Vincent Town, 1894
There’s a wooden house slightly crooked to the left.
It’s isolated from the others in a little town with ordinary people and it stays up on a small hill. There are flowers and patches of grass around it, bushes and trees on the back garden. The blue paint is peeling off in a few corners and the white in between is dusty, old. A brown-haired man walks inside that house, humming under his breath, and he gets ready for another day. The sun is bright outside, with no clouds, and he prepares a bath for himself. The water is cold and he doesn’t stay there for too long, not wanting to be late for work again. Jack dries himself and gets dressed in a white shirt, with baggy sleeves. Dark brown pants and a vest that has seen better days. He closes the buttons and wears worn out shoes, running a hand through his hair to fix it. Jack eats some cheese and bread before finally leaving his home, patting his hands on his pants and closing the front door. There’s a natural path that he follows, walking on dirt and grass, and the tall trees cast down a beautiful shadow. Sunlight peeks through their leaves and the boy’s skin looks like gold, every now and then.
The Irishman sees the town he lives as he goes, waving at folks that pass by and greeting with a smile. Everyone knows everyone, and yet they all have their secrets. There are people already gossiping on a porch, next to the local store, and Jack throws a few coins on a stand before getting a small piece of meat. The salesman nods at him and the boy whistles at a stray dog. He’s black and white, and he runs towards the Irishman like usual, gladly accepting the food. Jack pats him with a smile and he promises to come back later. The brown-haired man steps on a wooden porch, in the middle of town, and he opens the double doors to start working at their saloon. Even though is early morning, there are already a couple of men at some tables, and Jack shakes his head. He says hello to a colleague behind a counter right next to the door, where they keep people’s guns before entering the place. Jack sees his friend, Robin, walking down the stairs and he goes to him.
“You’re not late today!” the Swedish man chuckles. “That’s a surprise.”
“Hey, I only overslept twice. In a row. Both were an accident!”
“Yeah, yeah… Well, we have some Moonshine on the way. I want you to help with that.”
“Alright, boss!” Jack grins, raising his hands in the air as if giving up. “Anything you say.”
Robin snorts, saying not to call him that, and the boy shrugs. He’s not wrong. The Swedish man is the owner of that place and Jack’s really grateful that his friend wanted his help. The Irishman talks to the ladies that entertain their men, catching up and giggling with them. Marlene fans herself from time to time, and Jack compliments her as usual. She’s a good friend and he knows what’s going on in town through her. They love to gossip. All the girls are slowly getting ready upstairs, taking a bath and putting on makeup, and Jack checks if the rooms are clean. He replaces some sheets and grumbles with one of them about torn fabrics. There’s a chuckle and he sighs, ignoring his flushed cheeks. When the wagon arrives, Jack pays for their booze and brings the boxes inside between huffs. He talks to Robin on his break for lunch, eating behind their counter. Some men go upstairs with their ladies, others just drink and leave. That’s how every day is.
It’s only late in the afternoon that the place gets louder, with more people coming in and staying for the night. There’s someone playing the piano now and Jack servers some people with his friends. There are faces he’s not very fond of every night. He has to bat hands away and ignore comments in the air with a light glare to himself. Marlene stays with him, complaining about manners too, and she makes him smile. At some point, there are quick whispers and they hear someone running outside. They yell something that Jack doesn’t quite catch, too distracted with fixing a loose button on his vest, but it’s enough for everyone to shut their mouths. The brown-haired man looks up, knitting his eyebrows at how quiet it is, and there are hooves faintly coming from outside. Someone swears, everyone trying to look through the bar windows without moving, and Robin purses his lips next to him.
The double doors swing open and Jack rests his elbows against the counter. The mister has stopped playing the piano in the end of the bar and everyone turns their heads towards that front door. Marlene comes closer to him, resting against the counter as well, and she curses under her breath. Jack frowns even more, not understanding why everyone shut their mouths, and a man walks into the place. He’s wearing all black, with a long sleeved shirt and hat. Black high boots that matches his tight pants. A golden belt and dark vest. There’s a bandana covering half of his face and he’s slender, guns on each side of his waist. The floor creaks with his light move and there’s a gulp in the air. One of the workers there finally breaks the silence, telling the man to keep his weapons by the door just like they always do. There’s a brief pause and the air is tense, so different from before. Everyone is either glaring or looking scared. Jack watches the stranger finally move, taking his weapons out of his holsters.
Once he places them at a counter, the worker organizes them with the rest with trembling hands, and Jack’s blood runs cold when the man pulls his bandana down. He sees a light beard, copper hair and freckles. The more he walks into the bar, the more the boy takes in his details. Green eyes scanning the place, chin up, and a scar on his left eyebrow. Jack’s lips part and he remembers all the stories he’s ever heard about that figure. Whispers shared around a bonfire, rumors that he cut his own tongue and never talks. That his gang ended so many lives, murdering people for no reason other than wanting to have fun and stealing from them. Outlaws, with a heavy bounty on their heads. They bring chaos, wherever they go. The brown-haired man swallows and people slowly start murmuring, returning to their lives, and there’s music back in the place. The man sits down near a window, resting his legs up on the wooden table, and he lights a cigarette between his lips.
“It’s the Red Snake,” Jack finally breathes, not being able to take his eyes off that man. “He’s the leader of the Hellbreakers… They’re a fucking legend.”
“Well, that ain’t sounding much like good news to me,” Marlene says, playing with her blonde locks. Robin sighs, pouring a glass of whiskey for himself. “They were seen nearby and I was hoping they wouldn’t show up, but I guess God didn’t listen.”
“What? How do you know that?”
“Oh, honey, people talk…”
The Irishman purses his lips, exchanging a look with Robin. They live in such a small town, nothing ever happens there. There’s no reason for such a man to be there, let alone a leader of a gang, and they can just hope he leaves soon without causing any trouble. Jack fidgets with the sleeves of his once white shirt, tucked into his pants. He runs a hand through his dark hair and, when the boy’s eyes wander to see that stranger again, he’s already staring back at him. Jack tenses up, but he doesn’t break their gaze, seeing light green in the distance. The man narrows his eyes, taking the cigarette between two fingers, and smoke leaves his lips. The Irishman’s heart beats faster and he doesn’t know if it is for fear or curiosity. Marlene hums and adjusts her red dress, as if calling his attention. Some women try to approach him and Jack just snorts when they all turn around with a huff, rolling their eyes.
The Irishman returns to his routine, then, just helping Robin behind the counter and serving at the tables. It’s the middle of the night and the moon is up in the sky. He talks to everyone he knows, just leaning against a wooden pillar, and he bats more hands away from him that belongs to tipsy men. He keeps glancing at that corner, though, and that stranger seems to be always looking at him first. It makes Jack’s cheeks redden and he clears his throat, choosing to chat with some of laddies of the house. Marlene pinches her cheeks and adjusts her boobs before walking towards that man, her turn to try, and Jack just smiles at her. The girls giggle next to him, opening their fans to hide their grins. However, The Irishman’s face falls when the cowboy just points at the boy with his chin. Marlene turns to him for a second and she speaks, but they can’t hear her from there. Jack’s heart skips a beat and he shakes his head at them, muttering a No. Marlene shrugs and the guy glares at her, making a motion with his hand. When she comes back with a knowing look, he just grimaces.
“I’m not on the menu anymore,” he says. “You guys know that. I can’t do this again.”
“I’m sorry, my darlin’, but he seems to be the stubborn kind… We can’t make him upset, we don’t want any trouble... House orders.”
Jack sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and he just looks at that man with a scowl. It’s not the first time that he’s done that and, apparently, it won’t be the last. They try to be as discreet as possible when it comes to these things, but people know about Robin’s saloon. They had problems before about not having just women, for sure, but they all defend each other there. The girls are always nice to him and Robin, being the owner, protects them with all his power. But there were times that it wasn’t enough and he felt that in his skin. He settled down with just helping his friend and, despite making less money, it was better for him. The Irishman takes a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling for a moment and closing his eyes. He knows Marlene is right, though. They don’t want any chaos happening again, but he never thought he would see one of The Hellbreakers like that. Jack swallows hard.
“Tell him I’ll be ready in five minutes. Give him the best room.”
Marlene nods but she wants him to warn them if something happens. Jack hums and walks up a lance of stairs, looking down at that man for a moment with another sigh. He passes through more ladies and he greets them all, feeling a thin line of anxiety dropping down into his stomach. The Irishman walks into a bathroom, getting some water to wash his face and clean his body as much as he can. He has to strip off his clothes and damp a towel, refreshing himself, and his hands are shaking. The boy tells himself that he has done this before, many times, and that there’s no reason to feel so jittery. Fucking hell. One of them, though. The fucking Red Snake. Really? Why him? He holds back a groan, putting on his clothes once more, and it’s his turn to pinch his cheeks. Jack walks out of the bathroom, knowing where to go, and he stops for a moment in front of a wooden door. He takes a deep breath and straightens himself, smile on his face. The Irishman knocks first before opening the door.
The cowboy is standing near a window, seeing part of their night town through a curtain, and he turns his face to look at Jack. The boy lets out a shaky breath and he leans against the wooden door, pressing his lips together. There’s a bed in the middle of the room, to the boy’s left side, and a fireplace on the right. A desk near the man and a closet. Everything is very simple but it’s the best place they have in the house, even with nightstands and a place to clean themselves. They exchange a look and Jack walks up to him, unbuttoning his own vest. The man takes off his hat, ruffling his hair, and the boy sees ginger locks falling down to his forehead. The Irishman stops in front of him, green locked in blue, and his shirt slides down to his shoulders before falling onto the floor. He keeps his head up, but he’s self conscious of all the marks on his body. Jack loosens his pants and pushes everything down, getting naked, and the copper-haired man doesn’t take his eyes off the boy.
“What should I call you? You have many names. Red Snake… The Mute,” Jack whispers but the guy doesn’t reply. The boy huffs a nervous smile, trying to pull a conversation. “Are the rumors true, then? Did you cut your own tongue?”
The cowboy squints his eyes, a low grunt under his breath, but he opens his mouth. Jack’s eyes widen when seeing a split tongue curl in front of him, just like a snake. The Irishman lets out a small chuckle, liking that, and he leans forward. He wants to go for a kiss but the man stops him, placing a hand over his chest. Alright. Jack’s dealt with that before. Straight to action. Fine. He purses his lips when the man adds pressure over his shoulder and he slowly goes down onto the floor. The Irishman stays on his knees and he unfastens the freckled man’s pants, pushing them down to his thighs. A small content sound leaves his lips, noticing that the guy is half hard already, and there’s a firm grip on his hair that makes him groan. Jack stares at a girthy, long cock in front of him, and he opens his mouth to lick it. He never thought he would be like this, on his knees, pleasuring someone who has blood in his hands. Fuck.
Jack sucks the tip of his cock and he bobs his head slowly, up and down. He strokes the man’s shaft, touching his balls, and the boy hums at his taste. The grip tigthens, forcing him to relax his jaw more, and his own cock twitches at that. Jack would be lying if he said that he didn’t like this rough treatment, especially coming from such a dangerous person. It turns him on. Fuck. Maybe this wasn’t a bad idea, after all. Jack’s cheeks go hollow, sucking hard, and the man shuffles on his feet. He leans against a wall and thrusts into the boy’s mouth, still being so quiet. There’s just low huffs in the air and the Irishman knits his eyebrows, pulling back to just lick the underside of his cock and look up at him. The ginger-haired man grunts and Jack grins, pecking his shaft and caressing his thighs. The Irishman slides a hand down between his legs, touching himself, and the freckled man fucks his mouth harsher. Jack moans but tries moving back, not wanting to gag. There are more pants in the air and saliva runs down his chin, cock sliding in and out of his pink lips. He shudders when that hand touches his neck, calloused fingers wrapping around his throat, and he moans.
He does choke and cough when the freckled man pulls out, grabbing him by the shoulders. Jack stumbles but gets up, face flushed, and the cowboy turns him around before pushing him in bed. The Irishman curses under his breath, falling onto the mattress, and he cleans his mouth. The boy hears shuffling and he looks back to see the man taking off his boots. He pulls Jack by the waist, lifting his ass up in the air, and the Irishman’s consumed by embarrassment. It’s even worse when the cowboy doesn’t even take off the rest of his clothes. Great. He won’t even bother, won’t he? The Irishman glares down at the sheets and there’s a new weight in bed, a warmth behind him. A hand brushes on his back and Jack shivers, aware of all the small scars he has there. Small memories that he wishes to forget. The Irishman’s startled by a finger sliding into his asshole, unwarned, and there’s a snort. The boy flushes all over, ashamed, and he tells himself that it’s been a while.
Jack tries turning around but the man doesn’t let him, planting his face into the mattress, and he gasps when being teased. The ginger-haired man doesn’t waste time at all and it almost feels like he’s just checking the boy’s asshole, burying his knuckles deep inside and stretching a little. The Irishman wants to snarl at him and say something that would probably get him into trouble, but all that leaves his mouth is a loud mewl. The cowboy penetrates him with the tip of his cock, slowly pushing into him, and the boy’s eyes fill with tears. His knuckles turn white around the sheets and his nostrils flare, breathing deep while trying to relax. Fuck. It burns and that shouldn’t make his dick harder, but it does. Still, he’ll be sore after this. The freckled man thrusts hard once and the boy chokes, mouth falling open. There’s another one and he tenses up. Nails digging around his waist. He just fucking pounds into Jack, without mercy. Their skin slaps in the room and the boy’s breathing break into shaky moans.
“A-Ah, fuck! Oh, god! Nghn...”
He’s not supposed to be like that. He needs to shut up. Jack always held back his screams whenever someone fucked him. Whenever someone paid to share a bed. It’s what they do. There’s just this raw and violent feeling coming from this man, though, and it’s messing with him. The freckled man grunts, clothes brushing against Jack’s thighs, and his shaft buries deep inside the boy. Over and over. The Irishman tries supporting himself but every thrust makes him lose balance. He can’t even stay on all fours, rosy ass up in the air while the man ravishes him. Jack pants, wrapping his hands around the bed frame, and his eyes roll back. His cock pulses, bouncing up and down, and he’s leaking precum. The copper-haired man pulls him closer, grumbling when the boy starts lying more in bed, and Jack sobs. His toes curl and the bed hits the wall, mattress creaking with their harsh movements. At this rate, he’s going to fucking cum. They never really bothered with him, only wanting a quick fuck, but this man is hitting every sweet spot. The heat grows and that discomfort from before is left behind, too lost in pleasure. Jack’s glassy eyes are staring at nothing, drooling and shameless mewling.
It’s maddening that this guy doesn’t let out a single moan. Either that or the boy is too busy being very loud. He’s trembling, a cheek resting against the sheets, and there’s a weight on his back. The cowboy rests his chest against the Irishman’s back, and only then Jack feels a warm breath against his neck. A hint of tobacco. The man quickens his pace, huffing, and he manages to rip a scream out of Jack. The brown-haired man groans, throat burning, and a hand covers his mouth. His moans are muffled and he grimaces, close to his climax. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. His heart is beating fast and he’s going to cum untouched. Jack’s cock is throbbing, head red and swollen, and he whimpers. He sees strands of copper out of the corner of his eye and the freckled man pants. The Irishman’s thighs and balls tense up, arching his back, and his eyes roll back once more. Jack cums first, hot white strings hitting his stomach, and he shudders violently underneath the man. His hips jerk, wanting more, and he digs his nails into the cowboy’s wrist. He cries out and he’s so high from his orgasm that he can’t bring himself to stop the ginger-haired man from cumming inside of him.
The man jizzes hard, filling him up, and Jack feels warm spreading all over him. He has goosebumps and the cowboy’s thrusts turn slow. Deep. The Irishman gasps on each one of them, teary eyes looking down at the sheets, and that hand finally leaves his mouth. There’s a string of saliva on the man’s fingers from Jack’s lips, and he blushes at that. He takes a deep, broken breath and the weight on top of him disappears. The copper-haired man pulls out and the boy hears shuffling in the background. He hates that part. He knows these sounds. Of someone just fixing their clothes and ignoring him. Jack knits his eyebrows, catching his breath, and he slowly pushes himself up with trembling arms. He sits on his knees, on the mattress, and there’s cum trickling down his asshole. He’s flushed from head to toes, hair disheveled. Pink mouth and hazy eyes. The Irishman hears boots on a creaking floor and he sees the cowboy walking towards a side of the bed, fully clothed.
He places a small pile of cash on a nightstand and that makes Jack glare, hating to feel used. It’s definitely way more than what he’s used to receive, though. He can tell that from there. He can probably spend the whole week in that room. The cowboy’s holding that black hat in one hand and they exchange a look. The Irishman notices his unsteady breathing and his cheeks are flushed as well, freckles standing out even more. Pupils wide. He runs a hand through his curls, fixing his hair, and he puts on the hat. They’re just panting lightly, looking at each other. Jack opens his mouth to speak but he doesn’t know what to say, so he closes it. His voice would probably break anyways. It’s best not to try anything with someone like him. He’s lucky that he wasn’t hurt. That thought makes his shoulders fall, looking away, and the man purses his lips before turning around, leaving without a word. The sound of the door closing makes Jack huff and he drags a hand over his face, thinking of what the fuck just happened. He slides a hand between his legs, shivering over sensitive skin, and he slides two fingers inside his asshole. When the Irishman looks down, he sees cum on his hand, and he sighs.
He’s a fucking mess.
Jack groans and falls back in bed, on his stomach. His chest moves up and down with his breathing, and he’s too embarrassed to leave the room right now. Everyone must have heard him. The Irishman rubs his legs together, grimacing at that mess in the sheets, but he has no strength to get up. He hates how empty he feels and he lightly humps the bed, small whimpers falling from his lips. Jack shudders, burying his face into a pillow, and he grunts in frustration. It felt so fucking good but the guy just left. He didn’t say a single word. The boy’s feelings are mixed, not wanting to be used but also loving that warmth. Missing it. He sighs, curling into a ball, and calming down his heart. It’s over now. He won’t have to do this again. Jack entertained one of them. A man with copper hair, freckles on his face and a scar on his left eyebrow. Light green eyes. Split tongue. Stubborn. The boy drifts into sleep, repeating all the names that the man has.
The Red Snake. Scarlet Teeth. The Mute.