#Dutch fiction

[bormgans]

VERGETEN SCHEDELS - Louis Paul Boon & Roger Van de Velde (1946 & 1969)

Next post will be about Meganets by David Auerbach, a non-fiction title on “how digital forces beyond our control commandeer our daily lives and inner realities”. In the meantime, a post in Dutch, consisting of 3 short reviews. The first is about the third book by Louis Paul Boon, Vergeten Straat, written during the war and published in 1946. “Forgotten Street” is about a street in Brussels…

[overtake]

Was on a train from Berlin to Amsterdam after Euro quarters and thought what if backpacking Daniel (late 20s, mild crisis about what he wants from life has led to him bumming around Europe) and football fanatic Max (just finished university, his teaching job begins next school term) were also on a train from Berlin to Amsterdam after Euro quarters

Daniel’s greasy curls are matted against his oily face and he can still catch pungent whiffs of last night's nauseating adventures, despite the two showers with gritty bars of hotel soap he’d taken before running for this train. His hair has dried down gross and stringy, crushed against the hood of the jumper he should not need in July. Suffice it to say, he is not looking nor feeling his best, and it manifests in his arms trembling as they weakly attempt to throw his oversized duffle bag onto the train rack.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters. He’s never been this hungover in his life, probably. His mouth tastes like stale beer and his eyes feel like sandpaper, and he’d really like his body to stop shaking.

“Do you need help?” A voice says from behind him, sounding lightly amused at his suffering. He turns — too quickly, very bad idea for his dizziness — to see a guy around his height but twice as broad, an orange Dutch national team kit stretched tight across his wide shoulders and showing off the round shape of his soft chest. There’s remnants of last night’s face paint still on edges of his cheekbones, the heavily smeared lines vaguely resembling what was once Holland’s flag. Blond-brown hair pokes out the edges of a garish bucket hat, and a crowd of friends in their own patriotic attire behind him are observing them with interest.

How these guys escaped the Euros viewing less fucked up than an Australian watching the sport for the first time is beyond Daniel’s comprehension, but he’s too grateful for the assistance to do much more than grunt an assent and thank you as the guy reaches up and pushes Daniel’s bag up the final few centimetres.

Daniel heaves out a grateful breath and collapses into the open seat below his settled bag, prepared to curl up against the window and contemplate all his life decisions on the six hour train journey and attempt to not spew in a public and embarrassing manner.

Dutch guy glances over at his friends, who have taken up three of the four seats at a table, and then, insanely and without invitation, seats himself right next to Daniel.

“Big night last night?”

Daniel stares at him for half a second, trying to make his brain come online enough to form words. “Uh, yeah. Was in the fan zone. Don’t think I stopped drinking until two hours ago.”

The guy offers him a big, crinkly smile. “Oh, same. Haven’t slept yet.”

“How are you so put together?” Daniel asks. He grimaces as the train begins to move, throwing one arm over his eyes and squeezing them tightly shut until the motion sickness eases ever so slightly. “I’m going to die, I think.”

“Practice,” the guy says solemnly, patting Daniel’s shoulder sympathetically, then letting it linger for a few seconds longer. Oh. Oh. Daniel’s too hungover to even think about the movement involved in sex right now, but like, yeah. This guy is big and strong and hot, and he’s quietly pleased with himself that he can pull even looking and smelling like this.

“I might need some of your training,” he says, flashing a big smile and then remembering the food stuck between his teeth that he couldn’t get out with brushing, floss long lost in the depths of his hellhole bag. He purses his lips together quickly, trying to hide the evidence.

Hot Dutch boy doesn’t seem to notice anyway. He just pulls a water bottle from his blue backpack, propped carefully on the fine hair dusting his delicious thighs, and offers it to Daniel. There’s a fancy luggage tag on his bag, and Daniel steals a glance at the MEV spelled out in delicate gold letting. Very cute, him branding a cheap backpack like that. “Thirsty?”

“Very,” Daniel says, gratefully taking the bottle — opened, he notices, which means these little plastic coils have been sucked between the plush pink of this guy’s lips and rested against the cute freckle decorating the top one — and swallowing down a long gulp.

“I’m Max, by the way,” he says when Daniel is done drinking, careful to ensure his fingers brush against Daniel’s hand when he takes the water back. He’s not aiming for any subtly in his intentions, particularly not with the intense stare he’s directing at where Daniel licks the remaining droplets of water from around his mouth.

“Daniel,” he responds in kind. When Max has placed his water back into its pocket, he takes Max’s hand and pumps it dramatically. “Enchanté, Max.”

Max has long fingers, his nails short but well-groomed. They’re a sharp contrast to Daniel’s bitten stubs, the edges of his thumbs permanently red and half-bleeding. The dark hair of Max’s arms trails up to his hands, which are moisturized, strong, and big enough to wrap around the expanse of Daniel’s throat.

“Will you be staying in Amsterdam long?” Max asks.

Daniel shrugs, tapping one worn-down, stained Van against Max’s navy blue sneakers. “Dunno. I could be convinced to extend my trip if I had a good tour guide.”

He knows Max’s friends are listening in, can see them whispering and giggling and taking photos to probably send in a larger group chat, but he focuses his attention on Max’s pretty blue eyes and the way Max’s hand is still loosely holding his.

“I don’t actually live in Amsterdam,” Max admits. He bites at his lower lip, dragging it through his straight, pearly-white teeth. “But I don’t mind sticking around for a bit.”

One of Max’s entourage leans over, says something to Max in Dutch that sounds like a protest, but a dark-haired boy slaps him in the stomach to shut him up and rolls his eyes at Daniel as if to apologize for his friend’s behaviour.

“You can rent a car and drive yourselves back,” Max snaps at him in English, then turns his soft attention back to Daniel. “So, tour guide. I better work on a good list while you sleep.”

Daniel drops his head down to Max’s shoulder, already making a plan for how he can casually rearrange his body to end up with his head on those plush thighs. “I guess we should find a few things to do around the city while the cleaners replace our sheets, yeah.”

Max laughs. “Do you enjoy football? We can go out and watch semis together, maybe.”

“To be honest, I’d never watched before,” Daniel admits. “I’m mostly into UFC. I just thought it seemed like a good time.”

Max brushes his fingers through Daniel’s gross hair as if it’s something soft and precious. “I’ll explain it all to you. It’s really such a good sport. Do you know anything about English football? Virgil plays for Liverpool.”

He’s off after that, explaining leagues and players and rules to Daniel, doing all these cute hand gestures and making himself laugh with all his little jokes. Daniel doesn’t even mind that he can’t drift off to sleep. He’s content listening to the rumble of Max’s voice, steady like the movement of the train, as he curls himself up into a tiny ball to rest his cheek on the smooth, pale skin spreading out of Max’s terrible khaki shorts.

He thinks he’ll like Amsterdam.

[svgarwitch]

Yall ever just... yearn for a fictional character more than you do for fresh air or food or water?

Why can't they be real? 😭

[vndrlinde]

The stare… the smoke… just hear me tf out…… 👀🔥

[messrmoonyy]

Dutch Van Der Linde | Clemens Point

[kenobihater]

thinking about how rdr2 is about redemption yes, but also about loyalty to what matters, love of family, and the consequences of both. arthur loved dutch, loved him enough to follow him to hell and back, but not enough to remain blindly loyal when dutch betrayed him and john. he put his love of his brother above the love of his father, because his father taught him well, taught him the importance of family. if not for dutch and hosea raising arthur to believe in the importance of loyalty to what's right, if they had just raised arthur as a mindless outlaw, if they hadn't instilled in him the meaing of family, he likely wouldn't have cared about john enough to betray the man who saved him. for example, bill and javier weren't raised by dutch and hosea like arthur was, but they were loyal to him all the same. they weren't treated like dutch's children like john and arthur were. because the values of family and of right and wrong weren't instilled in them alongside the value of loyalty, they sided with dutch despite his fall from grace and remained blindly devoted to a man who no longer deserved it. but because dutch and hosea taught arthur and john the importance of thinking for themselves and choosing what was truly right as well as the importance of family, they realized that dutch was going down the wrong path and causing senseless deaths with his recklessness, and arthur and john decided they had to leave. arthur knew he was never going to get out, but he at least wanted his little brother to have a semblance of a life away from the gang. he wanted him to have a chance because he loved him, because they were raised together, and because they were raised as a family. dutch had a huge hand in his sons betraying him, not only because he drove them away and betrayed them himself, but because he and hosea raised them right!!

[thefugitivesaint]

Karel Thole (1914-2000), 'Eye in the Sky', ''Fantaciencia'', #40, 2012 Source

[logan-lieutenant]

for the hurt/comfort dialogue game - 6 and 21 for sargebon :)

MY FIRST PROMPT!! im so excited!

may have gotten a little carried away with this just a little. no beta we die like fourth of july at silverstone. TW for mental health

“Did you miss me?”/“You’re a terrible liar.”

When Alex emerges onto the roof deck of the hotel, he almost expects Logan to not be there.

Not that he thinks Logan would lie to him. But when Logan had finally picked up the phone after a day of missed calls and one-sided texts, the conversation hadn’t started well.

”What,” he’d snapped on the second ring. “This better be good. If you call me one more time I’m blocking you.”

Alex had been taken aback, flinching in place like a chastised kid. Logan’s tone was defensive, nearly a snarl; all the menace was aimed at Alex, but Alex had still felt more worry than fear. He’d seen Logan once since the crash, on his way back from medical. And then nothing.

”You didn’t answer me,” he’d said after a delayed moment. “I was worried about you. I didn’t see you since the cr– since practice. I was freaking out, okay?”

Logan a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “You saw me get out of the car. I got cleared by medical in, like, two minutes. There are probably ninety people who could’ve told you I was fine.”

And Alex had bitten his lip against the sudden urge to yell into the phone, because that wasn’t fair. His pent-up frustration and fear and distress wasn’t Logan’s fault.

Instead he’d looked around his empty hotel room, paranoia coiling around his spine, and lowered his voice: “James barely even talked to you. Why would I trust anyone there if you were actually fine or not? The way they didn’t let me see you?”

”Wait, when?”

”All day! Jon was practically yelling at me!” Alex did shout then. He didn’t mean to, but the words tumbled out of his mouth with heavy and unrelenting force, like a weight he could barely lift. He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, willing Logan not to hang up. “I just wanted to see,” Alex tries, then his voice was too quiet. He cleared his throat. “I just wanted to see for myself if you were okay because, Logan… it looked bad. Really bad.”

Logan took a deep breath and let it out slowly, static crackling through the speaker. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbles. “I walked it off.”

”Don’t try that with me,” Alex said. “I can hear it in your voice.”

”You don’t hear shit,” Logan retorted, but there was no heat behind his voice at all. He just sounded tired, and in pain.

Alex ignored the weak deflection. “Where are you right now?” he asked. “I know it’s late, but–”

”I’m on the roof,” Logan had told him, and that in and of itself was surprising. That Logan would answer him so quickly, and without any snark or rebuttal. That he’d answer at all. Alex thinks of the endless weeks of summer break, the endless silence between them.

”Okay,” he said. “Wait a minute, I just need to get something warmer on.”

The roof deck is large, with sweeping canopies and dead firepits, so many couches and chairs that in the dark he feels like he’s in a cushioned maze. Still, it’s almost completely empty, so it doesn’t take long to find Logan.

Alex joins him at the railing, panes of glass separating them from the dizzying drop below. He takes one look over the side and his stomach rolls; the glittering city lights and streaking cars blur together in a smear of vertigo. He white-knuckles the railing.

Logan had been impossible to read when Alex first joined him, but as Alex stumbles he reaches out and puts a steadying hand on Alex’s shoulder. “Woah there,” he says. “You can’t go over the edge, you’ve got a race tomorrow.”

His words sound like they should hold something sharp– resentment, jealousy, some bitter and unforgiving edge. But instead his eyes are smiling and he’s laughing around his words. The glow from the city underneath paints one half of his face in gentle gold, the rest of it purple from the nighttime shadows. His hair is wild from the wind, whipping around his eyes. He takes his hand off Alex’s shoulder to push his bangs away from his face.

Alex is wishing he’d worn something with a hood. The wind stings his cheeks and makes his eyes water. He shuffles forward, curling his shoulders in, and manages to put his hands back on the railing without collapsing. “Wind’s still crazy,” he mutters.

”You didn’t have to come up here.”

”No, no,” Alex backtracks, all but stuttering. “I wanted to be here.” He hears the desperation in his own voice, the eagerness to contradict, and cringes. Does he always have to sound so obvious?

Logan turns to face him. He has to lift one hand to the right side of his face to keep his hair back, and now his entire face is in shadow. Deep blue shadows hide his eyes. His lips look almost purple in the darkness. It makes Alex want to be closer just to see his face.

”What,” Logan begins, and Alex doesn’t see but hears the slant in his smile. The cocky way he tilts his head back, the way he lets his laughter slip into his voice. “You missed me that bad, huh?”

Alex is unexpectedly flustered. He looks away without meaning to, but that means he turns his eyes right into the gusting wind, and the stinging is sharp and immediate. “Ah,” he grimaces. “I can’t see.”

”You wouldn’t last a day in Miami.”

Alex is trying to protest that he’s lasted a day before, more than a day, admittedly without any storm activity on race weekends but his hastily formatted argument falls to pieces when Logan steps back to take off his hoodie.

His shirt rides up as he does it. Alex absolutely does not stare.

Logan tosses it at him. “Put this on,” he says. “I can’t talk to you while you’re losing a fight with the elements.”

Alex grumbles his protests but puts the hoodie on anyway. It’s warm with Logan’s body heat, a tender relief from the cold. It feels like being embraced. He sighs contentedly.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Logan taunts. “I’m gonna want that back.”

Alex pulls the hood up, and the sounds of the city at night fade away. The shrill rushing of the wind quiets and the clearest sound in the air is Logan’s voice.

“’ll give it back,” he promises. “Are you sure you’re okay, though?”

Logan tilts his head down and crosses his wrists over the bar. “I’m cleared to race tomorrow.”

”That doesn’t answer my question.”

”You’re not gonna let this go until I tell you, are you?”

“You know me too well.”

Logan scoffs, then closes his eyes like he’s given up. “There’s some bruising on my ribs and my shoulder that’ll take some time to heal. And I did something to my wrist getting out, but I can still steer, I’ll just ice it after the race.” He looks down at his right hand and turns it over, fingers curling slowly into a fist, then releasing. “That’s all.”

Alex waits.

“That’s all,” Logan insists. “I saw the footage. It looked worse than it was.”

“It looked pretty bad,” Alex whispers, and he doesn’t mean for it to come out as a whisper– a broken, unstable hush– but his voice won’t resolve. “I was scared.”

”I’m sorry.”

”Don’t be sorry.” Alex lays his hand over Logan’s outstretched wrist, and it shocks both of them.

Logan stares at Alex’s hand, lips parted, eyes still in shadow. Alex holds his breath, waiting to be shaken off, pushed, slapped. But Logan only stares.

Alex takes his other hand and slides it carefully under Logan’s, stabilizing the wrist. Alex has the sleeves of Logan’s hoodie halfway over his palms, but even through the fabric he can feel how cold Logan is. He steps closer.

“You didn’t get out of the car,” Alex says.

Logan tries to draw his hand away then, rolling his shoulders, but Alex doesn’t let him. He holds Logan’s hand tenderly but firmly, lacing their fingers together. Logan watches him do it without resistance, his face impossible to read, but his head is tilted just slightly in Alex’s direction.

”There was fire.”

”I got out.”

“Not when you should’ve. George told me. You just sat there. In the middle of the track. Burning…”

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, clenches and unclenches his jaw. “I didn’t know.”

”Logan, you’re a terrible liar.”

Logan lifts his head and looks steadily at the horizon, swallowing hard. As he turns back to the light, Alex can see the shine in his eyes. “You know,” he murmurs to the city. “Even before I hit the grass I knew, I just knew I was gonna lose it.” He pulls his free hand in and taps his fingers restlessly against the railing. “And then it all just–” he raises that arm and flings his hand out, miming a shunt. “It all just happened so quickly, I remember hitting the wall the first time and the car was in the air and I just thought, ‘This is it.’ This is the end.”

Alex tries to speak, but suddenly he can’t breathe. This is the end. He feels like razor blades are sinking into his throat, the concept whirlpooling in his head like the vertigo. He tries to close his eyes, it the burning afterglow of the city flashes behind his eyelids like fire. He holds Logan’s hand a bit tighter, needing to reassure himself that he’s actually there.

Logan winces, and Alex eases up a little. Logan doesn’t pull away.

“And then it wasn’t,” Logan continues. He pushes out the sentence in a stuttering breath, and the broken smile on his face clearly means he’s trying to laugh, but the sound is jolted and unnatural and he gives up. “And I just sat there like, No, this can’t be right. Like maybe I just had to wait for it.”

“No,” Alex chokes out. He looks at Logan through his tears, willing the other man to turn, to look at him, to give him the mercy of eye contact. He stares helplessly, but all he sees is Logan’s blurred profile. “Logan…”

Logan ducks his head again. “It wasn’t,” he mumbles. “I mean it wasn’t, like, over for me. I told you. I was fine.”

”If you’re waiting in a track when your car is on fire, you’re not fine,” Alex counters fiercely. It’s dark, but his tears are obvious in his voice, the way the words come out strangled an painful. He doesn’t care. “It wouldn’t just be the end for you. You know that, right?”

“What do you mean?”

Alex pulls his hand away so he can grab onto his hair, pulling in frustration. “You think we’d be fine?” he shouts. “You think everyone else would just move on after a fire like that? You think you can just leave?”

Logan finally turns to him then, but Alex isn’t done.

“We were scared. Fucking hell, you nearly gave George a heart attack. We thought something was wrong. We thought you weren’t gonna make it out!”

“But I did. It’s fine.”

“IT’S NOT FINE!”

Logan reaches out with his good hand and gingerly pulls Alex’s fingers out of his hair. Alex’s hands are shaking; Logan laces their fingers together, drapes their hands back over the railing. “Hey,” he whispers. “Calm down, okay? You sound like you care more than I do.”

“I think I do,” Alex spits out.

“Alex…”

“You can’t fucking leave.” It sounds like a demand, it sounds like a plea. And in a way it is; he’s begging Logan to understand, to show some regret, to somehow prove the danger is really over. “Please, Logan… it would kill me.”

Logan says nothing, just stares back. The wind ruffles his hair. He licks his lips.

”You can’t leave,” Alex insists. He’s repeating himself. He’s a broken record, but he can’t pull any more coherent thought together. The only thing that exists in his mind is the paralyzing urgency to make Logan understand. “Promise me that won’t happen again.”

Logan rolls his eyes. “That I won’t crash again?”

“You know what I mean.”

Logan looks down at their joined hands. “I don’t know why you care so much.”

It’s Alex’s turn to roll his eyes, putting as much exasperation in his heavy sigh as possible. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

Logan laughs bitterly. “What? You’re confusing me, man. You say you care, and then you’re yelling at me, you wanted to make sure I’m fine but you don’t believe me when I tell you I am? Like, jesus christ Alex, what do you want from m–”

Alex has heard enough. He steps forward and takes Logan in his arms.

Logan flinches at first, hands raising almost defensively, a shudder racking his body.

Alex is patient. Logan feels so cold and small in his arms; he’s never felt their height difference more. He runs his fingers through Logan’s hair.

Logan folds all at once, dropping his head onto Alex’s shoulder and staggering to the point where he almost topples them both. Alex stabilizes them as Logan grabs him around the ribs, hands crossed over the small of his back, holding too tight like he’s afraid Alex might let go at any moment.

Alex lets Logan hold him, hurt him. Logan’s shaking in his arms, hitching in breath, nearly choking. Alex holds him through it.

“I got you,” he soothes. “I got you. You’re not going anywhere.”

[roamingtigress]

Hosea and Dutch's wedding anniversary is approaching, and Dutch wants to impress Hosea with a little more accessorizing (because, as you know, he doesn't have enough jewelry).

*CONTAINS OLD MAN YAOI SMUT*

Chain Reaction

by Roaming Tigress

Dutch is many things.

He is a con man, a leader of a notorious gang with a novel-length list of crimes he is wanted for. He is a frustrating bastard that makes you want to whack him across the head with a pillow, and yet, you might also take pity on him. He may also be charming; many have fallen for his silver tongue, his mightiest weapon.

And a man with a taste for finer things.

Among those finer things is his wardrobe.

Adorning that waist jacket is a Double Albert pocket fitted with a red ruby fob adornment. Sure, its intended use is for wax stamps, but let's face it, mostly, it's to draw the eye to that slutty, slutty waist.

And while many know of Dutch as a conman, a bastard who needs a good whack upside the head with a pillowcase full of bricks (maybe followed by a hug), what many might not know is that Dutch is, well, to put it bluntly, adventurous. And his (mostly) patient husband, Hosea, is always up for something different.

Dutch had a plan for that Double Albert, that red ruby fob.

That plan would also surprise Hosea; their wedding anniversary was just a month away. Dutch thought, why not impress him a little?

Like all Dutch's plans, though, it did not go according to the plan.

On the first piercing, his left nipple, Dutch nearly, literally, hit the roof in that shop behind the gun store in Annesburg. Now, another little-known fact about Dutch, for better or for worse: he's touch-sensitive.

Very touch-sensitive.

The right piercing, another week later, went just as smoothly. Judging from the horrific scream, a passerby might think a man in that shop was getting a tooth extracted without anesthetic, a bikini wax, or maybe even castrated. And that passerby would be forgiven for making such a mistake.

"I didn't rip it off!" Cried the man halfway out the door as Dutch took off, clasping a hand over his right chest.

Dutch is known to be a little dramatic.

Another fact about Dutch? He's occasionally a little dramatic.

Now came the time for the navel piercing.

That also went swimmingly.

Well, it kicked off.

Another fun fact: Dutch is ticklish! It's one of the ways Hosea can control him; when he's in a foul or otherwise difficult mood (which is rarely, of course), a poke to the ribs—particularly in public—can get him to crumble.

And he's exceptionally touchy in the region from his ribs to his midsection -- as the other poor man would come to find out.

The piercer got a full boot to the forehead when the piercing needle slipped through the top rim of that tender target.

"GODDAMNIT!" Had he spent a little more time readying Dutch, the piercer might not have had to play dodge-the-spurs, but this was Dutch's third visit. Knowing how the other appointments went, he wasn't in the mood to scratch the cowboy's belly any more than he had to.

The man, a particularly short but stout Scot with a full head of red hair named Cameron Carruthers, would live to tell the tale of receiving a cowboy boot to the face by one of the most notorious outlaws. A particularly sensitive outlaw; being wimpy over it all would be an understatement.

In all the years of his back-room business, in which he used the stock storage cabinets from Mr. Shultz, Cameron never saw someone kick up such a fuss. Now, the navel and the nipples are sensitive areas of the body, but surely, a man of Dutch's reputation could have retained some of that stoic character over it all. Maybe they just don't make cowboys the way they used to.

Cameron knew well of who his client was: a man with a novel-length list of crimes ranging from robbery to murder and everything in between. Still, he scoffed at his wanted poster stapled to a post before he sauntered off for a pint at the Mitternachtsbierhalle Restaurant and Bar. He even had to scoff again at the description of him. A 'dangerous man', indeed! If the law enforcement captured that miscreant and needed him to confess to even more crimes, perhaps bringing out the piercing needly and the confessions would fly out of his silver-tongued mouth.

From that moment on, as soon as the boot hit him square in the head, Cameron implemented a new customer policy: cowboy boots were not allowed on the piercing table.

Thanks, Dutch.

Another Dutch trade secret: when giving gifts to his loved ones, with a few exceptions, he prefers going the legit route versus just stealing the damn thing. Books for Jack are always bought (almost), along with fine gifts for Hosea ranging from clothing to his stallion, Silver Dollar (whom he may have tricked Hosea into believing was a long-extinct breed). Dutch and Hosea bought the odd thing for John and Arthur.

Maybe.

Wedding anniversaries are bought legitimately without fail.

Well, that's a stretch.

There was that time when Dutch stole a carriage and took Hosea out on a joyride, lawmen in tow; that was last year.

The gold chains that Dutch would connect to the rings were handmade in Italy, and the rings themselves, adorned with tiny diamonds and rubies, of course, were from France, where the fob the chains would connect to came from. Fancy, fancy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now you might be wondering, during the weeks when Dutch got his piercings and during his healing, how did Dutch keep it all a secret from Hosea?

A little (stolen) stage makeup was used. It took a little experimenting to ensure it was thick enough not to be rubbed (or kissed off) easily but not to look unnatural. Dutch also depended on little tricks of the lighting and, even more so, a little luck.

During those weeks of healing, lovemaking happened only at night; Dutch had concocted a theory that a man's sensations are higher at night. Hosea played along. With the sensitivity towards those areas heightened by the pain, it was, in a word, sensational.

Dutch played it coy during the day, flirting and testing the waters, but he was able to keep those areas hidden. Hosea had always been fond of kissing that belly each morning, as Dutch was fond of doing to him; whoever woke up first blew zerberts on the other. Once in a while, the makeup would slip off during the night, and Hosea would be concerned about those red marks appearing on his usually pristine belly button and nipples, a concern which Dutch brushed off as mosquito bites. It was a particularly insect-ridden summer, and Dutch thought it was a plausible pass; Hosea, though, was suspicious.

"Mosquito bites?" Hosea raised an eyebrow, trying to pull down the bedsheet covering his chest. Dutch stubbornly covered himself up.

"Who was it?"

"Who was what?" Dutch felt his cheeks flush, and at once, Hosea narrowed his eyebrows.

"It wasn't Josiah, was it?" Hosea almost growled. "I told him not to bite you! You know I'm the one to leave marks on you."

Now and then, Hosea would 'loan' out Dutch to close friends to have a little fun with him. At other times, he'd go to the highest bidder; on one occasion, a prince from Sweden had an afternoon with him. Josiah Trelawny (and sometimes his wife when she had someone to mind Tarquin and Cornelius) were among those. There were a few rules: he had to return at the end of the day, Fridays were off limits to any but Hosea, and the aforementioned non-biting rule: Hosea wanted to mark Dutch as HIS harlot.

"Nope, nope, he was gentler last time."

Hosea scoffed, crossing his arms as he looked at his idiot with a mustache, his head tilted. He wore a smug smile, but a twinkle in his dark eyes told Hosea he would tease a little. "Gentle last time? You couldn't walk right for a week. Hosea Fucks Friday almost became Hosea Misses Out on Friday."

"Is that any different than usual?" Dutch laughed, at first arching his back off the mattress in a not-so-subtle 'please give me scritches' gesture, but then stopped, realizing. "Last I checked -- "

Hosea scoffed, slipping into bed next to him. He felt right into the marrow of his old bones that Dutch was up to something; he always knew but decided to play along. "You know, it's amazing it hasn't fallen off!"

He looked at his husband curiously, and Dutch answered his question.

"Wasn't anyone but you," Dutch murmured, pressing a kiss to Hosea's nose as he turned to hand Hosea a book; it was their sweet, nightly routine to read a chapter of a book to each other.

"You were rough, I'm still recovering!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A week had passed since that close call, and the chains and rings were soon in Dutch's well-manicured hands. Oh, he couldn't wait to show them to Hosea!

Dutch stood before the mirror, in all his shirtless glory, as he carefully inserted the first ring into his right nipple.

He shivered at the sensation of the cool gold sliding through his nipple; it was cold and tingling but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant in the least.

The second nipple was even more sensitive; he'd be lying if he said his toes weren't curling by now. And the fool wants to attach chains!

Last but not least, the navel ring. Dutch squirmed and let out a sound that one wouldn't likely expect from him as that damn fancy ring was inserted. And then, with the biggest smile he could possibly smile, he kissed his reflection.

"Oh, baby girl, he will love it!" He was sure this would send Hosea into another galaxy.

Dutch stepped back and took a good look at himself. He was positively flirting with his reflection; one hip slightly swung out, and his chest puffed out. He was an absolute picture of pride. The rings shone so pretty in the limited lighting, but that ensemble would look even prettier on that chain.

He took hold of one of the chains arranged neatly on the counter, clipped a clasp on the chain to the right nipple ring, and then repeated with the left. He attached a third and final chain, a shorter one, to his red gem fob, to the chain clasps from the nipple rings, to his navel ring.

Effectively, the chains created a "V" with a pattern; "V" for "van der Linde," "V" for "vivacious," "V" for "very sexy," or if you think the whole matter is silly if you think the situation is indeed a bit silly.

The sensation of the gold chain against Dutch's tender skin was giving him goosebumps -- and that was before the fob was even given a tug.

He had to give it a little tug—just a little teasing one. Of course, he'd save a proper tug for Hosea, but he had to try it.

Dutch gave the fob a sight tug. He let out a sharp breath as he felt a shiver running throughout his body, and that was just from the lightest pull. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, envisioning Hosea dragging him around camp by that fob. He slipped his hands down his torso as the picture in his head became more vivid. Hosea might be angry at him over something and feel taking him down a peg was necessary.

"How long are you going to be in there?" Hosea asked from behind the bathroom door with particular urgency to his voice, startling Dutch from his daydreaming just as his hands reached his meticulously trimmed pubic hair.

It was the eve of their wedding anniversary, ten minutes to go.

"Just five more minutes!" Dutch answered with a slight shake of his voice, grabbing his clothes from the counter, minus the union suit, which he placed in a basket for laundry. He had to reclothe himself carefully lest he snag the chains, and well, there'd go the sexy anniversary gift reveal. The fob chain was threaded through an opening in his shirt, and he squirmed his hips as he ran his hand through his hair.

"Old Girl will go mad."

Sure enough, Dutch made good on his promise. Hosea stepped into the bathroom while casting a suspicious eye on his husband. He had been in there for a while, after all.

"Stomach's not acting up again, is it?"

Dutch's eyes had a certain glint in them. Playful, even. "It's been a week since that's been acting up. You rearranged my guts!"

"I wasn't that rough!" Hosea scoffed, giving him a swat that Dutch dodged as he swerved into the bedroom.

Dutch sat on the edge of the hotel bed, his foot fidgeting as he practically squirmed in anticipation. He pushed himself further up onto the mattress and unbuttoned his striped shirt, revealing a bit more of his chest. Feeling a little saucy, maybe even a bit slutty, he assumed the pose he often took after sex: his lower torso pointed towards the bathroom door, legs spread open, chin tilted to his chest, and eyes coyly cast downward. It was a submissive pose of trust and love, one that Hosea could never resist; to him, it meant Dutch was so trusting of him that he could do as he wished to him.

"Oh, there's my little minx, waiting for me . . . " Hosea spoke lowly, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom.

Dutch's hand moved to the fob of his black waistcoat, and he almost shyly toyed with it, subtly trying to draw Hosea's attention to it. "Five minutes until our anniversary . . . " He cast a playful glance at Hosea.

"You forgot the anniversary gift, didn't you?" Hosea was always onto Dutch when he acted cute. Usually, Dutch was hiding something from him and would try to to worm his way out of the situation. More often than not, Dutch indeed managed to squirm out of trouble; Hosea had a bit of a soft spot for him, after all.

"What would you say if I said I was wearing it?" Dutch murmured, his baritone voice coming out as smooth as silk.

Hosea watched Dutch curiously as he played with the fob, twirling it between his fingers. After a moment, their eyes locked; Hosea's eyes were filled with questions as he wondered what was in store for him, and Dutch's with warm excitement, almost giddy anticipation.

"Give it a tug, Old Girl . . . " Dutch laid back further, casting him that playful gaze again as he carefully held the fob out to him.

Hosea's face lit up with a smile as he took the fob in one hand and cupped Dutch's jaw with the other, 'bopping' his nose with his thumb, which he moved down to lightly scratch his soul patch.

"You've been a little funny the last few weeks. I figured you were hiding something. You're so full of yourself, thinking you could get something past me."

Dutch looked at him with a defiant smirk, shifting slightly, his back arching up in a not-so-subtle 'tug it already' gesture. He was being a pushy little shit, and he knew it. "Oh, you know damn well I was in the clear -- "

"Not so." Hosea returned the smirk and tugged the chain firmly.

He might as well have struck Dutch with a jolt of electricity from an experiment testing the full impact of electricity at its highest possible strength and capabilities.

Dutch let out a sharp yelp, throwing his head back as he slammed onto the mattress, his back arching up off it as he dug his fingers into the bedspread. His whole body shuddered as his chest rose and fell rapidly.

His reaction was so intense that it initially startled Hosea, but he gathered himself quickly and gave it another tug. He got a similar reaction out of him again.

"You think you could be sneaky with me, huh?"

"N-no -- "

Hosea tugged it a third time.

Dutch was a quivering mess, whimpering, finding himself unable to talk. The sight drove a certain hunger within Hosea; having such control over Dutch made him feel like he had all the power in the world.

"You got this attached to your cock and balls, or what?" Hosea had the chain threaded through his fingers but didn't pull back; he didn't want to tug too often, too soon, lest he desensitize him. And besides, he was giving him the puppy dog look. Wherever this fob was connected, it was attached to something sensitive; he knew Dutch's most tender spots intimately and what kind of touch brought out what reaction.

Dutch laid on his back, panting. He felt his cock swelling under his pants; his arousal grew so fast that it was damn near painful.

"Fuck, Hosea . . . " He spoke between breaths, his heart nearly pounding out of his ribcage as he pushed his head back into the pillow.

Hosea ran his thumb over the fob as he slipped next to him, maybe subtly reminding Dutch that he controlled this situation. His hazel eyes were sparkling; he had to see this arrangement! Dutch had always gone over the top with their anniversary gifts, but this had to be the most . . . Sensational one.

"May I see my wedding gift?"

"I thought you'd never ask!" Dutch winked, crow's feet taking flight in the corners of his eyes. Hosea loved seeing him smile, how his eyes crinkled up, even the wrinkles on his nose!

He sat up on his knees, not breaking soft eye contact with Hosea as he unbuttoned his jacket, taking care not to snag the fob chain underneath. To Hosea's amusement, he slipped out his waistcoat with an exaggeratedly serpentine movement.

"Enjoying the show?" Dutch teased, teasingly shrugging his shoulders as his fingers nimbly worked over his shirt.

"I've seen worse!" Hosea laughed, though transfixed by watching his husband's fingers deftly undo the buttons; he always loved watching Dutch use his hands, whatever they were doing.

Almost absently, Hosea slid his hand down to his groin, digging his fingers across the fabric of his pyjama bottoms as he watched intently. While for Dutch, Hosea's hands are

When his chest became exposed, Dutch almost coyly blocked the view of his nipple rings. He gave Hosea a crooked smile as he rested his head on his shoulder and watched; Dutch took pride in how he still affected Hosea in such a manner.

"Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe this be too much for you." He was still playing coy and being cute, and his beloved enjoyed it.

Hosea scoffed, his fingers clutching through the fabric of his pyjamas. His voice was hitched, breathly as he ran the palm of his hand over his groin. "Too much for me? I think I struck lighting with you."

"I seem to be creating the makings of another electric storm myself," Dutch almost purred, a certain playful twinkle in them as he slipped his left hand covering a ringed nipple and then revealed the other.

"Happy anniversary, Old Girl."

Hosea sat up in a kneeling position, a bit awkwardly, given that oh-so-familiar sensation growing within his groin. "It's beautiful . . ." He almost growled, tracing a finger over the ring and then tracing a fingertip down the length of the exposed chain.

"That's not all . . ." Dutch murmured teasingly, deftly undoing the rest of the buttons, revealing the chains which popped out oh so temptingly. He worked his way down to his navel piercing, and with all of them undone, he arched his back towards Hosea, pushing his belly towards him invitingly.

Hosea glanced up and down Dutch's form, licking his lips as if he was presented with a delicious meal, and he was—prime Dutch. He wanted to make a feast out of that choice cut that lay before him and maybe have the odd bite; after all, he had to ensure Dutch was cooked just right.

Hosea leaned in and, securing Dutch by the waist, took a nipple ring into his mouth and rolled it slowly with his tongue, sending Dutch writhing. Leaving him wanting more, though, Hosea abandoned that nipple and kissed and nipped his way over to his other, easing him down as he did so. Leaving him whining -- a sound Hosea knew was begging -- and squirming -- Hosea alternated kisses and soft bites down his torso.

"Oh, you taste as delicious as you look," Hosea murmured against him.

"Hungry, now are we?" Dutch grinned, his eyes now little slits as he squirmed up against Hosea, encouraging him. "I guess I wouldn't be the worst choice for an anniversary dinner -- "

"Shut up and let me eat you!" Hosea feigned frustration but flashed a grin, giving him a nip between that tender region of the breastbone and midriff.

Hosea enjoyed this as much as Dutch did; he felt young again. The world outside, everything, stopped. It was just them having this moment.

Dutch squirmed with stifled laughter and whimpers as he tried to suck his belly in, in a hopeless attempt to evade Hosea's brutal onslaught. He suspected that his navel would be next, and he was right. He was already sensitive there, and the ring just amplified it. Hosea couldn't help it -- the damn fools jewelry setup was

Dutch's toes curled nearly into the souls of his feet in arousal as Hosea reached up to sneak a bite into a nipple -- as did Hosea's as his hunger increased.

"One of your better anniversary gifts, my Dutchess," Hosea cooed against his skin. Then, deciding to leave Dutch wanting more, he pushed himself into a kneeling position. He threaded a length of the chain around a finger and cupped his chin with his other hand.

"Thank you."

And then they kissed.

Slowly, Hosea pushed Dutch back onto the mattress, his hold not breaking from the chain. For a moment, Dutch challenged him, wrapping his leg behind him and rolling him over. He did so slowly as if thinking amid that kiss that Hosea would overlook. Sneaky, sneaky, sneaky.

Hosea wasn't having any of it, though.

Oh no, he wasn't.

Hosea growled into the kiss and rolled Dutch aside, pinning him down with his knees around his waist -- all the while still holding onto that strand of gold chain as he sat upwards again. Dutch looked up at him with a crooked, playful smile as if testing to see what he'd do next.

"Thought you'd distract me with the shiny, huh?" He slowly wound more of that chain around his finger, threatening to yank.

"Well, I did!" Dutch grinned, his expression alone saying, 'Pull it.'

Hosea smirked. He considered tugging it, but then he thought. . .

"Maybe I could be distracted by a little bit more . . . Shiny."

Dutch tilted his head curiously, an expression beyond adorable that earned a tickle on the cleft of his chin. Hosea had a soft spot for that chin; where others found 'ugly,' he found adorable, much like that nose. What he even found to be cuter than those features was how he reacted when they were scritched, kissed, 'booped.' Sometimes, he'd tuck his head in and blush; sometimes, he'd wrinkle his nose and pretend to be annoyed. On other times -- such as this time -- he'd crinkle his eyes up and tip his head back for more with a big ear-to-ear smile.

"You're adorable."

Hosea leaned over and kissed Dutch's nose, and he chuckled when that made him wrinkle it with a feigned snarl. He knew Dutch often pretends to hate those nose kisses, but Hosea knows better. He slipped off the bed to retrieve said gift from the dresser, and his voice took on a certain excitement.

"You didn't think there'd just be one anniversary gift between us now, did you?"

Dutch remained where Hosea placed, on his back, his legs spread to accommodate his erection. He tipped his head back to watch Hoea, almost purring at the combined sensation of the gold settling on his skin, the cloth of his black pants roughly shifting against his groin without that union suit getting in the way. And then, he couldn't bear it.

Off with the pants! His eyes didn't leave Hosea as he slipped, almost wiggling out of those pants, gasping when the cool air settled on his exposed, erect penis.

And then, Hosea turned to reveal the wedding anniversary gift in his hands. His expression was amused; he knew Dutch too well and how quick he'd be about taking those pants off.

It was a cock ring.

Custom made, of course.

"Specially made, just for you!" Hosea spoke animatedly, still eyeballing his husband as if he were a high-priced meal at a restaurant.

The cock ring was made of gold with a black band engraved with a smattering of tiny gold Ds, the very same font that formed the D pattern on his jacket. D for Dutch. D for dashing. D for dick. There were tiny red rubies along the band; it matched with his other rings and even his wardrobe perfectly.

And it could be hooked up with another gold chain, which it game with.

Dutch almost purred, his legs spreading in submission, in desire. He held his cock in his hands as Hosea returned to the bed, eager to feel the ring being eased on.

"Oh, Hosea, you spoil me rotten."

Hosea laughed as he came around the foot end of the bed and propped a knee on the mattress, all with a smoothness that Dutch was still taken in by. They both walked with a hitch in their get-along for some time now, but when it came to affection and intimacy, it was as if all their joints, their tendons, were as they were when they first met. Dutch could be able to withhold weight on his knees without feeling as if they'd be crunching underneath him, and Hosea could thrust deep within him without his hips troubling him. Maybe some invisible connection between them -- they are soulmates, after all -- healed all that was sore, at least for a time.

"If you got any more rotten, the vultures wouldn't have you!" Hosea grinned, giving Dutch a poke to his belly as he leaned in, delighting in how that always made him squeak.

Dutch let out a hearty laugh and squirmed his whole body in anticipation. "Oh, you flatter me, Old Girl . . ." He grinned, slipping a leg onto Hosea's shoulder, his foot teasing behind his ear. He teasingly started to rub it over Hosea; wherever he could reach, he touched.

"Trying to turn me on before I could get this on, are you? What a whore!" Hosea teased, playfully taking hold of his leg with his free hand and holding it firmly against his waist. "It's not even Friday!"

Dutch looked over at Hosea with a coy, playful expression. "Mhm . . . But I think rules can be set aside for anniversaries, and it'd be cruel to follow them with my new accessories. I did spend a lot of time putting it on, you know." He purred but slipped his hand away, tipping his head back when he felt Hosea's hand replace his.

The ring was eased down onto Dutch cock, giving him a cool and yet not cold sensation -- helped by the warmth of Hosea's hand -- that coursed through him.

"This came from London . . . " Hosea murmured, sending Dutch's head tipping back as he slid the ring up and down his length in a slow, rhythmic pace and used this other hand to support his ass. He may have even slipped a finger inside him to add to his pleasure; the purring moan from Dutch told him it was a good decision.

"I measured you that one night. You wouldn't have known I was measuring you, of course. You were on another planet!"

Dutch arched his back off the bed, grit his teeth and gripped the bed cover. He remembered that night. He almost felt that night again; nobody touches Dutch like Hosea. He strokes with the perfect pressure, almost elegantly, and yet keeps it unpredictable. There are reminders of who Dutch belongs to and who loves him.

For Hosea and Dutch, mutual masturbation is as enjoyable and just as meaningful as intercourse. For Dutch, it keeps him centred, keeping his mind from going to dark places.

"Send me to the moon, Hosea -- "

Hosea happily obliged.

He leaned in, took that fob between his teeth, and tipped his head back.

Dutch went to another planet.

He wasn't sure if it was the moon, but it was a planet, far, far away.

"Are you seeing the galaxy, my Duchess?" Hosea's voice was deep and breathy; if he said he wasn't being affected by watching his husband undulatingly writhe and moan as he gave that fob tugs -- no, yanks -- of alternating strengths, his finger moving into him deeper, he'd be lying.

Dutch gasped, his head thrown back so far and hard repeatedly that he'd be surprised if he hadn't gotten whiplash. "N-nearly there!"

Hosea could feel the orgasm building up within Dutch. It was such an intimately organic sensation, one that, to him, was more than just sex; it was knowing that he had sent him to that level. Truthfully, they really do only have sex once a week, and yes, on Fridays, it extends the drive, the desire, the hunger.

"I'll help get you there!" Hosea panted, his breath shaking as he eased Dutch's ass back down on the bed, leaving him writhing as he rummaged through his jacket pocket in search of gun oil. He was whining about something incoherent. It's hard to imagine, but Dutch will survive the ordeal of a short wait until Hosea sends him to another level.

"No need to be dramatic; I'll send you to the stars."

"Mmrhsea . . . !"

"You don't like me going in raw, Dutch."

At last, Hosea had found the gun oil.

Pants were dropped. All necessary equipment was lubed up to specifications.

Gun lube wasn't their preferred lubricant; Hosea was fond of hair pomade, while Dutch preferred Potent Miracle Tonic. Gun oil was a go-to in a hurry, though, and they were in a hurry.

Hosea grabbed a fistful of those chains, and with Dutch's legs submissively, sluttily spread out, he thrust deep inside him with a strength of a man twenty years younger. He took ahold of that waist with his other hand, steading him, digging his fingers into a love handle. He loved that Dutch had them now; they were something to grab, to poke to keep him in line.

Dutch was self-conscious about those love handles, but over time, Hosea's touches of them, the gentle pokes, and those soft kneadings created a positive association; acceptance happened henceforth.

Hosea yanked the chain.

Hard.

Dutch's knuckles nearly went white as he gripped the bed. He snapped his head back, biting his tongue so hard that he tasted blood as he was sent into an orgasmic, organically electrified, babbling, whimpering mess. He seemed to even short-circuit as he came and cried, actually, literally cried when he felt Hosea's release that came following one more hard thrust. Hosea and Dutch were so synch with one another that even their bodies almost became one organism during sex; rarely, one lasts longer than the other.

Sex heightens Dutch's emotions. Tears happen.

He went to the stars, the moon, and beyond, an emotional journey.

Hosea collapsed onto Dutch and couldn't even catch his breath before he hugged tight. It was almost as if the fear was there that he would disappear into thin air, that he was an apparition all along, an apparition that he was forbidding to fade away. He had to smile, though, as Dutch pressed on the top of his head.

Aftercare would have to wait; Dutch *needed* to hold him. He was enjoying the sound of his heart beating against his, both of which were trying to slow down and that musky after-sex smell that he still has after all these years.

"Happy anniversary, 'sea."

[vikkicomics]

A Dutch and a Deutsch. Here Prussian Officer Major Isenstein is chatting up a Flemish girl. He's an energetic and flirtatious character. -Concept art for Moth.

[bormgans]

ROCK & ROLL MET FRIEDA VINDEVOGEL - J.M.H. Berckmans (1991)

Next post will be about my reread of the Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov. In the meantime, a post in Dutch, again about cult writer Jean-Marie Berckmans, who died in 2008 – after a lifelong struggle with manic-depression, anxiety and addiction. I met him a few times in 2006, and also read his final book back then. After I found another book of his on a flea market in 2016, I started collecting…

[moeitsu]

The Tie Which Linked My Soul To Thee

Summary: Kate is not immune to the dangers of the land. No matter how much she loved it, the land will never love her back.

Ao3 Wattpad Masterlist - All Chapters Ch.1 Ch.2 Ch.3 Ch.4 Ch.5 Ch.6 Ch.8 Ch.9 Ch.10

Trigger Warning: Graphic depictions of violence and disturbing imagery. If you do not like depictions of war and torture please proceed with caution. I did heavy research for this chapter, but please know it is entirely FICTIONAL. The characters are not real, but the events are based on real American history. Tags: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character, Widowed, Original Character, Mutual Pining, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Friends to Lovers, Child Loss, Trauma, Canon-Typical Violence, Arthur Morgan Does Not Have Tuberculosis, Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Chubby Arthur Morgan, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence

Ch 7 - The Sun Can Never Dip So Low

1890

I knew I was going to die. 

If the arrow in my side does not take me, then the man who rides the horse I lay across surely will. 

I felt no pain. Perhaps it was the fever of the fight. But it didn’t hurt. I thought of screaming and thrashing, but I thought better of it. As my father would say, ‘The one good thing about problems, is they’ll still be problems later. Don’t need to deal with them right away.’

Either way, I was still going to die. 

If only my father had taught me how to survive the frontier. I know now that you must learn to recognize those who won’t survive, and be wary of their doomed decisions. They are to be avoided at all costs. Because their fear is tragedy’s closest cousin. And tragedy is contagious in this place.

My mind was snuffed by a white blanket of fear, but somehow I prayed, and prayed, and prayed. But God had already abandoned me, perhaps he never loved me at all. My life had been an endless cycle of taking, why would it stop taking now. 

I had no idea where the man was taking me. I did not speak his language. I had heard stories about the wars between the Indians and Englishman. But I did not have a way to tell them I’m not a part of it, but I knew somehow if I could it would not matter. War will turn men into predators, and women into prey. 

Only days ago I felt like I was drowning under a waterfall, but now I see this is the real river of death.

The adrenaline had begun to leak out of my body along with the blood from the arrow. I watched in a blurred haze as the droplets disappeared into the ground as the horse took us swiftly through the dark forests. The pain began creeping in along with the darkness as I blacked out. 

When I woke I found myself laying on the dirt of a fort, the sound of Englishmen talking with the Indians brought me out of my haze. I thought I had been saved, I wanted to yell and scream for help. But the conversation did not sound pleasant, I could barely make out the figure of a man who must be a general and another who must have been the chief. To my surprise, I saw a young Indian woman standing behind the general, her wrists bound. She looked my age, but deathly beaten and ill. My throat closed in. 

The chief's voice rose in anger and I watched him point at me, then at the woman. After a moment the general waved his hands, and the girl was unbound and brought to the chief, he swiftly lifted and cradled her. I knew then it was his daughter. At the same time one of the general's men came walking in my direction and I realized I wasn’t being rescued, but traded. One woman for another, and eye for an eye. 

I thought death was better than being a prisoner, as my mind raced with panic. I almost begged the Indians to turn back and kill me. 

There must be a heaven, because that night I knew I had entered the gates of hell. Crawling on my hands and knees into the belly of the beast as he took me in his bed. Night after endless night. 

My days had turned into nights, and I no longer saw the point in living. Like my eyes had become devoid of color, and the world turned black and gray. Instead of praying to be rescued, I prayed my injury would kill me. 

There were other prisoners in the fort, mostly Lakota men. I bore no hatred for their people, but entirely my own. Their greed so suffocating they took the daughter of the chief, an innocent girl who had no part in their war. And turned her into a shell of herself. All in the name of greed. It was always greed. 

I thought my life couldn’t have any more surprises for me, that it must end here. But my life was about to change yet again. 

I noticed one of the other prisoners began watching me, then leaving behind extra food and water for me. After a few days, he approached me. 

“What is your name?” he asked, his accent thick. Like my language did not fit right in his mouth. Unlike his own.

“Kate,” I answered. Surprised to hear my own voice after days of torture, “what’s yours?” 

“Egwani,” he said, “or in your language little river. That wound in your belly is going to get infected.” River nodded at the small purple wound on my stomach . The general's men had cauterized it, but my body had been rising with a fever for the past two days. 

“It’s already infected.” And I hoped it would kill me quickly. 

River shook his head, “I can help you.” 

“Why would you help me?” Not that there was any hope for me anyways. Even if he stopped the infection, I was still stuck in this hell. 

“That woman the white man traded you for, she is my wife.” 

A chill ran down my spine. I did not want to think about what they did to her infront of him. 

“You gave your life to save hers. So I will save yours.” He said sincerely. Not that I had a choice in the matter, but still. If one woman came out of this alive, then I guess my death would have some meaning to it. 

“Even if you stop the infection, these men will kill me. There’s nothing you can do, I’m going to die here.” My voice betrays my thoughts. Desperation creeping its way into the cracks. Inside I wanted the pain to end, I wanted my suffering to cease. But I was still terrified, beneath it all I longed to return home. Pretend none of it happened. Return to my old life with my family. But that version of me no longer exists. 

River chuckled softly. 

“Is something funny?” The last thing I needed was to be shown kindness and then mocked. Like the general’s men had not degraded me enough. 

“You are stubborn like the Amicalola,” he smiled. Why was he smiling? Had he not suffered just as much as I had? He must have seen his wife beaten nearly within an inch of her life, and he could do nothing, yet he was smiling at me now. 

The pain in my body made my words come out bitter and sharp, “I don’t know what that means.”

“My people’s word for waterfall. You are strong like one too. It is a good name.” 

I scoffed, how incredibly wrong he was. 

“I’m not,” I stated with a groan. My head throbbed from the fever and my body was cold from the chills as the infection raged through my insides. 

“I can give you medicine. And when my people return in a few weeks, I will escape and take you with me.” He explained. 

“I think I’d rather you just kill me now,” I said, closing my eyes. The world around me was spinning in a dark haze, gravity pulling my body down with my thoughts. 

“You could have killed yourself days ago,” River began, “you could have taken a rope to your throat, or a knife to your heart. But you did not,” I opened my eyes again and looked at him, “that is how I know you are strong. Your will to live is burning through you right now with a fever.” 

My eyes filled with tears, and my throat suddenly felt thick. For the first time in what felt like forever, my heart began to fill with hope. River closed the gap between us and placed a gentle palm on my forehead, feeling the heat of my skin. 

“I have watched you turn towards the pain as it tears into you. I have seen the way you survive, these men think they have taken everything from you. But you have not let them devour your soul.”

“I could do nothing to stop them,” I croaked. Hot tears spilling down my cheeks like water through a dry creek bed. 

“Sometimes, there is strength in surrendering. But you have surrendered nothing to the pain. I see your tears, but you do not weep,” he brushed a thumb over my wet face, “you are a warrior.” 

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

True to his word, River’s men showed up exactly two weeks later. But before that, he had given me a salve mixed from honey and sage and rubbed it over my arrow wound, as well as the numerous others I had accumulated in my time here. He also gave me an herbal tea for the infection, and by some miracle it was working. Each day I felt my strength returning to me. 

River took beatings for me, when I could not walk or do chores. Or simply when the men felt like taking their frustrations out on another human being. And I felt incredibly guilty for it. But he always assured me that I needed to save my strength for the real fight, when his people came. Yet nothing could have prepared me for what was about to unfold. 

They came under the cover of night, and used the forest and mountains to their advantage. They brought the fire, as the fort was made entirely out of wood and before long it became a fiery prison from hell. I knew our escape would not be easy, even with the help of Rivers' men. I had my strength back, but no knowledge of how to actually fight. I was lucky enough to escape with just a burn on my calf. 

It had been a bloody massacre, and the men fought savagely. The Lakota people came with arrows and tomahawks and spears, and I watched as they made the men of the fort suffer. It brought a sickening joy to my heart, to see the men who had raped me have their skulls crushed and insides ripped apart. It felt like justice. 

We lost people on our side, too many. None of the other prisoners had made it out alive. And I grieved for the other girls of the camp who did not make it like I had, it felt unfair. But we managed to escape. After hours of blazing rage, River swiftly lifted me onto the back of a horse, and together we rode far away from the fort. Only a few of his people escaped alongside us, as we left behind their final resting place. The numbing shock of war is behind me now, and hope has taken its place.

His men had informed us that his tribe had moved to the bottom of the Tennessee river, to escape the constant attacks and find refuge further west. So that is where our journey took us. As if life had still granted me the irony of continuing west, despite all the horrors I had faced to get there. 

It took us nearly three months. We traveled through the Appalachian trails and the journey was not easy. We lived rough, and we lived hard. I felt like a burden most days, as I knew I was slowing down their journey. I was still not entirely healed, and some days I felt I did not have the strength to travel at all. But River was patient, and never made me feel like it was my fault. 

He taught me how to hunt, how to fish, and how to set traps and skin animals. He even taught me some of his language, but most importantly he taught me how to survive. 

“When we kill an animal we must use all parts of it, to honor it. These creatures are innocent, and when we kill an innocent we become a little less of a man, and a little more of an animal.” He told me as he demonstrated how to properly skin a rabbit. 

Death is something we share with all creatures; rabbits, birds, horses and trees. It's everywhere, and eventually it will take everyone. Just as it had taken everyone who had loved me. Even as the stars die, we cannot run from it. 

Despite his people running from war, they could not escape death either. We arrived at River’s tribal camp, along the bank of the Tennessee river, and it had been reduced to ash. We were too late, or perhaps we were lucky, this could have been our fate too. River, and the men who came to rescue us, were the last of his people. I saw something dark enter him that day, as he held the charred bones of his wife and child. The woman whom I gave my life for, all for nought. As I stood there, living and breathing, and she did not. Their entire family history, wiped clean from the earth. 

His rage became the oil to my flame, I felt his anger mix with my own deep in my soul. All this death we had endured. Intertwined our fates like loops on a chain that bound us like shackles. But it was our grief that kept us on a tight leash. River sought revenge and justice, while I yearned to take from the world what it had taken from me. Together, we would instill fear into the heart of every man who crossed the land.

━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━

Kate McCanon died the day I met River. What stood before him now was the Amicalola, the waterfall. I became a woman unrecognizable. 

Like many rivers, their journeys start with quiet beginnings, but as they are nourished by the waters of experience, they gather strength, flowing swiftly and deeply towards their desired path. If you follow their course and witness where they converge — they become a creature of beauty as well as fury. I became the waterfall: untamed and unbridled, sweeping away all in my path with wild abandon.

River made me into a warrior, and with each life I took, the world felt my turmoil. Anger guided my blade, for the world had stolen my family—my husband, and my daughter. It robbed me of myself, leaving me with nothing to lose. 

“Our purpose is to ensure our enemies' fear is greater than their greed,” he told me. We hunted poachers, bandits, and thieves. But his rage was never satisfied. 

He taught me how to kill, how to torture. How to fight with weapons capable of horrific fatalities. And I welcomed it with open arms. We fought and killed together for several years before I would begin to lose myself to the bloodshed. 

We were hunting a group of poachers, when we came upon what we believed to be their camp. River was the first to drag a man from his tent, a knife already in his side. He would ask questions, and then kill him slowly. His fate sealed the moment we found their tracks. The man claimed to know nothing, but we were not convinced. And it wouldn't matter anyways, we would kill everyone in the camp. Just for the sake of it.

“What you take from the land will be taken from you. Know that I am the land, and the land is killing you.” River spoke in his native tongue as he slit the man's throat. Sickeningly slow. He would choke to death in his own blood. 

A sound came from the man's tent and a figure emerged, I drew my bow, ready to release it as they stepped out. The moment a child appeared, I wished then that I had the strength to kill myself back at the fort. I had turned into a monster. 

My heart was in my stomach as a little girl cried for her father. What have I done? I had almost killed a child. And we just killed her father, I realized we had been at the wrong camp. And I had just doomed a mother to be a widow, and a childhood to be ruined. I might as well have handed my fate over to them.

River stood before me, his face shadowed and his eyes vacant. The man who once filled my heart with hope now dwelled in darkness himself. At that moment, I knew I had to leave. I could no longer fight alongside him; our path led to a place from which I could not return. Like Persephone, Queen of the Underworld, yet born under the light of Spring, I too would journey down the river Styx.

He did not resist my departure. River assured me I would always be welcomed among his people, and if I desired, he would take me as his wife. For years, River had been my strength, and I his, but now I was leaving him—to salvage what little I had left of myself. 

After calming the child, I made a solemn vow to reunite her with her mother. This marked the beginning of my journey to break the cycle, and seek redemption for what I had done. It would also mark the end of my journey as a warrior. As we parted ways,  he whispered a message into the wind. I could not tell if it was a goodbye, or a promise, or a warning. In his tongue he told me “follow the rivers, and they will take you to the waterfall.” 

~~~

AN: I seriously appreciate all the love you guys are showing for this story. It motivates me to write more, and I'm truly having so much fun with it. Thank you! <3

[megraen]

When I get comments like these on my stories, it literally brings me to tears.

My depressed and anxiety ridden ass just gets so overwhelmed that someone out there actually thinks so highly of me and my capabilities, and makes me wonder that maybe I can write that novel idea that has been in the back of my mind for years.

[hellofanidea]

You crack me up, lmao.

First sentence:

"No, don't eat that!"

Too late. Trigger had already jumped forward and closed his jaws around the frog that had been making its way across the straw of the barn floor.

Tab winced, then realised he could still hear indignant, muffled, croaking. He dropped to his knees in front of the dog, and started trying to prise open his muzzle.

"Drop it! Drop it! Give! C'mon, you're a soldier, act like it! No eating the locals!"

[childrenofcain-if]

hi writer! do you speak latin and the other languages mc can speak? will you be soliciting help from native speakers? i'd love to help out!

my latin skills are very subpar, but i’m fluent in spanish, hindi, urdu, french, and italian! currently, i’m using the help of discord servers and subreddits to guide me with the other languages but i’d love to have someone who can do it one-to-one with me!

[lambtoccio-blog]

Quick shoutout to my F/Os 🥰🤍