Micah. Micah stood beside Colm and looked insulted.

The tailor remained impassive, like Dutch had hinted he was, but he grinned when Colm tipped him with a few unmarked bills. "Leave us alone after you've dressed him up properly, alright?"

"Of course, sir. Follow me, young sir," he said to Micah, who kept looking behind his shoulder. 

The dressing room was kept open, and Colm took a chair, watching Micah get fitted. He had done it himself when he'd gifted the boy a winter coat, but lighter clothes for summer were less forgiving in terms of sizing mistakes than a leather coat for winter. When the tailor worked, he pushed Micah to stand with his back straight for once, and Colm was amused by the realization that if Micah hadn't looked so feral most of the time, especially now that he was long-haired and bearded, he might've been considered handsome.

The outfit that Colm chose for him was simple; black dress pants, black shirt, and a long waistcoat with the aforementioned leather accents near the collar and pockets. Only when the tailor guided Micah into the light cast by a paraffin lamp did the blackness showcase greeninsh pinstripes on the pants, which matched the scarf the tailor brought Colm after Micah refused to take off his bandana. 

"I'll deal with it," Colm said, then nodded at the tailor, who bowed and left.

He stalked over to the dressing room, where Micah looked like a caged animal.

He ended up turning his entire body away from Colm, maybe out of some instinct, because it did make Colm feel more kindly towards him for not accepting the new scarf. 

"Don't be scared. If he knows his own best, he won't disturb us."

Colm nibbled on Micah's neck, using his mouth to pull down the bandana, seeing the bruises he'd tried to hide from the tailor. His new pants were flexible enough for Colm to sneak a hand down into their front, the other under his shirt and gripping his chin, forcing him to look at them in the mirror. 

"Do you like it, kitten? Me buying you such nice new things? Spoiling you despite all your sulking?"

He used some free fingers to grab the upturned collar, putting the leather close to Micah's nose. And then he started stroking him, because he hadn't even needed to wonder if he was hard or not. Micah was breathing all over the place, fogging up the mirror, rocking his hips against Colm's. 

"Is it simply the leather that's turning you on?" 

"No," Micah mumbled, meeting Colm's eyes in the mirror. He really was rock hard. Must've sported a boner while the tailor worked and pretended not to notice. Cute.

"Oh? Is it just me?" Colm muttered, increasing the pace, tightening his grip just right.

"No," Micah said again, but he still came all over Colm's fingerless gloves a moment later. He tried to hold his breath but only ended up messing it up, sounding more wretched than if he'd just dealt with the fact that Colm saw right through him. Colm held his gaze, wiping his hands on Micah's old shirt on a nearby chair. It would have to be trashed anyway. Too much blood on it.

"I hate this," he said in defeat. "Dressing up. Faking shit."

"I know," Colm said. "I do too," fell out of him before he could stop it.

Micah's eyes widened, seeking Colm's in the mirror, as if it helped them speak the truth. "I don't like cities," he said, as if Colm's admission released another one in him, tumbling down like a rockslide.

"Me neither." 

"Then why are we here? You said we'd go on a ... trip, sometime. Is this it?"

"Did I say that," Colm mumbled, genuinely not remembering it. Maybe he was getting old. "Ah well. This isn't my idea of a good time either, but it's more tolerable with you here."

Micah blinked.

"Are you having a midlife crisis?" he snarked.

"Oh, so you still have some balls left after all? There'll be plenty of better times for us – and just the two of us, mind you – if Owen's plans take the proper shape."

"And those plans are ...?" 

"I dressed you up so he wouldn't throw you out when you go dining with us."

Micah paused. Colm started to remove his green bandana to change it for the scarf, and he let him do it.

"On Annabelle's, uh, soirée?" he mispronounced the word, but Colm didn't correct it.

"No, that's usually a little later, and a large evening party. Owen always invites me to dine with his family when I arrive here, during the day, in one of the restaurants he owns. Likes to show off how much of a law abiding citizen he is." 

"Will Dubois and Van der Linde be there?" Micah asked neutrally. 

"No. Owen won't like seeing Annabelle so occupied with another man, even if he's just a boy. My brother's family will be with us, his tedious wife and equally tedious son, which will put a buffer between you and any plans he might've had for you, were we alone."

"Would you stop him?" Micah asked quietly. "Or would you let him ... Like Dutch ..."

"You seemed to enjoy Van der Linde's attention." Colm moved, taking hold of Micah's arms as if inviting him to a dance, rather than using a mirror to communicate. "But not Owen, hm? I'd probably tell him to stop it, yeah. I know he makes you uncomfortable in the wrong ways. I can't help but find it a little funny, though ..." He trailed off to breathe in the scents of oily leather and furs, and the scents made him more prone to opening up than usual, closer to nature than any city smells. "The funny thing is that my brother would treat you better than I do. Oh, don't look like that. I am worse than he is. You just don't see it." 

"You're not worse than Owen," Micah said seriously. 

"I grew up with him, little Bell. I've experienced the extent of his cruelty, but you have just seen a fraction of mine. I've treated you roughly, but fairly, after my own definition of fair. I'm still worse."

"You're not worse," Micah repeated, and it sounded strangely like a plea. "You're better than him."

"You don't know me like you think you do."

"I know a bit," Micah said, moving closer. "I'd like to know more though, if you let me."

"Hm," Colm said, sensing both manipulation and the vulnerability from the boy. When he kissed Micah, and deepened the kiss, and Micah let him in, shy and soft like he wasn't in much else, even as blue eyes burned with what looked so much like hate. Colm decided to fan it, "We'll have to get rid of your scruffy beard, too. I'm sure you like having a family of snakes in there to feel less alone, but I prefer you without it."

"Nasty old bastard," Micah said, then kissed him hard and closed-lipped like always.

 

After he'd dumped Micah off at a barber's like a dog at the groomer's, Colm went to a tea shop he'd spotted on their walk towards the tailor shop. The crowd parted easily for him, as he towered above most of them, especially with added height from his new boots. Most people were like ghosts to him. They almost didn't influence his thoughts, except with a mild discomfort – like a pin dragged across skin rather than piercing it – that came from being among people after so long on his own. Micah didn't count, because when Colm was quiet, so was he. 

The tea shop was more like a tearoom, located on the second floor above an antique bookstore, owned by a dour married couple, who ran up and down to talk in hisses, as there weren't that many customers who cared for books or hot drinks in this heat. The wife brightened up considerably when Colm knew the distinctions between bloom tea, Hyson tea, and Singlo tea, and ordered the one in the middle, with tiny, curled leaves of a greenish blue color.

He found his spot next to an open window with a view down on the street, though the window of the barbershop was too full of sun for him to see Micah. The sea breeze cooled his skull, which was peeking through his thinning hair. He stroked his hands through it, having sweated out some of the pomade, and then he stared down into his dark gray cup of Hyson tea.

Maybe he was having a midlife crisis.

His eyes widened ever so slightly. No more thoughts went through his head except the sweeter quality of the tea, Blackwater's docks allowing for fresher product than anywhere inland.

When the sun had fallen a bit more, Colm's pupils darted to the barbershop when the door opened, and he saw Micah walk out, scratching his shaved face, and then, when he acted like a dog shaking off muddy water, combing his hands through the blonde curls too loosen up some of the greases the barber had put into it. When he spotted the teashop, he squinted and gave an uncertain wave.

Not waving back, Colm rolled his eyes.

He wasn't certain that Micah could see him through the window glass, because the boy had a theatrical edge, not only with the way he drew his revolvers. He was theatrical when running away, too, hurrying off to a side street while Colm's eyes narrowed. He had not been given permission to go off on his own, but he supposed he hadn't forbidden it, either. Not even after Micah sought out Dutch and Annabelle. Still, he felt slightly uneasy and blamed it on the caffeine. Taking up a newspaper and reading through it, he found a photo of Owen's face standing among many important men, shaking hands. The text droned on about the rights of the Irish, how some of them could in fact be upstanding men, and the irony that once would've made him smirk or feel otherwise mirthful, only made him feel hollow.

 

Twenty minutes later, Micah appeared.

The shopkeeper glared at him like she had at Colm, and he found it refreshing. It was a dying breed, workers who allowed themselves to express dislike for customers, as though money didn't matter quite so much here. Ignoring the woman, Micah headed towards Colm's table, trying in vain to hide a wooden box inside the pocket of his new jacket, but it fit awkwardly.

"I got you something," he said as if it wasn't obvious.

Colm's shoulders tensed, expecting a gun, before he met Micah's eyes and saw that same warmth in them that had been there when he'd given him that dreary necklace.

Would it be some Irish trinket this time too? At least the little fool never bothered to wrap his presents, simply pulling them up from a pocket and holding it out, like a child who had found a frog.

It was not a frog. It was a wooden jewelry box, made from ornamented wood pieces in an x-pattern, not all that feminine except the deep red color.

"To put all my jewels in?" Colm suggested, lip quirking.

"If you can get it open," Micah challenged him.

Colm took it from him. He tried to find the lid, but it was stuck pretty hard, and his fingernails were too bitten to get underneath the pieces. Turning it around in his fingers, he heard something fall around inside. Then he pressed his thumbs over various areas, and a part of it loosened with a click. He immediately tried to open it from various angles, until there was a click from the opposite side in the box as another piece slid into place, and it was like a lighting bulb going off in his head, seeking those clicks.

The tearoom faded, and the window too, as he became absorbed in the puzzle. Minutes passed like that, before Micah spoke, humming a little to wake Colm from his focus.

"I went over to the Chinese markets. They sell these sometimes. Annabelle said to go there, cause Dutch said you liked puzzles and stuff."

"Been talking to them much, have you," Colm muttered.

He could see Micah stiffen from the corner of his eye, but he didn't chase the subject. The box took most of his attention. And besides, considering how Owen keeping tabs on Colm's whereabouts had always pissed him off, he had no interest tightening Micah's leash just yet. Not when he returned with gifts like these anyway.

"Do you like it?" Micah asked at length, hesitance back in his voice.

"Mhm," Colm said. He supposed he did like it. He liked the curiosity and abstraction, how much thought it took, and how it made one acutely aware of change.

After a few more clicks, an intense satisfaction filled him as it opened.

The satisfaction was broken by the reveal of the old silver Claddagh necklace at the bottom, meaning loyalty, friendship, and love. Colm tilted his head at Micah, whose cheeks reddened, having evidently put it there before locking it. Then Colm slowly closed the box and slid some of the wooden pieces back into place to keep it locked.

But he was gentle with it when he put it on the table between them. Micah didn't break the silence between them, seemingly waiting for it to open up on its own.

 

Colm was drumming his fingers on the table.

Even now, sharp blue eyes followed the movements of them as if they could reveal Colm's thoughts, but the joke was on both of them, because he did not know what he himself thought, only that he needed to keep it locked away. Why, though? Why did it matter?

Colm lifted his palms, looking at them, the many wrinkles there. Evidence of a dying body. Was that what Micah saw? Or did he think of sordid things? Was he looking for them to open another secret room?

Colm looked from his hands and down at the locked puzzle box, with the necklace inside, and then he decided to indulge Micah. His own emotions were locked away, but the story remained, near the small forest town where he and Owen had grown up. It truly didn't mean much.

"I feel no real connection to my Irish heritage," he said finally. "Unlike you, I didn't care for my father." 

"Is he dead?" Micah asked, leaning closer, not missing a beat.

"Quite dead, yeah."

"How'd he'd die?"

Colm cracked loose the stiffness of his shoulders, remembering the freedom of those wilder landscapes, the stories in them. It helped that they didn't feel a part of him. 

"Well, my father worked at a local plantation. High up on the ranks, mind you. He was using some of his knowledge from the old country, because the owner - his boss - wanted to grow flax for linen productions, to rival the cotton production. When it didn't work, he made moonshine for the old man. Wasn't his trade of choice, but he knew the secret to potcheen, and his boss had a taste for such things despite - or maybe because of - the illegality."

"One day the distillery in the basement went poof," Colm whistled and looked from one end of the tearoom to the other, "and the only thing that remained was his left foot inside a boot. Torn clean off, it was. The ash of that foot is still inside my mother's locket. She was given a nice sum as compensation. Me and Owen were raised on the hush money."

"Doesn't sound like a lot."

"Oh, it was decent enough. And this was the thirties, not the forties. My father was from Ulster, a Protestant, and from a landowner family. We weren't hated when we first arrived here, you know. The Irish, I mean. They weren't hated like they are now."

"So why'd your father leave Ireland?" Micah asked.

"Because of my mother. She's also the reason we survived on the money. A frugal and deeply Catholic bitch, that one. That's why they ran away to get married here. Or they thought they could get married, land of prosperity and all, but it wasn't quite so easy. But his boss helped them forge the papers. She raised us Catholic in secret."

"Taught us some Gaelic too, also in secret, because her father had been a hedge teacher. He travelled around, teaching non-Protestant Irish kids to read and write. Very illegal. My mother was more literate than most, and met my father at a bookstore. Real romantic. They fell in love, had Owen, and travelled here quite some time before the famine." 

"And then they started hating each other, right?" Micah asked, seemingly engrossed in Colm's tale, but unable to not color it with his own experiences. Colm briefly wondered if Micah's father had hated the mother of his two sons, but considering how Owen was always going mama this and mama that when they weren't within earshot of others, Colm had little interest in talking about mothers in general.

"My parents loved each other very deeply, all the way to the end," Colm said, as if reading up a boring newspaper headline. "They made me in what I believe to be an act of love." 

He imagined them: his father's kind face from their photographs, and his mother as she had looked when young, the two of them conceiving Colm on the table in the living room. Whispering words of love and devotion to one another, sharing dreams and hopes, content in each other's presence. Afterwards, he imagined that they ate a tasteless dinner that had gone lukewarm during their lovemaking. 

"Then why ..." Micah looked him over.

Colm laughed: a short, hacking noise, like a cough that had lived in the black hollow of him since forever.

"Why I turned out like this, you mean? My mother and Owen wonder about that quite a lot." He grinned. "I have no clue."

Micah frowned at him, but he was wise enough not push, like he could sense the hollow core inside Colm. Instead they sat there in a new, different silence, and when Colm drank a sip at the now cold tea and grimaced at the bitterness, Micah finished it for him without flinching.

Notes:

The idea of this chapter was conceived before it became referenced in my Vanderbell fic Light Shining Darkly 🥰

Coming up next: dinner with Uncle Owen 💜

Chapter 23: I See Red

Summary:

Micah and Colm have a tense family dinner with Owen at a restaurant in Blackwater.

Notes:

Warnings: Dubcon touching and force-feeding.

Chapter title song is by Clannad.

Colm disliked dinner parties.

He had disliked them since he was a small boy, overdressed and awkward, back in the parties that his mother had arranged. He much preferred to go outside, into the woods that surrounded their town, to the large anthill that he liked to watch. It had been years since he remembered childhood stuff this often, but these few weeks of stillness and with Micah sleeping beside him, had allowed for a quietude that pushed reflection forth where there'd only been fatigue.

Still, it became an evil in itself, to feel so aware and so refreshed when near his brother.

Owen's tastes manifested themselves grandiosely, and this Blackwater restaurant was no exception. The wallpaper was pink with patterns of hearts, the table and chairs all carved out of wood with dragon heads near the tops, and in the ceiling hung a crystal chandelier. As he sat there, Colm watched the chandelier tremble when the people – ghosts? – upstairs moved about as if wishing that it would fall and kill the ones beneath them. At least it would make it impossible to finish the second course and desert. And Micah would look cute with crystal shards in his skin if not burned all over from the candle flames.

"Colm," Owen said, and the sharpness of his tone revealed that it was the second time he had called his name tonight, after the necessary introductions and unnecessary food and small talk. "Helena asked you a question."

"Hm? Ah, my bad," Colm said, then looked at his sister-in-law on the other side of the table. She was wearing a dress of yellow silk, dirty blonde hair made into braids that would've suited a country girl more than a rich mother, and she also had a prim mouth with a magenta pink far too bright for her skin, which highlighted what she thought about being ignored.

"I said," she began, "Where did you two meet?"

Colm frowned, and then he looked at the one seated beside him, and his brows lifted in theatrical consideration. Micah had planted his elbows on the table and was resting his chin on it, seeing whether or not he could blow away the tower of napkins in front of him. Colm was more interested in that endeavor than any question from Helena.

But Owen, who was seated next to Micah, nodded at Colm until he answered her.

"At work."

"Ah, work," Helena replied. "Now, don't look so concerned, Owen, what men do to put food on the table is not a woman's business. ... But, ah ... You two work closely? Since you brought him to a family gathering like this?"

"Too close, perhaps," Owen said, wrapping a hand around one of the dragon heads on top of Micah's chair. It did not touch him, but Micah must've felt Owen's hold on the chair all the same. "My brother has been working this poor thing half to death. As a, ah, secretary."

"Can he even write?" Theodore asked, the first time he'd spoken tonight, having found his courage in three glasses of port wine.

"Theodore!" Helena said, covering her mouth, probably to hide her grin.

Colm felt a pressure in his skull that alerted him that a headache would come. He grabbed the other dragon head on top of Micah's chair and gave Owen a poisonous glare, which made his brother withdraw his own hold after a few seconds. Micah was hunching rather than leaning on the table, eyes narrowed up at Colm. He looked less insulted than ... protective?

"So, boy," Helena begun, with a strange tilt that made Colm more aware of her than usual. Though she acted older, she was pretty young for a mother. Owen liked them very young after all. "I feel like I've met you before. Did you ever attend any sort of churches, perhaps?"

"Helena was active in her local congregation," Owen supplied. "She even travelled around in a choir!" 

Micah stiffened. "Dunno," he lied, because Colm knew he'd learned to read and write in a Sunday school whose religion Amos had been deeply involved in. "I'm not too good with ... kind faces, lady." No, Micah only remembered the ones he swore vengeance against.

"That's Mrs. O'Driscoll for you. Or Miss Wisniewski if you'd known me from before. Oh well." 

Micah looked bored, and Colm let it go as more useless small talk. 

A servant disrupted the conversation by bringing in the second course.

 

Colm had ordered lamb leg with duchess potatoes for himself and Micah, because he knew Owen disliked the smell of sheep. Micah did not know how to use the correct cutlery, having chosen one single fork to eat his first course, while a lot of the other silver cutlery vanished mysteriously one by one. Colm thought it funny. Just like Micah couldn't keep himself from stealing, he couldn't eat slowly, stabbing the fork through a slice of leg and eating it like it was fresh from the fire. It would probably have tasted better if so, for the two of them at least.

The drinks were consumed more slowly, because it was red wine, which Micah disliked, and which gave Colm a worse headache. That one was only just better than the one he got from staying sober when eating with his family. So, they drank even though there weren't enough drinks in the world.

The sounds of eating filled the restaurant. There were no other guests except for them (which Owen most likely had a hand in, considering the nervous staff and armed boys at the door).

Micah stiffened and quit chewing. Colm frowned at him and then frowned deeper when he spotted Owen's meaty hand covering Micah's knee. It had no place being there. 

"Eat slower, dear," Owen said, and he did not remove his hand. "Don't choke."

Colm put his hand on Micah's other thigh, further up than his brother's. Owen was facing the other side of the table, where Helena was throwing back a glass of wine in an undignified manner that showed that she'd seen, too. Theodore was glowering into the remains of his dinner of poultry in white wine sauce, the same thing as Owen and Helena were eating.

Perhaps it'd been more awkward if this hadn't happened before, the O'Driscoll blood boiling in the brothers whenever there was an attractive boy between them.

Anton had experienced it before he got too muscled for Owen's tastes. Colm didn't know why the memory struck him so suddenly, nor why he felt more possessive of Micah than of Anton.

There was a slight added intensity to this, especially as Owen kept stroking Micah's thigh, up and down, not further but still riskier than he usually acted around his family.

 

Desert came in the form of a pink, layered cream cake was placed in the middle of the table. It was big enough to shield Helena and Theodore. Good for them, not for Colm and Micah. 

"Here, a big piece for a big boy," Owen said, serving Micah, letting go off his thigh so he could cup a hand underneath the spoon, then holding Micah's chin in place to feed him.

Micah remained thin-lipped until the cream was smeared on his lips, no doubt feeling disgustingly sticky.  

Colm wanted to stop it, but for some reason, he couldn't. Maybe it was the knowledge that Owen could get far worse if denied this. And Micah hadn't pleaded for help yet, though he'd asked if Colm would protect him from Owen previously. Colm had thought he talked about fucking specifically, and maybe he had. He was stiff, but his expression was a moody squint rather than anything fearful. Maybe Helena and Theodore's aghast expressions soothed him. Or just their presences, hinting that Owen couldn't go as far as he'd like. 

"The boy can eat on his own," Colm said finally. "He isn't three years old. Although maybe you'd prefer it if he was." A pointed pause. "Malleable like that, I mean."

"Shush, Colom," Owen murmured, before he withdrew with a sigh. 

When Micah was done chewing his last mouthful, he coughed dramatically. Colm put a hand on Micah's head, dragging his fingers through his hair, further messing up the blonde curls with leftover product from the barber's. Micah leaned into the show of ownership and remained bent to the side.

"Cake, huh. What are we celebrating?" Colm asked dryly, continuing to pet Micah.

"Our continued expansion," Owen answered. "Which you two made possible by doing favors for our friends by putting our mutual enemies out business, remember?"

"The mine," Colm told Micah. He'd been a part of blowing that place up even if his crew had been given no real details. In the romantic little letters that he had written to Colm, he'd mentioned that the screams had taken on an interesting tone when muffled behind so much rock. Micah clearly remembered, because he grinned, teeth full of cream from the cake.

"It has irked me that you chose to stay with Annabelle and not us," Owen said.

And then his damn hand was back on Micah, on his shoulder, thumb digging into his collarbone beneath the shirt, seeking the sensitive hollow there. Micah shuddered. 

"How about you, my dear boy? Do you find Annabelle's company to your liking? A little blackbird told me you take breakfast with both him and her. Blackbirds are pretty, don't you think? But I think Annabelle could do better in her choice than a creature such as him. He sure loves to sing though. Sings and sings and sings; right into my ear, sometimes."

Van der Linde. 

Colm's lips rose above his teeth. Had Dutch delivered the same speech to Owen, simply presented in reverse, saying that they had to get rid of Colm from the deals with Annabelle? Was Dutch still attempting to weasel himself into deals he had no right intruding on? Colm had known that finding Micah eating next to Annabelle that day wasn't a coincidence. It would not have been the first or even the second meal they shared together, not when Micah was actually eating what she served him, something he rarely dared to do around strangers.

Colm must've glared at Micah a little too hard because he shrunk back. It was the worst thing he could've done with Owen's eyes on him. Like dark crystals, they glittered in the candlelight.

"Theodore. Helena. Could you hop over to the Black family and tell them I'll be a little late for the party? Wait for me there, please." A fat-lipped smirk was sent in the general direction of Colm, before he added, "And say hello to sweet Annabelle while you're at it, won't you?"

"But papa – "

"No buts, child! Off we go." Helena rose like she couldn't get out soon enough.

Theodore followed, avoiding looking at his parents, bringing the bottle of port wine with him.

Before they left, she said the most customary goodbye, "Colm."

He inclined his head, though he knew it'd piss Owen off.

But Owen was too busy making sure they walked out, before he slung an arm around Micah's shoulder, hand coming down and immediately finding a pierced nipple, grabbing the fat around it and squeezing until Micah groaned at the pain.

"You've put on some weight. I love that for you. Did you raid my brother's pantry, perhaps? I know he refuses to eat much, the poor skeleton."

Micah tried to shake Owen off, chair screeching against the floor as a result, but Owen wasn't a gang leader for nothing. Underneath all that fat was muscle, and with Owen's arm around him tightening, he struggled in vain.

"Let him go," Colm said, trying to pull at Owen's arm, but he was surprised to find a force in the hold that he didn't expect over someone like Micah.

Owen had only beaten him once, when they were children, after a slight misunderstanding back home. That one time had been enough for Colm to know that if it came to a brawl, he would swiftly lose. Owen had a scar from that fight, but Colm had gotten his world crushed.

"Can't you see that the boy wants some more cake? Don't you, Micah? Won't you indulge me? Or should I tell him what you and Dutch have been up to? He told me everything."

Micah froze and his jaw dropped.

Like clockwork, Colm's jaw tightened, and his headache worsened.

"Oh yes, that's it." Owen fed Micah a spoonful of cake, which was begrudgingly accepted. "Remember to chew before you swallow or–" Another spoonful, "-has my brother fixed your gag reflex for you? Rumor has it Colm doesn't have one either." Another. "He was quite active in his youth, you see." And another. "Sluts covet sluts," he said as he took a large piece for himself, mm-ing at the taste of the cake or his own words, "Isn't that Shakespeare?"

Colm's headache was roaring. Micah was gagging on cake.

"Little Colm was such a lonely, wicked boy. No one ever wanted to play with him. Not even the poor amphibians and reptiles he kept in his tool shed to experiment on. Sadly, he was no Frankenstein and could not make friends out of frogs."

Colm saw red. In a fit of rage, he threw his own plate of cake directly at Owen. It'd been better if it landed at his face like in a street play between clowns, but the end of the plate hit him in the face while the cake dropped onto his pants, leaving a thin yellow line near his chin and a smear of pink on an otherwise spotless pant leg of purple silk.

"Now I have never ..."

Owen stood up and backed away, but not before grabbing a handful of the napkins, some of which Micah had successfully blown over the table in the beginning of the dinner. Anger rising like the redness in his face, Owen wiped himself off, but if he'd been wearing white, he would have been far angrier.

"I ... I ... I don't understand you, Colm," he exhaled, and it was the most honest he'd sounded all night. "I want to, but I don't."

"What is there to understand?" Colm said. "Stop touching my stuff."

"I never forget that the young Bell is your toy, Colm, with all the risk that it entails. Nor do I fail to see that Van der Linde is trying to create a veil between us, one that he's the one spinning. I'm not fucking your boy, he is."

Micah sucked in a breath but said nothing. 

"What," Colm said, rage twisting into something greener.

"Well, I suspect they have slept together. They were caught flirting in Annabelle's saloon by one of our spies." Owen stepped closer, and Micah shrunk away from him. "Supposedly they were all over each other." He put a hand on the back of Micah's neck. "Weren't you?"

"Is this true?" Colm asked Micah sharply.

"He … I …" Micah looked deeply uncomfortable. "Like before, he taught me ..."

"He taught you what, darling?" 

"How to kiss," Micah whispered, unable to face either of them, his face bright red.

"Goodness, really? Something so simple?"

Colm frowned. When Micah and Dutch first met, he had made them kiss, prettily so. Had they mistaken that for permission to continue it without Colm knowing? They couldn't be that foolish.

"No, no, we don't believe you, do we, Colm," Owen said, noticing his brother's displeasure. "I can check for you. If those lessons had any merits, I mean. I never took you for a kisser."

"No. You go ahead," Colm snarled. "Indulge Owen, Micah. Like you indulged Dutch."

He regretted it a moment later, when Owen bent down and grabbed at Micah's head to hold him in place so he could kiss him. He squeezed Micah's cheeks together and left salvia in the folds, so his lips resembled a puffy asshole. With somebody else than his brother, the sight would've been deeply attractive, especially the humiliation aspect. Owen fucked his tongue into Micah's mouth, taking full use of Micah's stillness when it came to this. He'd be far more active if he was sucking Owen's cock. 

Colm felt so deeply ambivalent that he considered just letting Owen have Micah, like ripping off a band aid, in another – number – world where could've watched in silence as Owen took Micah over the dinner table. Colm liked sloppy seconds, but he was less fond of his brother's slop, he knew that from experience. There was so much spit it dripped onto Micah's shirt, just like the cake had done on Owen's, more and more filth. It felt wrong, for some reason.

Micah remained passive as though those lessons with Dutch had made no difference or not existed at all. Why had he sought out them out in the first place? Wasn't Colm a good enough kisser? Was Dutch better, more attractive and ... less of a fossil? And with Owen moaning into Micah's mouth, another question materialized itself: was Owen a better kisser than Colm? As if denying those suspicions, Micah looked downright violated when Owen withdrew and used a napkin to dab his own mouth like he'd just eaten. 

"Ah. Not very good. So kissing wasn't the only thing you two did, was it?"

Micah deflated, unable to look at either of them.

"Are you trying to humiliate me?" Colm asked both of them. 

"I'm just trying to show you what a carrion bird Dutch van der Linde is," Owen answered. "He'll wait for someone else to kill us, like young Mister Bell here, then he'll eat our bodies – our money, our gang, our reputation – and absorb our strength."

"I would never kill-!"

Micah stood up so fast the chair fell backwards and whatever he was going to say was interrupted by the loud clattering of all the silver cutlery he'd stolen falling to the floor.  

"Pathetic," Owen said. 

"Yeah," Colm agreed.

Ignoring Micah's betrayed look, Colm met Owen's eyes for a moment, and there was an understanding between the O'Driscoll brothers that something had to be done with Dutch. Swiftly. Preferably tonight.

 

It was raining outside. Heavy summer rain, awakening the old salt and filth present in the otherwise so dry streets of Blackwater. No one here dressed properly for such a weather and ran along the buildings as a result. Colm walked fast and free for once, uncaring that he got soaked. Rain never bothered him all that much. It always helped cool his headaches. But he wasn't quite so fond of snow, nor of the shoddy ice of the eyes beside him. 

"Boss, listen, I can explain – "

Colm turned on his heel and grabbed Micah's collar. "We're going to pay Dutch a nightly visit, seeing as how Annabelle is out. I don't want to hear another word from you."

"Colm. Please."

"Shut up, Bell," Colm cut him off, wrenching himself off him and stalking into the night. The wind blowing around almost drowned out the sound of Micah's footsteps, following just behind, more nervous than they'd been in months. The fear did Colm good. He'd create a lot more of it before the night was over. And since both Micah and Dutch knew his touch from before, he could play harder with them, to remind them just who and what he was.

"Listen," Micah said, unable to let it go, walking way too closely to Colm so that he could be heard. "It's not what you think. We never fucked. We just… talked."

"Fourteen," Colm said simply, pushing him away.

"What?"

"For each word you speak after I told you not to, I'll give you one more whip lash."

"Petty," Micah said after a brief pause, sounding impressed with the cruelty. 

Colm smiled, "Fifteen, now."

Micah held his tongue at the rest of the walk back to the saloon, but Colm could feel him staring warily and thought it interesting that Micah had reached a point of his training where he actually could follow orders. But could he follow Colm's orders around Dutch?

As the saloon came into view, Colm told Micah to go get the flogger in his room.

 

Annabelle's private rooms had a saloon vibe filtered through the lens of a rich bitch. The wood of the walls, floor and furniture was polished to perfection. Strongly scented flowers in vases all across the room. A writing desk with a peacock quill, a wine bottle, perfume stands, and a lacquered box possibly filled with makeup. Two gigantic wardrobes to house a fraction of her dresses. A huge bed in a mix of light pink and magenta, along with gray furs and decorative pillows. Best of all were the plush carpets, which made the footsteps of Colm and Micah almost silent as they entered without knocking.

On Annabelle's bed, dressed to match her bedcovers, was Dutch on his stomach with his fur slippers crossed like a girl reading a romance novel. He was completely absorbed in the poems of Petrarca, so it was pretty romantic, paired with those damn slippers.

After the evening with Owen, Colm wanted to destroy him.

Also because Dutch kind of reminded him of Owen.

"One minute, darling," Dutch said, holding up a finger and putting it back to turn a page.

Like a striking spider, Colm grabbed the book and threw it across the room. One of Annabelle's tapestries fell to the floor in a rustle of cloth like a woman dropping down her skirts to reveal herself.

And then Dutch revealed himself: twisting off the bed and reaching for the gun at his side, stopping when he saw Colm's gun. Colm had had it raised since he entered.

Yes. The night with Dutch would be far more interesting than the evening with Owen.

Notes:

The "Wisniewski" mention is an easter egg for people who have read my Morbell series The Devils. It will have no impact on the plot though as it isn't in Helena's best interest to tell anyone.

Anyway there's a big threesome scene in the next chapter! Strap on your seatbelts for that one.

Chapter 24: My Mood Swings

Summary:

Colm punishes Dutch and Micah, before Annabelle enters the room.

Notes:

Warnings: Flogging, Colm being his sadistic self, sex toys, drug use, foursome - M/M/M/F

Chapter title track is by Elvis Costello. I can easily imagine Dutch and Annabelle dancing to it, while Colm and Micah stand rigid in a corner and envy their wicked moves. But Colm is showing off a different sort of wicked moves here, so heed the warnings! This whole chapter is the smuttiest one in the entire arc.

The pink color of Annabelle's private quarters increased as though the tension heightened the contrast. A similarly pink silver tongue dabbed out and added moisture to pomaded lips, as shiny as the black curls reaching to Dutch's collarbone, and the sweat on his forehead. He was on all fours in bed, eyes darting back and forth from Colm's gun to Micah's whip. He looked both coldly calculating and hot with ire.

Colm could see why Micah and Annabelle liked that paradox of a boy so much. But he had also seen him with shorter hair and a beard and knew of the wild creature that lurked beneath the veneer of a civilized man. This creature breathed beneath the honey of his words, seeking to fight, not to win but to conquer.

"Whatever you think I might've done, Colm," Dutch began, "I suggest we take it elsewhere and duel like gentlemen, rather than you shooting a man in the bed of his lover. That would be low. Even for you."

"Tough luck. Owen is the one who likes duels, not me. Throw your guns over here. Now."

Dutch met Micah's eyes briefly before he clicked his tongue in distaste, but did throw his two Schofields over, making sure to do it lightly so that they fell upon the plush carpet one by one. Their grips were shimmery, not ivory but more like pearl, the set being another gift from Annabelle perhaps. As Colm put the guns on the writing desk nearby, he noted that they also had elaborate gold engravings.

"Might I ask what this is all about? I didn't take you for a fool. Barging in here ... Who knows what Annabelle will say ..."

"I know you've been talking to Owen. I also know you've been talking to my boy without my permission. Fucking him, most likely. Though he claimed you were giving him kissing lessons."

"Co – " Micah only said the first syllable, but Colm wasn't in a forgiving mood.

"Sixteen," Colm said, as though Micah wasn't the one holding the whip.

But he knew Micah would hand it to him, just like he knew he'd survive sixteen lashes and more.

"There is no need to be jealous, Colm. Those lessons were harmless," Dutch said, dripping with that charm he had, pretending at empathy. High society people might fall head over heels for that, but Colm wasn't high society.

"Did you forget how it was on the streets?" Colm asked. "Whose help you came begging for every time you had a problem – a witness, a detective, an ex – that wouldn't go away? I didn't even have to ask; you dropped to your knees so fast. Seemed like you liked it, too."

"I admit I ... appreciated the fruits of our trade, once."

Appreciation was not enough.

"Micah, hand me the flogger."

Holding his tongue like he should've done earlier, Micah did as he was ordered.

Dutch became very pale now, almost matching the pastiness of Micah. He took a shaky inhale, but his voice was steady, his ultimate weapon of choice, especially after Colm had taken his gun away.

"Annabelle will kill - "

"Annabelle will do nothing if I tell her you've been sweet-talking Owen behind her back. I know she can't stand the man."

"I didn't – "

The first lick of the whip hit him across the chest. Dutch, to his credit, did not make a single sound, but his eyes widened. His hands came up to guard the spot, then splayed as the pain hit.

The white shirt was cut open. A fine line of blood followed. Colm licked his lips.

"On the bed, unless you want another one across your pretty face."

"She'll know anyway, now," Dutch said, touching the bloodied shirt.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll make up a good story. Nasty thing like you has many enemies. Tell her you went to buy her a gift and got spotted by a coachman you'd robbed, who chased you with a horse whip. Most women love fuzzing over a hurt boy, curled up in bed, mouth opened wide."

Like a black hole opening inside of Colm, a flash of awareness of where the words came from: himself, taking care of Micah that winter that felt like a lifetime ago due to the strain of their months apart. Hypocrisy wasn't the worst sin to those with some life experience, but it still annoyed him.

"Take off your shirt and pull down your trousers. Then kneel in front of the bed, with your arms on the mattress. You got all that?"

Dutch didn't answer. Nor did he move.

When Colm cracked the whip in the air, Dutch flinched, stepping closer to the bed. He took off his shirt, scowling at the gash in the fabric before folding it up, before undoing his belt and faltering at the trousers. He faced to the side of Colm and Micah as if they didn't deserve to look at him directly.

"Will this do?" he asked, trying to hide his fear with irony.

"It'll do," Colm said, not letting go off his gun just yet, while he stepped closer to trail the flogger over Dutch's exposed skin.

Despite his young age he was a hairy thing, black hairs curling similarly thickly on his ass. Beneath the hairs, he was redder than it'd been before, but it might just be the heat of embarrassment, arousal, or even of Annabelle's hand if she was inclined towards that sort of activities. The flat end of the leather whip made gooseflesh appear, but Dutch did not give him the satisfaction of a shudder.

"Micah, use his belt to tie his wrists together."

"Boss, he never - "

"Nineteen now, Micah. Still questioning my authority? I figured I'd do your punishment afterwards, but you must be eager. Do as I tell you, then follow his example and kneel down next to him. I intend to punish you both like the wicked little boys you are. If you keep talking without permission, I won't stop until I reach bone."

Micah made a wretched noise, but he did grab Dutch's belt, seemingly caring enough for the older boy to check that the belts weren't tied too tightly around his wrists, but aware enough of Colm's wrath to make sure it wasn't escapable. He undressed faster than Dutch had, and that was something.

It became something even better when they were side by side on the bed, their asses plump and their backs rigid with muscle. Both of them were pale, but Dutch had slightly warmer –healthier skin – and he was decidedly more furred. They shared a glance; secretive, anticipating fear or desire? Colm wanted Micah's shock, and he got it when he slashed the whip against the side of his neck. An unusual spot and also very sensitive.

"Fuck!" Micah said, clutching his neck.

"I'll let you curse, yeah, but keep facing ahead. You have eighteen to go. For conspiring against me, I'll give you twenty lashes, Dutch. Try not to bite your lip too hard; letting me hear you will make me kinder."

"You don't possess a kind bone in your body, you old -"

Colm put all his weight into that first whip lash, the second one this evening, but only the beginning of a punishment he was looking forward to enacting. Any anger evaporated at the sound of Dutch's oof like a harpooned whale, as a red line appeared on the small of Dutch's back and highlighted his lovely waist.

"I am cruel, but I could be so much worse than this. It's only my current standing with Annabelle that makes me use a flogger where I'd prefer a curved blade."

"You – "

Another whip lash, across Dutch's ass this time. There was no whale noise; there was mostly shock. It wouldn't have hurt so much as where there were less fat, but the noise was louder and more shocking, also to Dutch. Micah whined when he got two lashes of his own, the placement similar.

Colm amused himself by delivering a couple of lashes that hit them both the same time, as if he was trying to stitch the meeting sides of their backs, asses and thighs together using blood. Dutch was gritting his teeth as he struggled against his restrains, Micah was chewing on a patch of the bedcovers.

Satisfied at their increasing signs of weakness, Colm put his gun back in its holster. But his hunger had grown so foul it wouldn't be satisfied until the boys broke. The thin lines on their skin were like red lips pressed tightly together, and he found himself wanting to make them part into openly grinning gashes, a reverse of their current expressions. He'd have to restrain himself or he knew he'd seek their bones.

"Remember to breathe, boys. We're just getting started."

 

There was the sound on leather on skin, sometimes two in a row and more often randomized, but Colm hadn't done all that accounting for nothing and he remembered the number of lashes he gave them.

He took his time. Savoring it. Going for the maximum sting.

When the first twelve lashes were done, Micah and Dutch were whining and sweating, full of red cuts, leaning their chins on the mattress in search of a softness they didn't deserve. Dutch had a wobbling noise on every inhale, and Micah had breathy whimpers on every exhale. But they weren't turned off. Colm had been inside of them – their mouths, their asses, dragging himself across their skin like a disease – enough times to know how they worked. They could take more. He saw it in their eyes, dark and bright, a starless sky beside an icy lake. They made a cute couple when dancing in the palm of Colm's hand. Micah was damn near humping the side of the bed, the obvious fool. Maybe it was muscle memory. 

Colm shook loose the tension in his shoulder and arm. He'd feel this tomorrow, but so would they.

"Touch yourself, Micah."

Micah pressed his ass out more so he could get his fingers around himself. Dutch seemed to startle slightly; he probably hadn't known about the depths of Micah's masochism, which was a good thing.

Colm switched the flogger from one hand to another, using the right and the less favored one. He wasn't as ambidextrous as Micah, but he had been forced to write with his right one, or his schoolmaster would make him collect fresh nettles outside with his left – devil – hand to cook it into a soup for the class to eat. The nettle burns made it hard to write at all, and to hold a spoon, and so he had to learn to hide any pained expression to not be made fun of. Pain was such a strange sensation. A sort of internal alert system, the body screaming remember I am here to the mind. With his headaches, Colm was no stranger to chronic pain, but he found the willed versions of it to be more pleasurable, when watching it in others. There hadn't been a time in his life where he'd said no to watching someone in pain.

The way Dutch breathed like a bull, while Micah moaned sweetly.

The way their scalps were wet and their skin, sweating.

The way their bodies shook when he hit them on the ass because of the loud noise and indignation.

Colm was fully erect and had been for quite some time now. It didn't bother him like it had done in his teenage years, when prolonged arousal would cause him more than discomfort, and he enjoyed the stirrings. His sadism was more important to him than any interest in a physical completion.  

The red cuts almost seemed to quirk their corners when he delivered more lashes to them, leaving pink lines on top of the red ones, and making the frayed edges of deeper gashes – where he'd had too much fun – blush harder. He still chose to focus on their lower backs because this was a punishment, after all. And because while fun to look at, Micah's ass had taken too long to heal last time.

"You're done, Dutch. Sit back and relax, if you can."

Dutch complied, then cursed like a sailor as he sat down, even if his lower back wasn't touching the side of the bed like the back of his arms were, which remained tied behind his back. He breathed through his mouth, and his gums looked itchy with the way he ground his teeth. He glared at Colm, but without the confidence to speak. He curled his legs up as if to protect himself, the pants at his ankles too awkward. His face was hidden behind long strands of curls like a girl found on the side of the road.

"This is what happens when you touch my stuff without my permission," Colm said. 

Owen's grinning face flashed across his mind, and he shook his head, focusing on Dutch.

"I ..." Dutch hung his head, and for a moment Colm thought he was smarter than Micah when it came to talking back. But then his youth showed, unable to hold back, "We never did anything sordid together, he was simply asking me advice about ... advice about love!"

Love. There it was again, that word. The thing Colm had never understood other than as a tool to get the enemies of his old clients comply, back when he was a fixer and learnt how to threaten someone through others. Love annoyed him and repulsed him, because unlike with pain, he did not know it well.

"Talks of love and of killing my brother? Kids these days sure have an inflated sense of self that you wouldn't find in my generation. Regardless, Micah's current punishment is for running his mouth."

With a kind of abandon reserved for the boys he owned, Colm switched the whip back to his favored hand and brought the whip down on Micah's back with maximum force. He tried to hit his lower back, and touch his spine and shoulder blades, because he didn't want pain, he wanted agony.

Again. And again. And again. 

Though Micah was no mathematical genius, and so in pain that he would in another minute or two become too dumb and drooling to speak, he gathered that the number of lashes had far exceeded the spoken number.

"Too much!" he screamed. "You said - "

"It wasn't set in stone. It was a suggestion. By me, for myself. Four more, now, but I'd rather not deal with stitches, so they'll be the last ones, I think."

"Please," Micah said brokenly.

"I'll let you say that one as many times as you want. Maybe I'll go easier."

Colm did go easier because Micah's litany of "Please, please ..." did brighten his mood a bit, together with the whimpers, which sounded the same whether the boy was in pain or not.

"Colm," Dutch warned, and he sounded concerned despite the fact that he'd grown half-hard, eyes on Micah's back. Was it the noises, or the blood? Colm didn't know. "He can't take much more."

"Be quiet and watch. You don't know him that well," Colm said simply, and it was true: after the childhood Micah had had, this wasn't all that much.

"The mice sure like to play with the cat is out, don't they?" said a fourth voice.

Annabelle stood in the entrance, shaking some rain off her umbrella, closing it and putting it along with a collection inside a copper bucket, before she regarded them airily. But when she met Colm's eyes, it was clear that she had a clear idea of what was going on here. At the same time, she didn't seem surprised. She stepped out of her heels and into a pair of fluffy slippers that matched Dutch's.

 

Colm considered killing Annabelle for a moment. It would take care of a lot of things and help their "organization" according to Owen. But Colm mentally went nah pretty quickly because then he'd have to stay with Owen when in Blackwater to evade the law and that wasn't an option.

"Annabelle," Dutch began, swallowing thickly. "I can explain –"

"No need. I have eyes. But I also have a mouth for inquiries, my darling. I know you've expressed an interest in sadistic older men, but if you wanted me to fetch one, you should've just asked and I would've arranged it. I must admit, Colm O'Driscoll is a rather extreme choice."

Dutch looked truly shamefaced. 

"Am I seen as extreme?" Colm asked, interested.

"Your reputation proceeds you," she said. Her tone held a strange warmth. Not exactly friendly, but more familial? Like they were bound by things outside personal choices. "May I join in? It is my room, after all."

"Sure. Any particular preferences?" he asked, realizing that preference was what they had in common.

"Well, since you ask ..."

Hips swaying more than usual, she sauntered over to the writing desk, pressing a button on the side and opening a secret drawer (Colm made a mental note to ask Annabelle where she'd gotten it) to take out a small chest and a leather bag. She sat aside her perfumes to access the mirror plate beneath them. She didn't even glance at Dutch's guns, which Colm had put there earlier.

"Annabelle," Dutch breathed, maybe to beg for his guns.

"Hush, boy. The adults are talking."

There wasn't much actual talk, but she spoke volumes with her actions. She opened the small wooden chest, which held two toys in a phallus shape put on top of a bed of blue silk. They were pearl with golden engravings, and Colm became certain that Annabelle had ordered these two items along with Dutch's Schofields, like something for her to wield for him. The sizes were slightly different, but they were both large. Nothing Micah and Dutch couldn't take, certainly.

"Nice craftsmanship."

"Yes, I only hire the best," Annabelle said. "Would you like some refreshments?"

Where Colm expected her to gesture to the wine, she held up the leather bag, opening it and tipping a line of white powder into the mirror plate. That was nice. He preferred cocaine to wine.

As was proper, she snorted the first line, then hid her nose with her hand. As was improper, Colm was a little too eager in walking close, but her slight twitches as she prepared his line showed that she did not mind his eagerness. After taking his due, he felt more awake and more relaxed at the same time. Warmth filled him, not unlike the best parts of a mild fever. The ache in his arms began to fade.

Annabelle, who seemed as used to it as he was, walked towards the bed.

In one hand, she had the smaller one of the sex toys, and in her other hand was a glass bottle adorned with small crystals, containing something thicker than water, and which smelled strongly of green things like oil from olives or prickly pear, known for its medicinal properties and nice slickness.

"I'll loosen the belt. You'll be a good boy, won't you Dutch?"

"Yes, mistress," Dutch said quietly.

The cocaine made everything brighter, including the satisfaction that Colm felt upon guessing their dynamic from the start. She undid the clasp of the belt, and Dutch was the one who rolled it up and put it on the bed, before he put his forearms on the mattress and squeezed the welts on his wrists.

Balancing the sex toy in the crook of her arm, Anna picked up one of the white furs from the bed. It looked like the fluffy fur of white foxes, and she was rather foxlike, especially in the graceful speed of her movements and large softness of her body. She placed it on the floor before she crouched down, minding the skirt of her dress and gown. Giving Colm a knowing look, she tutted at the whip lashes, then smeared oil onto Dutch's ass, before beginning to work her fingers deeper.

Dutch relaxed, then tensed, and then relaxed, not questioning her actions.

Micah, who had caught his breath, was watching them with interest.

"Can't you keep it in, sweetling?" she asked, scooping oil into him.

"I'm ..." he mm-ed the sound, "trying."

"You're doing well," she said. 

Once Dutch was looser and wetter than Colm ever allowed Micah to be, she began to press the toy inside him, little by little. She was a kinder master than Colm, who would have shoved it in there just to watch the recipient squirm. He still squirmed rather beautifully, but he stayed put, not wiggling or making much noise except the breaths he took through gritted teeth.

Soon he was becoming more amiable, and when Annabelle found the spot, he let out a ragged moan.

"Give yourself something to concentrate on, Dutch."

"Yes, mistress," Dutch said, reaching down to stroke himself, mouth falling open as he copied Annabelle's motions inside him, slow and steady. Like they had all the time in the world.

"Can I ...?" Colm began, gesturing to the remaining, larger toy, and then to Micah.

"It's fine by me, but I'll have to ask the recipient of those gifts. Dutch?"

Dutch grunted a yes, seemingly more concerned with his own pleasure.

Colm zoned in on Micah, carrying the toy over, swinging it like he had the whip. The whip was currently resting on top of the desk, one end of it dripping blood onto the already reddish wood.

"Suck on it," Colm said, extending the toy to Micah's mouth. "You'd want to get it real wet, or it'll hurt a lot more. I'm not in the mood to prep you."

"Will that be safe?" Annabelle asked, sounding genuinely concerned. "I thought that boys can be hurt from it. I would rather not see he bleeds to death. It'd stain the carpets terribly, I'm sure you understand."

"He won't tear. It's got more to do with speed and use. If he works up enough spit, he'll manage."

Micah was working up spit for his dear life. Like at the restaurant, he did not hold back for the sake of manners, trying to work up the throat mucus to make the large toy sufficiently slimy. When he was done, he looked up at Colm with wide eyes, expectant.

"Why should I do it for you? Fuck yourself with it, boy."

Face redder than ever, Micah accepted the toy. His hand trembled more when he saw Dutch watching him with eyes hazy from his own pleasure, with Annabelle behind him, working the toy deeper and deeper. Staring at Colm again, Micah pressed the larger one of the two inside of him, biting his already bloodied lip. The tiniest trails of blood ran from it, making it no further than the top of the scar. His ass would not bleed, not with how slow he was. Though he reserved it for more special occasions, Colm had fucked him near-dry enough times for him to be familiar with the motions, going very slow.

Too slow, in fact. It gave Colm time to palm himself, just to make sure he didn't lose his erection when the carefulness verged on dragging out the encounter as if Micah feared blood more than he did Colm.

"You can take more," Colm said, and made adept use of the side of his boot, pushing the dildo inside despite Micah's groin hitting the edge of the bed in an effort to get the hell away. "There we go."

"Copy Micah," Annabell told Dutch, waiting until he escaped his haze enough to take over her hold on the toy. She sat down on the bed, Dutch moving to kneel between her legs. "Colm, will you join me?"

To be invited to sit upon a lady's bed ... It had happened more often in his youth, when he accepted skin trade as a payment for his efforts. He complied and didn't need to ask Micah to move between his legs; he was already there, throwing glances at the couple next to them.

Unlike Dutch, who simply rested his head, Micah buried his face in Colm's crotch. He inhaled audibly due to his stuffed nose. Colm shushed him as though he was sobbing rather than getting drunk on his scent, but there was enough amusement in it for Micah to continue. Sighing as though he didn't have the heart to discipline him and hadn't already done so excessively, Colm stroked his fingers through his hair.

"Don't neglect the toy."

Micah nodded and cried out so earnestly that Colm knew he was still pushing it inside himself.

Annabelle cleared her throat, having lifted her skirt ever so slightly, revealing a hairy bit of ankle.

"May I?" Annabelle asked and glanced at Colm, tilting her head at him.

He tilted his head right back, because she ought to have known that he was in no position to judge her for vulgarity. He cared less for expected roles than power in its purest form, the act of taking and being taken; Annabelle lifting up her skirt and Dutch scurrying beneath it. The shape of Dutch's head and back was visible through the dress, twitching along her leg in a way that meant he was kissing his way upwards. When he found her, she threw her head back, closing her eyes tightly.

Watching them, Colm freed his own cock from his pants. Annabelle didn't get much of a look even if she'd tried to, because Micah was already on it. Sucking him down, curling his tongue around the underside, finding the spot where his dick met his balls and tonguing along the sensitive skin there. A little whore taught by older and better whores. But Micah also had a natural gift for it, breathing so loudly, unable to contain his mms and aahs as his head moved back and forth. Colm kept a tight grip on his hair, but he allowed Micah to decide the pace, and he sped up without being asked.

"He looks so taken with you," Annabelle observed thoughtfully. "The beginning of a very deep love."

Micah choked on Colm until tears came to his eyes, held there because Colm had frozen.

"Maybe it is," he said finally, and let Micah go.

Annabelle laughed her usual weird high society laugh.

While Dutch kept working his tongue beneath her skirts, her eyes were half-lidded like Micah's but held a sharpness like Colm's. He wondered where her game was, being publicly friendly with Owen (or at least attending the same parties as him) and being privately with Colm. She even climaxed right in front of him, face contorting in the smallest of ways, lips parting.

And then she was back from her tiny death, putting a hand on Dutch's head, wanting more.

She was right though. Micah was falling in love with Colm faster and in another way than he'd anticipated. He wasn't just bending his neck but actively seeking to establish a connection to him. It still chafed at him to have himself discussed behind his back as someone's object of affection. He hadn't anticipated that either, nor the loss of control, even if the puzzle box had been a nice gift. He'd expected love with less expectancies and demands, less... chaos. And the biggest issue was that he liked it.

Colm touched the sides of Micah's lips, stretched around him, while his usually so sharp blue eyes closed with the pleasure of giving pleasure. He'd put both hands on Colm's knees, doing a clawed massage with his fingers like a cat making biscuits before it could lay down and rest. A quick look behind him confirmed that Micah still sought pleasure elsewhere, using his own ankles to push the toy within him like Colm had ordered him to do. He supposed he could get him a treat, also to demonstrate his control.

"Hey, Micah. You want Dutch to fuck you? I can ask her, and maybe your wish will come true."

"Okay," Micah said hoarsely, then going right back at sucking cock hide the ripe blush on his face.

"Well, I don't see any reason not to." Annabelle patted Dutch's head twice, like a signal, and he emerged from underneath her dress, red-faced and happy. "How does that sound?"

"Whatever you want, mistress," Dutch said, licking his lips. His hair was disheveled, and parts of his remaining clothing was humid with sweat.

The crawl to get behind Micah was awkward but eager, on all fours when the pants at his ankles made Dutch fall forward, but he crawled into place by gripping Micah's hips. Annabelle handed him the bottle of slick, and he was as generous with it as she had been, which seemed to be their preference.  

"Do you want me, Micah?" Dutch asked, thumbing his hipbone.

Micah did not answer, but he did push his ass out. And he did cry out when Dutch removed the toy and he kissed Colm's cock with an open mouth to hide the noise. The plan failed, and drool splattered onto Colm when Dutch pushed in, grunting at the effort. Judging by how fast he moved, the toy had stretched Micah out nicely. He was good like that, stuffed on both ends like a roast pig. Colm wondered if he tightened around them at the same time. It certainly felt like he tried to copy Dutch's rhythm.

It was evident on Dutch's sweaty face that he was close. Maybe he'd masturbated while being underneath Annabelle's dress, or maybe he just adored eating her out. Colm had always known Dutch preferred oral sex, even when blackmailed to do so he enjoyed the act too much to ever lose control. When he penetrated someone as nice as Micah, he had far less control. It all belonged to Colm in this moment. 

Micah looked up at Colm, narrowing his eyes, smiling around his cock. Then his lips tightened. And then Dutch grunted as if he'd tightened back there too, thrusts becoming jagged, spilling into him.

Holding Colm's gaze, Micah released his dick, using his mouth to put it down instead of spitting it out. Colm pushed his head down, so he was resting beside it, breath warming it, cooling it, warming ...

When Dutch withdrew, it was silent except for a wet noise of come dripping to the floor. Giving Colm a single nod, Dutch crawled backwards from them to collapse on the white fur left after Annabelle had kneeled on the floor. She gave him a silver case, which he caught, removing a cigarillo.

He offered one to Colm, who shook his head while petting Micah's.

Cherry-scented smoke filled the room like an old dream.

There were worse dreams. There was no rage left. No jealousy, either. 

Colm snuck a finger underneath Micah's chin and tipped his head upwards. 

"Do you want to come?"

"No," Micah said simply, and Colm believed him.

"Then it's over."

"Okay, boss."

They both withdrew from one another to fix their clothes. It was a sort of ritual between them, and he only noticed that most didn't do this because Dutch and Annabelle were curled up together in the bed, looking at them with arched brows.

"Leaving so soon?" Annabelle asked, vocalizing the question in Dutch's eyes.

"We're done here. Make sure to see to his whip marks," Colm said, nodding at Dutch.

"I'll make sure," Annabelle said. "I don't care for scars."

"Neither do I," Dutch mumbled.

"Oh, and if you want me to source some toys for you, do tell me," Annabelle said, sitting up and looking the most put together of all of them, though Colm had no doubt that she was wet in her drawers. He could see why Owen had wanted to marry her, once upon a time.

"I might take you up on that. But not tonight."

"No, it's quite late," she said, as though they'd been playing poker instead of fucking. "I suspect you'll want to retire for the night? Do you want me to alert the staff to have supper brought to your room?"

"Nah, we've eaten," Colm said with a cheeky grin, one he rarely allowed himself because Owen had said it made him look like a creepy old man even as a child. "We've eaten through," he added, a little bit darkly, before putting a hand on Micah's neck. "We'll see you in the morning. And continue the talks on love."

If Micah was dead set on learning things from them, Colm wanted to oversee it.

"Such a vast and difficult subject," Annabelle said politely.

"Difficult for some more than others," Dutch added, nodding at Micah, who was staring at Colm's boots. 

He was still looking at them when they left the Annabelle and Dutch, not with shame, but reverence. 

 

Back in their room, Micah undressed without being asked to. They went through the motions in familiar silence: Colm, checking his wounds, cleaning off the blood, pouring whiskey over some of them.

No words were exchanged while they did it.

Micah was shivering by the end of it, and they went into bed, lying face to face without touching. Close, though. Noses threatening to brush against each other. Breathing the same stale, whiskey-smelling air.

"Did you like that?" Colm asked, curious no matter what the answer would be.

"I guess," Micah said, shrugging. "They're nice enough."

Dutch reminds me of your father, Colm wanted to say, but for some reason he held his tongue. His was not made of silver, after all. Maybe it was the expression on Micah's face, twitching as though he had something to say. It kept on doing so until he inched closer to Colm so that their noses bumped.

"... You don't fuck me all that often," Micah whispered.

"Oh? I thought I just did."

"No. Like ... Dutch did. Would you ... with somebody else?"

"No," Colm said honestly. Was this the source of his fear? Insecurity? Jealousy?

Silence followed.

Colm tried to think of something nicer than It's not my problem that you're more insatiable than me when it comes to ass-fucking. After the night they'd had, he needed to reassess his bindings over the boy, showing him who was the boss here even if he'd let Dutch fuck him.

"Would you like me to order you some toys of your own?" Colm had meant to sound harsh, but his voice came out soft. "I can source some pretty black and red ones. How about that?"

"Yeah!" Micah said, sounding tired but hopeful. "I'd like that." 

They both turned away from each other after that, not used to speaking to each other with such warmth.

Notes:

Shoutout to my friend for helping me out with the dildo designs, as an art and fic trade a couple of months ago. Check their work here. Next chapter will be far more plotty, involving the whole cast (including Owen, Annabelle and Dutch), so stay tuned.

Chapter 25: Libertine

Summary:

Annabelle hosts a large party, and a murder happens.

Notes:

Chapter title song is by Mylène Farmer. Also recommend the music video, very sexy haha.

And we've reached the arc finale, setting up the endgame of the fic!

Colm really did hate parties. Especially ones with a theme that required dressing up. 

Owen loved them of course, and had readied their outfits, so Colm and Micah had been forced into vintage tricorne hats and high heeled dress shoes. They refused to wear the grandiose wigs, makeup and knee-breeches with silk stockings like Owen did. He had left them quickly after they arrived at Annabelle's mansion, maybe because of their half-complete outfits, contrasting Owen's detailed costume, which was wholly white except for the pink wig and lipstick. He matched Annabelle's lavish white gown, and they'd both looked like they tried to hide their disgust at the "copying" during the greetings at the door even if they probably just used the same tailor.

Ironically, they were celebrating the height of summer in a winter garden.

The plants stretched up towards their glass confinement, growing faster than the hired gardeners could trim them, before they were forced to linger on in clogged, smaller shapes as their wild siblings grew freely outside. 

Tearing his eyes away, Colm sighed, leaning back in the couch among those smaller plants. Though he did have his luxurious habits, he belonged outside of all of this, among his men. The feeling was more poignant when he was without a wild boy to keep him company. Micah had snuck away with Dutch an hour ago. He wasn't too out of place among the partygoers, not when Colm had paid the tailor that well and Owen had provided some costume-details. Hell, he even looked better than Dutch. Where Micah was dressed in gray and dark green just like Colm was, Dutch was wearing all black covered in dandruff-like stuff as Annabelle had powdered him to high heaven.

His face was so white it almost shone as Dutch approached Colm's corner of the winter garden, without Micah. The main problem was not his face, but his expression. Had something happened to Micah? Or was Dutch simply restless from being in Annabelle's peaceful embrace and close to plunging into new adventures?

Colm stared hard at the newspaper in his hands, forcing his eyes to follow the words.

"Bell is in trouble," Dutch hissed when he was close enough to not be heard by others.

"Is he, now," Colm said, not looking up. He felt a twinge in his chest but squashed it down.

"Are you coming or not?"

"Did he get his sweet ass stuck in the fireplace?"

"No! But he's stuck in another way. We were... I was showing Micah a private collection in Annabelle's rooms upstairs, and then Owen appeared."

Colm tensed so hard that he swore he could hear his own neck creak when he finally got up.

The winter garden faded, and though the heat remained, he felt as if he was alone on a cold night. He walked straight towards the staircase. It was the time of night where people were about to go from drunk to soggy drunk. Nobody around them was crawling just yet, but they were slurring.

As soon as there weren't people too close to him and Dutch, Colm delivered a singular and very real threat.

"If I find out you had a hand in this, I will cut it from your body."

Dutch nearly missed a few steps of the staircase, before he puffed himself up.

"I know that risk, but I don't want to let him get violated or worse."

Before Colm could ask, he continued, "Owen seemed interested in... destroying him, as he put it."

Colm scoffed at that last part, but within him, dark fantasies swelled as he shoved partygoers aside like they were useless shadows in a rundown pub and not in a manor. Colm imagined finding Micah with Owen, a thin figure crushed underneath a larger one, because though not as slim as he'd once was, Micah was still so small in comparison to his brother. Naked, on his back, legs over the shoulders of Owen's frilly coat, being yanked back and forth for each thrust Owen delivered into him, cock larger than Colm's. Usually that didn't bother him, but it did now, imagining Micah's pretty hole struggling with it, white along the rim if not a little red.

"Are you crying, little girl?" Owen would ask, lips trembling like worms in a carcass.

Micah would shake his head, maybe cry a bit, but the boy couldn't help his preference for searching for something bigger to make him feel like a virgin again and he'd take Owen's length quickly enough. A possessive ire pulsed in Colm's head, pulsing worse when he regretted not getting Micah toys faster, before Annabelle had recommended them. His own regret shocked him; he felt that emotion so rarely.

"There was another man there," Dutch added, still keeping up. "One that was very interested in him."

Colm walked harder as though he could stomp the fantasies into the red rug.

In his mind, Owen morphed into a faceless man, smaller, rougher and less interested in the guise of romance. The man would hold Micah's hips so hard they bruised, and instead of purple prose he would splutter humiliating things, maybe telling him that his hole wasn't worth that much, too loose and used up for his liking.

"Think the one who used you up gives a shit? He's always been a creep, ever since they were boys, and the only thing he's good for is threats and torture. Owen told me. He told me everything ."

"Did he seem interested?" Colm asked, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt.

"Who? The man certainly was, and Owen egged him on, saying – "

Dutch grunted when Colm threw the stupid tricorne hat at his face.

"Micah," Colm snarled. "Was he interested?"

"No! They pulled a gun at us and tied him up!"

The irritation warped, bled and deepened. Micah looked beautiful tied up. Privately beautiful. In the past, Colm had used one or both of their belts, before he'd gone over to chains. Though he clearly enjoyed it and sometimes needed it, Micah was still uncertain about bondage, and he played at being disobedient for it, mouth tightly closed while Colm kneeled over him and used the bounce of the mattress to rub himself on Micah's face, before the boy opened up on his own accord, sucking him off like there was still a battle raging despite him being immobilized. He'd stretch his fingers, up and down in the bonds, and his toes would curl similarly.

And then the memory leaked into another cruel fantasy: someone else seeing Micah like that, getting those secret licks and sounds from him, the way he moved against the restrains so that he could press his own fingers against the bruises later, blue eyes half-lidded and enigmatic. No one had the right to see that side of Micah but Colm. If there was someone inside of him right now, about to see that part of him, Colm would happily kill the person by slitting their throat, yanking them back, and before they'd even finished dying, Colm could take his rightful place inside Micah. 

He nearly ran the last distance and didn't care when Dutch smirked and slowed down.

The door was locked. From inside, he heard very loud breathing.

Suddenly Colm was fourteen years old again, kept awake by his brother huffing and puffing in the next-door room. He'd been so curious, because he'd been fond of natural experiments at the time and sought to know everything, including sex. His mother and most of the town was Catholic and there was no information but overheard whispers and alluring abstracts. But Owen, the bastard, locked the door whenever he had company. It was then Colm followed the wooden wall of their childhood home with his fingers, and then, behind the commode in his own room, he found an old twig hole that allowed him to look inside Owen's room. And after that he always felt like he was watching the world through a twig hole, the side he was watching always lit by candlelight, and his own, dark.

Dutch appeared beside him, and so did the click of a lock.

"They're all yours," he said, voice holding a strange glittering quality. 

 

Colm wrenched the double doors open, expecting to see a mishmash of what he had imagined.

And then he saw flashes of red deeper than Annabelle's preference:

Blood. Lots and lots of blood. Colm's sneer became a trembling grin, and he was careful when closing the doors behind him so the law wouldn't catch them, before he enjoyed the sight once more.

A bloodied, panting, crazed Micah was standing – wobbling - in Annabelle's bed, holding what looked like a very fancy pen, dripping crimson. The latter was smeared in a trail down across the mattress, down to a dead body, stabbed a dozen times in the face and the chest and the thigh and the... Ah. A crime of passion, then, not one of thought. Beneath the madness, Micah looked shaken, jacket off and shirt open like he'd been ravished. 

Though white as a sheet where the blood hadn't splattered on him, Owen was alive. Anything else would've been tedious. But he was looking quite pasty. The corpse at the foot of the bed was even paler.

"Your boy is a monster," Owen said, far too calm for someone with his facial color, and Colm realized it was the makeup. He didn't act surprised at the murder, more annoyed, hands in his pockets as he raised a brow at Micah waving the pen at him.

"Yes," Colm agreed, stepping into the room with a fond expression.

He was amazed at how much blood Micah had managed to get out of the man with a mere fountain pen. Though unreadable, it was the greatest love poem that Colm had ever received. Owen would never touch him again after this. He hated messes.

"Micah. Hey, look at me. Over here."

Colm walked closer, watching Micah's eyes struggle to focus on him, but managing.

"Jump off the bed, now. He won't touch you while I'm here."

Micah wobbled over to Colm, twitching all over. It must've taken quite a bit of energy to stab a man that many times. He'd sleep like a rock when the day was done. Colm patted Micah on the head, glove becoming dotted with red; not the first time.

"You can't mean to treat him so gently," Owen complained while removing his jacket to inspect the stains.

The clicking of heels made them aware of a fourth and fifth presence: Annabelle, in her massive, old-fashioned ball gown, bare shoulders held high and caked-on face paint twisted in disgust, and Dutch with a lowered head and brown eyes like two forest wells. He locked the door behind them after they entered.

"This is a mess," she said coldly, looking even more upset than Owen – but it was her bed, after all. "I welcome all sorts of people to my estate, no question asked, but you both know I have a single rule, implemented after what happened with my parents, and that rule is: no murder on the premises. No death. Anything else goes."

"Like rape?" Colm suggested, only a tad more bitter than neutral.

Annabelle's painted lips twisted to the side in disgust, but she did not disagree.

"There was no rape," Owen said, lips similarly painted and twisted. "The boy wanted it, same as he did."

"And you? You were just there to hold the bottle of - ugh, lavender - oil like a manservant?"

"I was invited to watch, Colom. He told me. Said, ah, just watch. Didn't you, boy?"

Micah did not answer. He was still clutching the pen like a lifeline.

Colm watched him, happy he had committed the murder and fascinated with his pure horror, but a little unnerved by how he hadn't come back to himself. He looked like he'd done after Colm spanked him so hard that he screamed. That was a headspace that was also best enjoyed without company such as theirs.

"Who is the dead man?" Annabelle asked. "There isn't much left of his face."

"That would be Vernon," Owen said gravely.

"Vernon... Oh fuck," Annabelle said, the only time Colm had heard her curse.

"Oh yes," Owen agreed, raising his eyes to hers and batting his lashes. "Vernon Dunbar. Even if he chose to leave his star at home, he's still very much the sheriff of Blackwater. Or was, until a nothing of a boy stabbed him with a pen a hundred times, simply for wanting a taste. Vernon's son, Oswald, is next in line to the title and he's downstairs as we speak. He won't be happy. Oh no, he won't let this slide easily."

Silence fell upon the room.

"I'm not... I'm not nothing," Micah said roughly, and was that Colm's imagination, or was he actually spitting out small chunks of gore? No, his mouth was truly bloody, which gave away the extent of his previous desperation.

"I told him to get off," he continued, craziness building.

"And he intended to do so, quick and easy," Owen said, singsong.

"Be quiet," Annabelle said. "There's a dead sheriff in my home and I need him out. The faster the better."

"I can make him disappear," Colm said, falling back into what he knew. It was an old role, cleaning up his brother's messes. It was the main reason Owen had sought him out, also in their youth, because even back then he'd had an appetite for the young and naïve. (Micah was young and naïve in some ways, but also extremely violent. Or was this some sort of game for Owen, too? Nobody told Colm much anymore.)

"I would prefer if you did, Colm," Annabelle said. "It would do us all a favor."

Nodding, Colm lit himself two smokes, and put one of them between Micah's lips like a pacifier.

"With a house full of guests?" Dutch asked, sounding curious, and not half as alarmed as Annabelle had done.

But she did not look upset at him, "No. There's a secret door behind my wardrobe. Dutch, if you please..."

"Of course, madame," Dutch said smoothly (maybe mistress was reserved for less bloody events), then walked over and began to push the furniture away. His muscles strained underneath his black attire. Though not as close to Colm's current tastes as Micah was (especially when covered in blood), Dutch was a beautiful, deadly thing. Colm had preferred him when he was fresh on the streets and easier to blackmail. 

Owen could very well have done this on his own, but Dutch's smugness gave him away. He was involved, and serious about entering Annabelle and Owen's games. That would get messy quickly. Dutch's appetite for violence wasn't as direct as Micah's, nor as cruel as Colm's, but it was there all the same. Waiting to erupt.

 

The sheriff's body ended up wrapped in Annabelle's flowery linen. At least it was already red.

Micah was made to carry his sin. He struggled with the weight, but he did not refuse the job. Quickly taking care of witnesses was the Bell specialty even while in a crazed state.

Before they left, Annabelle touched Colm's elbow, startling him just a bit. As though in a trance, Micah continued down the hidden path behind the wardrobe. Colm didn't like leaving him alone so quickly.

"Colm. I hate to ask this of you, but the boy must disappear. He is too suspicious. I do not mean that you ought to kill him. But... keep him away from the city, for a while."

"Do it for the good of both our organizations," Owen said from beside her.

Blocking the light from her bedroom, they were both shadows in the dark.

Behind them was Dutch, but he was surrounded by light and smiling.

For some reason, Colm looked at him while he thought it over.

The sheriff's disappearance would cause a large search, questioning the partygoers who saw him last, unless they'd left the city. The search would also make it more difficult for active criminals afterwards. Annabelle wouldn't be hosting any parties in a while. Neither would Owen. Their fragile truce seemed reliant on these social events, and without them, Dutch would be free to whisper in Annabelle's ear about taking out the O'Driscolls. Owen might come to a similar conclusion if Colm wasn't there to prevent it, if he hadn't already done so. All in all, it wouldn't be safe for Micah to be in Blackwater, even if Colm kind of... wanted him there. If he'd have to rear in Owen, snapping like Micah had seemed likely.

"I'll see what I can do," Colm said, turning towards the secret path.

 

The space was dug out of earth and rock like a mine. There was barely any light except for the lit candle-holder given to him by Annabelle. He wondered what her family had used this for, and also, what he could use it for in the future. Micah walked so slowly in the dark that it was easy to catch up to him. His breath was uneven. Colm took a few deep breaths, and felt pleased when he heard Micah copy the action, maybe out of habit.

The secret path ended in a small wooden door, hidden behind the overgrown vegetation behind the winter garden. If not the exact spot, it was still close to the place Colm had been staring at earlier, admiring it, longing for it. And now he was here, with a wild thing and a dead one. It felt better than it had inside the party, that was for sure.

"Wait here while I get our horses," Colm said. "You still got blood on your face. No, don't wipe at it, I'll get it off later. I'm glad you killed him. You did well." 

A tremble went through the boy. He let go off the corpse and leaned on a rocky wall covered in soft moss. "I just killed the fucking sheriff," he said, a note of wonder in his voice, like it hadn't properly sunk in yet. "With a pen."

"Congratulations. One of many to come, I'm sure, with or without pens."

"Can we go celebrate, now?" Micah asked airily.

"Let's talk about it after we dump the body. I know just the spot. Just like old times, hey?"

The flash of yellow teeth was nostalgic, until he realized Micah was missing two of them.

 

No more than fifteen minutes later, they were on an old dock a distance outside of Blackwater. It was like so many docks they'd visited before when done with a night's work, with their horses trying to find some patches of grass along the shore. Colm found himself missing the black skies of late autumn, winter and early spring. The summertime sky was too light, and showed the rain that was to come, with a humidity in the air that made his head feel stuffy. Too bad, because otherwise, he felt neutral. At least the tide was high, lapping softly at the wood beneath their dress shoes, so there would be no splash in the darkness.

"Don't shove him into the water just yet," Colm said. "Let me have a look at your face, first."

Micah had just finished dragging the corpse to the tip of the docks, and he was still catching his breath on his knees. Colm crouched beside him, put his palm into the water, and started scraping blood off Micah's face. Micah shrunk back in silent pain when Colm touched the cheek where the teeth were missing. The cheek was already a bit swollen, but the swelling would grow in size soon, rendering him quiet.

"Who did this?"

"Sheriff. I nearly bit his pecker clean off."

"Good boy," Colm said, becoming gentler as he tried to get a chunk of gore out of Micah's hair. He'd never done this to anyone before, not even himself, but the pretty blonde color had its disadvantages. "Too bad about the teeth, though."

"They were rotten anyway," Micah mumbled, licking the inside of his mouth like a dog. "Came out clean, at least."

"Let me get my tongs. No, don't flinch, it's not for you. Or well, kind of for you, but I'll be using them on him."

Colm always brought tongs, among other equipment, useful for making men talk quickly, or in this case, something he'd never done before but had seen his men do frequently. Dearg Dubh seemed content, having enjoyed her time in the Blackwater stables, but Fourteen looked worse for wear, drooling too much. They'd spurred them hard on the way here, but the stallion seemed sicklier than his old lady. 

"You need a new horse," Colm commented absentmindedly. 

Micah was busy staring at the tongs. He kept staring as Colm began to work on the dead body, unwrapping it just to show the face. It was a good thing rigor mortis hadn't set in yet, so Colm didn't need to crack open the jaw. 

"Gotcha," he said, smirking down at the sheriff's gold teeth, before raising his tongs to remove two.

Teeth had a harder hold on the body than most people expected. They didn't want to leave their humid confines. Too bad Colm forced them out, one knee on the corpse to steady himself. Colm thought the crackling came from the dead sheriff until he realized it was his own old knees that reacted negatively to the strain. Was he getting too old for this? Nah. One was never too old for some interesting fun with a human body.

And besides, he awoke Micah up from his strange state, not as disgusted as others might've been a few years ago. After extracting them, Colm used saltwater and whiskey from his pocket lark to clean the two gold teeth.

"If these two don't fit, there are a few more to choose from. I suspect the wounds in your gums are still open. First, I'd love to stamp these with my name. Karat seems soft enough."

"Dunno if I want an old sheriff's teeth."

"Would you prefer some from the corpse of an innocent person?" Colm asked, genuinely curious.

Micah had to think it over before he replied, "Nah."

"And don't worry, I'll make them mine, first. Hang on, I'll use a knife."

"Use this," Micah said, handing over his Bowie knife.

Colm took back that old gift with a smile. He held it along the dull edge, closer to the tip, to be more precise. He wouldn't manage to write his full name, so C.O. would have to do. The smooth shapes of the letters made it easier to write on those tiny things, and they were easy to hold still due to their artificial roots. He might have to reopen Micah's wounds to get them in, but that was just a treat, maybe even for the both of them.

"Why the pen, and not this?" Colm asked, admiring how sharp Micah had kept the knife.

"He was bragging about it," Micah said, sounding less airy as soon as he could talk of murder or torture, which Colm related to. "Said it was a luxury fountain pen, which is apparently a thing now. Had an iridium-tipped gold nib. Very expensive. So, I got it out from his pocket and started writing."

"Fitting. Here, I'm all done. These should go in easy. Open wide."

Pushing the gold teeth wasn't very hard, not with how open the wounds were and how familiar Micah's mouth was. The craters bled as they welcomed the artificial roots. Micah winced but didn't struggle. Colm was fascinated with the process, having removed quite a few teeth in his lifetime, but never put any back in. He felt the dried blood give in, and they seemed to stick somewhat, but he was not sure if they would take or not. If they didn't take, Micah could probably visit a goldsmith to get some bands or wires in place, and he told Micah as much. 

They both rose at the same time. After a nod from Colm, Micah kicked the sheriff's body into the sea. 

The splash in the darkness was quiet. The sea swallowed up the red cloths and the corpse within them. 

"You realize you'll need to stay away for a while, after this, yeah?" 

"Yeah," Micah said, slurred from his tongue trying to keep his two new teeth in, maybe feeling the signature.

Colm nodded. And now to the hardest part of the talk, where disagreement was not an option.

"Owen needs me here, for a time. Just like he needed me tonight."

"Was his fault!" Micah said too harshly, coughed, and spat the teeth into his palm.

Colm scowled. He wasn't exactly pleased either, but they'd handled it well enough, covering up a murder they were all kind of involved in. He'd suspected Micah would react negatively to it, one staying and one remaining. He looked up at the sky, finding peace in how the rain clouds ate up all the stars.

"Has the summer heat gone to your head? You know what happened to Anton."

"I only know anything other than rumors or what they've told me, and-"

"Then you know enough."

"And you know everything about me," Micah finished, clearly not happy about being interrupted, nor surprised. "About my daddy, my grandaddy, that damn Amos, and..."

"Abel?" Colm said with a smile like a tiny knife.

Micah flinched, but not as badly as he had on previous occasions. He considered the gold teeth in his palm, then pocketed them demonstratively, one among many of his small rebellions. He found his voice again remarkably quickly, but it was hollow, "I was going to say the Madame. You promised me we'd go off somewhere and you'd help me find her killer. I thought he was here. Or have you forgotten about it? Are you going senile?"

"Are you going crazy? I'll accept your little gifts and preferences, hell I'll even listen to Annabelle drone on about love being a neutral force, but I won't give it to you. It isn't that simple."

"It is." Micah stared up at him in defiance. His feelings had grown pretty deep, then. 

"I'll take it," Colm said slowly, "but I won't give it."

"Why?"

Colm shrugged, and imagined himself as a gnarly tree, his exterior too weather-worn, insides too numb.

He managed to state it like the fact it was, "I'm incapable of love."

"That's Owen's words! He keeps belittling you, that's why he gotta –"

Die. Colm wouldn't hear it and cut him off, "He knows what I am. I know it, too."

"I don't," Micah said quietly. "Thought I did though, hey."

"What did you think I was, little Bell?" 

Your savior? Your grandfather in a kinder but also darker shape? Your father with more self-control? Your brother in arms? Like the Madame but more wicked?

Micah didn't answer his question. Somehow Colm knew he wouldn't.

"Maybe you're right and I am going a little crazy," he said after a pause. "I'll never be a mindless O'Driscoll boy, not really, not with my blood. It ain't going away, that kind of crazy. I can't change it."

Possessiveness welled up in Colm, but different than the one he'd felt in Annabelle's mansion when Dutch had egged him on with well-chosen words. It was different because in a sense, Micah was still his, although it was the parts of him that were Colm's that made it necessary for him to go away. His wildness, his blood-lust, his crazy that had gotten them into this mess. They both seemed to realize that, at least.

"Where will you go?" Colm asked, surprising himself with how quiet he sounded.

"The old house. The oldest hideout. My daddy's there. He's been sending letters, always coded, but I know it's him. I'll help him out. I saved up." Each sentence sounded clipped, and when Micah was done speaking, the sharpness was gone from him and replaced by tiredness.

"Fine then. Take your leave. I'll call on you if I need you."

"Yes, boss," Micah said as if he'd just now returned to protocol.

Colm surprised himself again when he followed.

Looking uncertainly at him a couple of times, Micah mounted Fourteen, then frowned at Colm beneath him. 

"Your knife," Colm said, holding it up with the blade turned towards himself. 

When Micah reached out to take it, Colm didn't let go. Micah yanked it gently, tryingly, but Colm held on, waiting until his grip went slack on it. Then, Colm guided the blade over to his own neck, uncaring that it nicked his skin. The tip found the silver necklace resting against the centre of his chest, pulling it out to reveal the pendant. 

Micah's mouth fell open. He immediately recognized the symbol of the two clasped hands holding a crowned heart of emerald: the Claddagh, symbolizing a bunch of sweet nothings, not like Colm at all. But it wasn't irony that made him wear it. He hadn't even counted on doing it before the party. But then he'd imagined that Dutch, Annabelle and Owen might whisk the boy away, and he'd wanted a hidden show of ownership. In retrospect, it seemed like a sign of being owned rather than owning, but he'd wanted it. This was such a tiny thing, nothing like all the stuff Colm had bought Micah, which included everything he was currently wearing. 

He hadn't considered showing the necklace to Micah before now. He rarely accepted gifts. He couldn't speak about it. Thankfully, neither could Micah. He did close his mouth, though, and his eyes looked brighter.

"I'll see you in a while," Colm said, removing the knife so that the necklace fell back on his chest. I'll see you when I need to, and I might need you, soon. "That night with Dutch and Annabelle was fun, but I don't think we ought to seek out new things like that, especially not when on our own. I certainly won't." And you certainly shouldn't.

"Me neither," Micah said breathlessly, staring at the necklace until Colm put it back behind his shirt. "See you, Colm," he said, sounding light and heavy at the same time. "You know where to find me. Us, I mean. Us Bells."

Colm watched him pull at Fourteen's reigns to ready him, looking behind his shoulder one last time.

And then he rode off, beyond the churchyard near Blackwater, and away.

A sudden ache in his chest overwhelmed Colm. He had heard of heart attacks, but this seemed different. It brought him discomfort to breathe, and yet he did so, matching the slow waves against the docks.

He looked to where Micah had gone, and he ached again.

"What," he said in dull shock, massaging the spot not far from the pendant.

Giving no answers, the sea was dark and deep and entirely neutral.

 

Colm went back to the party as if nothing had happened.

People were soggy drunk, and Colm ended up in the same corner of the winter garden. Owen and Annabelle schmoozed and she had the servants pour the guests more wine than usual. Oswald, the son of the deceased sheriff, wasn't an issue. He seemingly enjoyed himself more when he didn't have to correct his father's behavior in public, something he'd never have to do, ever again. Colm saw Oswald ask Dutch about something, and Dutch replying with a mask of concern, before Oswald laughed and shook his head. Were they friendly?

City politics. Dreadful. And this was Colm's future, in the upcoming weeks, with no boy to keep him company.

When he was back in his saloon room, the ache had subsided somewhat.

He went straight to his paperwork, drowning himself in it, along with a bottle of cheap whiskey.

A knock on the door happened around midnight.

"Hi," a boy with a purple vest said awkwardly, Irish accent strong. "Uncle Owen sent me with a letter."

"Uncle Owen, huh," Colm said, taking the letter from him.

"That's what he makes all of us call him, over at the orphanage," the boy said, a gap between his front teeth, which Owen would probably find too ugly for his tastes.

"That's where he found you?"

"Aye."

Colm found it easy to speak to boys from the lower classes, spinning their narrative out like a thread for him to twin around his finger. He listened, spoke, and added a few references to Ireland here and there and the boy's eyes shone even if he didn't remember his father, killed by lawmen in Tumbleweed. He beamed at Colm's interest.

A slow, new realization overcame him: it was very easy to make people love him as long as their background was sufficiently lacking. Maybe he reminded them of their shitty fathers, but was just removed enough to appeal to them, coupled with a promise of gold and attention. He'd always known this, but he'd mostly pursued it for personal gain, not intently, for the gang. He decided that familiarizing himself with other boys like this could be more worthwhile than the paperwork, or heeding Owen's orders to stay in his lane.

But when the boy closed the door for the night, he did so carefully, to not disturb him. Micah would've never tiptoed out like that, too busy relishing how different Colm was who allowed him to be a little wild.

Colm sat down on the bed and read the letter.

C,  

You know as well as I do that she needs to go. Her boy, too, unless we can persuade him to become ours. As always, I expect you to figure something out, sharp as you are.

Teaghlach thar gach uile ní.

Ah. So Owen meant not only to take Micah from him, but Annabelle and Dutch, too.

The ache in Colm's chest grew again, and it took him a few more hours of sleeplessness to realize what it was. He realized it in the exact same moment as the rain began to drum on the walls, drowning out the sound of the waves and his heavy breaths. He hadn't felt like this in years, not since he killed Anton.

It was loneliness, dark and deep and not neutral at all.

Notes:

And that's the end of arc 4: Blackwater part I. Part II will continue in arc 6, but now we're entering my favorite part of this story, where we're going to unravel Colm's past and visit his childhood town among other fun things.

Thank you for reading 😁 Recent feedback has been inspiring and brought me much joy!

Chapter 26: Pass Them By

Notes:

Chapter title is a song by Agnes Obel.

This arc is supposed to dig the deepest into this relationship out of all, especially after they arrive at Colm's home town. But the trek there will be interesting, too.

Warnings: Blasphemy, roleplay, a few The Omen (1976) references

The house in which Micah Bell the Third was built was quiet except for strong prairie winds and old wooden walls creaking. The porch was occupied solely by an old rocking chair, rocking slightly, as if the ghost of Micah Bell the First remained seated in it. Or perhaps the ghost of the young lost thing the little Bell had once been, aiming at the rabbit holes nearby, while his father's business partners went in and out from the hideout a decade ago.

Those meetings had also happened at dusk like it was now, with the sun creating a beautiful crimson sky, and the cold increasing along with the winds. Endless prairie. Endless.  

From behind the house was the sound of a bucket being pulled out from a well, followed by splashing noises, so rare in such a dry and barren landscape. It seemed like the boy didn't care to go inside to wash. Using a rag, he washed his hands quickly, just to get away the worst of the blood. Animal blood or human blood, difficult to see on a distance. He made quite a sight, clothes in pale linen, those splotches of red matching the sunset. His blonde stubble was growing stiffer, almost a beard but not quite. He didn't curse as he washed the blood off, doing so quietly like a man used to killing. From rumors in nearby towns, they said that he mostly ran solo, and from the reports of local shops, the father needed booze as regularly as he needed medication. Not dying, but old. Living by the son's grace. A wicked situation.

The boy could use a vacation.

Luckily, so did Colm.

To alert Micah of his presence, Colm whistled, like he had been warned from he was young that one was not supposed to do in the wilderness, or monsters would get you.

A gun was pointed at him in greeting. Then Micah recognized who it was and holstered it with a fancy little twirl. It made Colm feel fond and nostalgic. He inclined his head, then walked back behind the corner of the house, towards the porch.

When he had arrived, there had been two horses there. And thanks to him there were now two new ones, their coats shinier than the Bell horses, despite the dirt blowing around them.

As suspected, Micah came running fast, kicking dust as he went. The winds that had allowed Colm to approach him so silently also made his breathing silent. But his mouth was open in shock. The patches of linen where he'd only been halfway through washing the blood out had gone pink, foretelling of the dusty pink of his cheeks.

Colm gestured to the new horses. One was Dearg Dubh, his spindly old lady that he kept telling himself he'd retire but never did, no matter how grizzled she became. The other horse had no name. Colm was no horse expert but could tell it was a Missouri Fox Trotter, the coat black except for whiteness near the face and legs, strangely skeletal.

At the journey to the house on the prairie, he'd done a favor for Owen. A pretty big favor at that: he'd gone after one of the plantations used for Annabelle's distilleries. The plantation had been owned by a man who had eleven children. Colm knew, because he'd made his men lock the whole family in the basement, before Toothpick set the place ablaze. As Colm stood among the O'Driscoll Boys and watched the fire spread to the fields, a black horse had appeared from the burning wheat like an apocalyptic creature. The more pious among his men crossed themselves, and others tried to catch the horse to no avail, before it stopped in front of Colm. It was a beautiful creature, and Colm felt no sense of wrongness like some of his men said they did. It was perfect except for how red the horse's eyes were, which turned out to be blood from some kind of condition. After Colm had it looked at by a young boy among them who was some kind of horse whisperer, it turned out the horse's eyes were blue, and seemingly healthy.

Colm wasn't a superstitious man, but it did give him the idea to give the horse as a gift. On the journey, he learnt a little bit about the horse's nature, calm and callous, and with a strange protective streak – easy to wake – almost comparable to a nanny. And although midway between boyhood and manhood, Micah could use a nanny.

"He's yours, if you want him," Colm said, the first thing he'd said to Micah in months. "He's a bit skittish, but prove to him that you're someone worth heeding, and he'll stay strong."

To speak at a normal volume, they had to stand closer. Micah's guns remained holstered, but there was a tension to him. His eyes kept darting from Colm to the horse like he was looking for a trap. Were they really back to square one? Was it his father's influence?

"Bribing me with a horse to make me come back?" Micah asked, swallowing thickly.

"Do I need to?"

"Why are you here?"

"That the way to treat your boss?"

"I'm more of a contractor than an employee, Colm," Micah said sternly, the words coming so fast it betrayed that he might've rehearsed them while imagining such a talk.

"Sure," Colm said, also because he thought in such a mental rehearsal, he would be imagined as reacting more with emotional extremes by someone like Micah.

As suspected, the boy looked a little surprised at the lack of argument. 

"Colm," he tried again. "My daddy's not gonna be happy if he sees you."

"Is he hale?"

Micah's lips became a thin line, which was answer enough.

"Too bad," Colm said, then clarified: "Too bad I still want to take you away."

Colm walked towards him, and Micah backed away, nearly stumbling on the steps of the porch. He looked behind himself, but the door remained closed. Still, it was as though he became younger the closer Colm walked. Micah didn't stop until he sat down in the rocking chair, hands tightening on the armrests as though he could absorb the leftover aura of Micah Bell the First, the man who made him stand in the sun until his skin burned off, according to Colm's discoveries. But he looked scared when Colm leaned over him and put his hands on top of his wrists as though fastening them around the armrests.

"I missed you, kid," Colm said, unable to remove the element of threat from his voice, because he was and would always be a threat, and Micah seemed to like that.

"He can hear you," Micah said, resolve faltering.

"Too bad," he repeated, this time against Micah's lips, as though sealing a spell with a kiss. "I wanna go away with you, kid. Like we talked about at the docks. Just the two of us."

"You're bribing me. Sweet-talking me, like some woman. Gifts and lies and ..."

"I do lie, sometimes, but not tonight."

"What changed?" Micah said tightly.

Colm straightened.

"I'm not here as your boss, right now. I just finished off a difficult job, and I'm on my way to visit my mother. Been ten years since last time I saw her face, and it's pretty boring over there, so I need company. Not a bodyguard. Company."

"Your mother," Micah said, voice trembling, not yet acknowledging what Colm had offered – neither the horse, nor the visit to his childhood home, nor the status he had coveted of being more than an employee to Colm.

"Everyone's got a mother."

"I don't."

Colm rolled his eyes, and Micah rolled them back at him, in a kind of helpless parody.

"Listen," Colm said, lowering his voice in case the father was listening. "We're not in Blackwater anymore. It's gotten worse since you left. Owen couldn't buy out Annabelle, not back in the old days and certainly not now, but now he's using a different method to get at her. Tinkers with her distilleries, burns her plantations, buys street rats to fuck up her establishments. Since he has the ear of the sheriff's son, he's protected. Annabelle and her boy are not. They won't speak to me anymore. So, I have to sleep in Owen's home when I'm there, and listen to him, his wife and son blabber on and on."

"You must hate that," Micah said blandly.

Colm nodded in agreement. Then he sighed, "Listen. I'm not your father, but you are my boy. Just not necessarily an O'Driscoll Boy, at least not when it's just us two. I've always appreciated you as a weapon. A weapon not just against men, but against boredom, too."

Micah looked away. Colm didn't accept that, so he cradled Micah's face, hold tightening when Micah reached up to hold his wrists, not squeezing, simply holding.

"I have another gift for you."

"Better than a new horse and a, uh, vacation?" Micah said, still distrustful, but leaning into Colm's hands all the same, maybe only due to the leather of the fingerless gloves.

"Mm. You remember the Madame, don't you? The woman who introduced you to darker sensuality? I told you I knew where her killer lives. And I do. It won't be far from the road we're going through. We could make a short stop, stay at a saloon, kill him at his farm. Romantic enough for us, ain't it?" 

Micah's gaze gained a ghostly edge. He looked towards the house, then he wiggled until Colm stepped backwards. He led Colm down from the porch and into the sand.

He stopped beside the black stallion – his stallion, if he'd accept it – and reached out to pet it, before stopping himself. He hadn't accepted the gift, but he would.

When he turned to look at Colm, his eyes were serious though downcast.

"Too much," he mumbled. "Too much, at the same time." He kicked at the sand. "My daddy got like that sometimes, too, when he was trying to quit the bottle. Seemed like he succeeded sometimes, but then... Anyway he'd be really nice, when he was trying. Buy us guns and clothes. Give these grand speeches, telling us how to live, and how proud we ought to be of our blood. And he'd send us off to the whorehouse. That's how Amos met the girl he ran off with. But anyway." He raised his gaze to Colm's. "Daddy was nice, until he wasn't."

"But he isn't coming back from this wave of addiction, is he?" Colm asked, intentionally side-stepping the comparison that Micah was making (his abstract thinking sometimes got surprisingly good, showing a knock for tactic if not strategy).

"He is," Micah said after a pause, looking younger in his denial.

"Alright. But I'm not addicted too much. And I'm not forcing you to come back with me. It won't be more than a couple of weeks, I think. Then you'll decide what to do."

"So it has an ending. The vacation, I mean."

"Everything does."

"You know what I mean. I'm not... agreeing to coming back and being one of your boys, if I choose to go with you on this. It'll be as a..."

"A friend?" Colm suggested, if not only for the pleasure of seeing Micah blush, the first time he'd done so tonight. "You could be my little friend, if you want to."

"Not little. And I don't have any friends," Micah hissed.

"Neither do I," Colm quipped back, strangely impatient, "or at least not during the mess Owen is making in Blackwater. How about we don't name these things, hm? My mother is no stranger to me bringing my boys with me."

"You take anyone else? While I was gone?" Micah asked, a possessive edge to it.

"Not in years. Haven't got the interest. I find myself only interested in you."

"Quit it," Micah mumbled, but he had reddened again. "What's the horse's name?"

"I dunno. Not Fifteen, I hope. Deserves a proper name, this one."

They talked quietly about the horse. Colm told him the story, and Micah didn't seem to believe him, but he admired the horse all the same. It was wary of him, but not as wary as it had been to the boys who had crossed themselves. Micah laughed, not taking Colm's words all that seriously, but he did seem delighted at the prospect of a horse who disliked Christianity. Little by little, he allowed the happiness of Colm's return to show in his voice and his face, loving the attention.

Colm made sure not to acknowledge the person on the porch, who had stood there for quite a while. It showed how absorbed Micah was in Colm's presence, he who usually noticed when someone was watching him, and especially his father at that.

Micah Bell the Second stood there, a ghost in his own home, pale and yellow. Colm wondered if he'd been listening through the planks of the walls. But no matter what, he was in no state to do anything about it.

When the Third finally looked behind him, the Second had gone back inside. But his gaze lingered at the old house, before it got pulled towards Colm once more. Everything here was so brittle and yellow. They needed to get away as soon as possible. It would be interesting to see him among the fresh greenery of where they were headed.

 

They did pass something green at the edge of the prairie.

Or the walls of the small house had once been green, anyway. The prairie winds had filed it down and sandstorms had filled it up. The roof was partially caved in, and the door had fallen off its hinges, revealing what looked to be an abandoned community house with benches visible inside. Some sort of congregation house?

Interestingly, Micah spat in its general direction, looking disgusted. Colm raised a brow, and then in the spontaneity that defined his character when free of Owen's presence, he changed directions and led Dearg Dubh towards the place that had awoken Micah's spite.

Micah made a surprised sound, but then he struggled with his new horse, not yet accepted as its rider. Primarily, it still followed Colm, strangely bonded to him ever since he killed that family and burned their fields.

"There's nothing there," Micah called. "Why are we stopping?"

Colm just smiled at him, because he didn't know that yet himself, and was waiting for the boy to reveal more to him. His disgust looked old, and Micah had spent the largest portion of his childhood around these parts. Maybe he was responsible for its abandonment, though that might as well be the harsh climate with the frequent storms.

Colm hitched Dearg Dubh to the post outside the house, then did the same to Micah's nameless horse, petting that large black head as he did so. Micah still hadn't unmounted, sitting stiffly, staring at the house.

"Why," he said.

"Cause I'm curious," Colm said, filling his lantern with more oil. It wasn't dark outside, but it would be inside the building. "This place obviously means something to you."

"And so what?"

"We're going to the town where I grew up, boy, and you'll be one of the first who's seen it. It's only fair that I get to know a little bit about you, in turn."

"You know everything about me already."

"I know a bit, but not everything," Colm said, holding out a hand, and Micah took it as he unmounted, but he relied mostly on himself while climbing down while muttering that he wasn't some fair maiden, which he said so often it had become a sort of pleasant drone to Colm, or at least more pleasant than the drone of the wind, anyway.

 

As seen from the outside, there were benches and tables readied, but it was less like a standard church or meeting house and more like a school. Most of the desks and chairs were overturned, and the wood was filed down, the windows shattered. Abandoned for at least a decade.

Micah walked after Colm, but he stopped quickly, staring at one of the desks in the back corner, closest to the door. He touched the top of it, then smirked, and when Colm raised the lantern, he could see absurd amount of knife marks in the wood. It wasn't only the hundreds of small holes from when he practiced five finger filet and various tricks, which Colm was familiar with from his own old desk at the Flying Dutchman, there was also text. It had a boyish, scratchy edge to them like Micah's handwriting still had. There were one quote Colm couldn't decipher, but the other two he could read:

"Happy shall he be, that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones." Psalms 137:9

"There she lusted after her lovers, whose genitals were like those of donkeys and whose emission was like that of horses." Ezekiel 23:20

Colm imagined him as a boy, at the back of the school, flicking through the sacred books to look for the most shocking things. He had done so himself and was not shocked. It was a nice touch that he had added where to find them at the end though. A thoughtful boy, readying his sources, if anyone where to chastise him. But maybe no one had. When he wasn't actively trying to weasel himself into Colm's or his father's good graces, Micah was a quiet observer. Eyes half-lidded, like they were now, leaning on the desk or the wall as though to make himself seem relaxed while his mind took everything in. It was probably how he looked like while he was in school here.

"Ah. I have wondered how you learned to read and write so well. And why you can quote the Bible at random. Especially since as far as I know, your father – and maybe your grandfather – took you all over the place, and seldomly to churches."

Micah looked at Colm, old distrust on his face, before it cleared.

"My mother made us go. And my daddy and grandaddy... tolerated it. Because it was free. The Christians taught us for free, like the idiots they were. They were part of the, uh... The new movement, you know? Holy Spirit seemed important."

"The Holiness Movement," Colm guessed, looking around the space, wondering if it had seen the liveliness he associated with them. Liveliness in spirit but not in dress or objects, less like Colm's mother, more like his father. "Methodists. Protestants."

"Yeah, I don't know much about that. But we learned to read and write. Had to read their texts up and down, but some of them were fun." Micah patted the desk in farewell, then walked deeper into the house. "Amos loved this shit." He stopped with a desk at the front, indirectly telling Colm where his brother had been seated. "He sang well, and they loved him for it, said it was a gift from god. He believed them. He believed. He started going here even more after our mother died. I didn't though. No, sir."

Micah raised his eyes from Amos' desk, to Colm's, expecting questions. Colm stared back, just waiting like Micah had once down for him in a tea house, not pushing it. It seemed to be the correct way to go about this, because Micah sighed, then reluctantly shared, "She was there, and then she was dead. Or well, she collapsed in the kitchen." A jerk of a nod in the direction of the old house. "Then my daddy carried her upstairs, and my grandaddy tried to help carry her, and he wouldn't let him, so her head kept banging against the railing of the stairs. Bang, bang, bang," he said with a mad smile, but it fell quickly. "Dunno if she died on the floor, or in the stairs, or in bed. But the flies started gathering on her not long after."

"How old were you?"

"Dunno. Young. My granddaddy started training me pretty hard after that. Amos, too, I think." He looked around the room. "Harder and better than any kind of discipline they taught us here."

Colm walked past Amos' desk – unmarred by knife marks – and up to the podium. There was an altar table there, too cheap to be worth much but also too heavy to have been turned over by sand or wind, and Colm placed his lantern on it, so it shone out into the room. Micah looked intrigued.

"Why don't you write something here," Colm suggested, drumming his fingers against the wood. "A secret message."

"Don't have a pencil."

"You have a knife, don't you? A beautiful Bowie knife, at that. It'll be sharp enough."

Micah laughed. It was a throaty, hoarse little thing, with a crazy edge that Colm liked. He'd always liked Micah's craziness, also in how easily it could be bent to his will.

As Colm had suggested, he took out a knife and got to work. Colm had a smoke while he waited, pausing only to take a swig of whiskey from his pocket lark, enjoying the desecration of it.

Micah took a deep breath, then read what he had written, "If anyone comes to me and does not hate father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters--yes, even their own life--such a person cannot be my disciple." In monotone, he specified that it was from Luke 14:26. "It's so foul, but Amos really lived up to that shit. And the whole congregation had his back. Even when he married a whore, because she went here too, baptized late like he was."

"Well. Me and my congregation have your back," Colm said, leaning on the church table.

I just want you,   Micah's eyes said as he approached.

"If I remember correctly, the Methodists allow for re-baptizing. Want me to re-baptize you, little Bell?" Colm asked, putting a hand on Micah's shoulder, pressing down.

"You can't be serious," Micah said, even as he fell to his knees.

"I'm very serious. Unless you don't want to...?"

But Micah was already undoing Colm's trousers, and he gave Colm an incredulous look like the aspect of not wanting to suck his cock was out of the question.

With other boys, when he used to have them, Colm might've asked himself if they did it out of duty or lust for power without it changing much in the end. But he didn't with Micah, who held him so reverently and who breathed in like he'd missed the scent. He dragged his lips over the shaft, then looked up, keeping up the eye contact. Colm twitched at the sight.

"I'll shine it real nice, boss – if you fuck me over the altar table."

"Deal," Colm said laughingly, the end of it turning throaty as Micah got to business.

Colm spread his legs wide like in a gun fight, hand on the back of Micah's neck, so familiar to him. There was no green scarf there at the moment, but the air was hot as hell, and he didn't fault the kid. He was sure he had the scarf with him in the little saddlebag he'd brought. All he needed was his guns, his knife, some clothes, and that mouth of his, hot and wet and nicely scratchy with his thin beard. Colm would let him keep it, for now.

"Easy," Colm said while licking his lips, patting Micah's head to get his attention. "Remember what you asked for. It's been a while, so I won't last as long as I used to do. Haven't had anyone since... Well, you, back in Blackwater."

Micah's eyes widened and his jaw went slack, always so surprised and happy to hear that Colm wasn't fucking anyone else. And Colm actually wasn't. Mostly it was because he was too busy, but when Micah stood up with a kind of jittery, happy excitement, he supposed that had been part of the reason. Micah almost danced over to the altar table, hesitating only for a second before bending over it and getting his pants down.

When Colm approached, Micah had a hand on his own sternum, showing off his ass.

"Oh," Colm said, feeling up the oiled-up hole, inching two fingers into it without bothering to remove his gloves. "You sure got busy, huh? Did you even remember to pack any underwear for the trip, or did slicking up your tight little hole take all your attention? Did you remember to say bye to your daddy, or was it all the same, because a better daddy was waiting outside?" 

"Colm," Micah said through gritted teeth, tightening up around Colm's fingers. "No family in bed, remember?

"Ah, I forgot. Won't happen again, sweetheart."

"Who you calling sweet- ?! Oh."

Micah's surprise at the nickname was replaced by the surprise at being penetrated. He flailed, almost knocking over the lantern, but he caught it in time. He held the warm metal of it as another warmth filled him. For Colm he felt tighter than usual, like in the beginning.

"So quiet," Colm mumbled, feeling how Micah was holding back his noises.

A harsher roll of his hips – a bout halfway in, now – had the boy slapping his hand in front of his mouth not to let out one of the whimpers that never really got old, but one of them escaped through his fingers. The boy loved each thrust, pushing his ass back, trying to relax his hole enough to take more of Colm's length. Almost in now. The lubricant wasn't excessive. He was good like that. But it did allow for actual speech, and Colm saw fit to use that well.

"You been dreaming about this," he groaned, gaining another few inches, "during your, ah, schoolboy days? A priest – or a teacher, maybe – holding you back, while the rest leaves?" He leaned down on his weight on the boy. "Only you and me, and the sacrament?"

Micah groaned loudly, and finally, Colm's balls slapped against him. He didn't pause to savor the victory, preferring instead to fuck and remain in that daydream they'd made up together.

"Maybe, if there was some kind of, I dunno, symbol here, like a cross," Colm closed his eyes, feeling his climax approach, coaxed forth by the images his mind conjured, "I could've fucked you with that before I, ah, come inside you."

"Yeah," Micah said, giggling with hitches each time Colm moved. "Yeah, you should."

"Really? Fuck you with a cross? Maybe even a crucifix? Devilish boy. Special boy. My –" Colm's breath hitched and his thrusts grew more erratic, "My boy. Mine." It had been a while, so the orgasm was more powerful than usual, making him shake with it, with that absence and the strange pleasure. It had him panting for a few seconds against Micah's neck, making his hair strands move from his breath. "I've missed you, little thing. My life... it's more colorless, without you." 

Micah tensed, which had Colm grimace and withdraw. He had said too much. To save face, he reached around to the boy, squeezing an erection he knew was there. Micah's hips stuttered, having been hard since sucking him off.

"You wanna?"

"Yeah," Micah said after a brief pause, and although Colm could not see his expression, he saw that he was looking down towards the altar table. Colm knew what he wanted.

So Colm gave him another gift, one of many tonight, and jacked him off as hard as fast as he liked it. Micah let out little growls among the whimpers, and maybe his eyes were closed too. Imagining the congregation, maybe. Or just Amos, staring up at him with a wide mouth. Colm wasn't the one to judge, not when Owen had walked in on him so many times.

Micah came over the altar table, with Colm's own excess running down his thighs. He was panting, and then he was laughing, and the laughter sounded vengeful. Colm smeared what was left over the dryer patches of wood to make Micah laugh more.

The house of the prairie couldn't be seen from here, yet it lived on within the boy. But Colm wasn't interested in fucking its inheritance out of him anymore. No, he wanted to encompass him and swamp him down like the night sky outside.

He lifted the lantern and led the way back towards their horses. Micah remained behind, trying to catch his breath, a shadow inside the old house while Colm stood outside and waited for him. Although his expression was shadowed, Colm thought that it looked so not because of the lack of light, but because of a kind of wicked love, small and soft like a night-flying moth. Colm wondered how if this love would last as long as a moth lived, or it would stretch on like the night in their minds, where it was always pleasantly dark.

Notes:

This is a small detail, but the story of Micah's mother is actually the truest depiction of my take on her death. In my fanfic series The Devils, Micah and Amos contradict each other when talking about it, and if I remember correctly both have forgotten the moment where she bangs her head (which was what killed her) during the father and grandfather's struggle to carry her upstairs (one was drunk, the other so old he was frail of mind). I mention it because of the fact that repressing memories later in life is something I rarely see depicted, but I know of cases where the repression has begun in the moment a person realizes how fucked up a memory is, sometimes in the act of casually retelling it. Idk if it will be featured, but this is where Micah starts (passively) forgetting it.

Anyway I am now over one month nicotine-free! Life feels colorless, but I endure.