![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rahmiTitle: Closed and Healed
Fandom: Stallion (Yaoi Press Media)
Characters: Savage Stallion, Josey Blackwell
Pairings: Stallion/Josey
Summary: The art of belonging.
See my previous post for details about this series, if you'd like. Otherwise, ignore. It's, um, romance novel trashy and sweet, if the summary didn't give that away. Yeah. Also, it's just a bunch of random ass scenes thrown together. I hope it works. Vaguely. Maybe? Okay.
Dragging Bill Tempest's corpse through the desert when you wanted to collect his bounty might not have been the smartest idea he'd ever had, but Josey's so thrilled with it that Stallion keeps his tongue. Hopefully someone would be able to identify the pulped man.
The horse, white-starred and clearly enamored with Josey, carries them all admirably well.
They paint the desert with an evil man's blood.
-----------
They're walking, giving the horse a break, when Josey narrows a sudden looks his way.
Stallion stares back, walking smoothly around a rock that would have imbedded itself into his moccasins.
"Don't that hurt?" Josey finally asks.
Stallion takes a moment to blink, halfway incredulous, then silently offers Josey his waterskin. White men, he knows, have a tendency to get delusional in the heat much quicker than his own kind.
Josey bats it aside without even glancing at it. "I meant that thing," he says, and then he's releasing Horse's reins and stepping in close enough that Stallion's breath catches; all he wants to do is lean in and breathe Josey in. A thumb hooks into the strap holding his loincloth in place and tugs while Josey nudges against his cheek. "How d'you ride with this thing on all the time?"
Stallion wants to rumble like a mountain cat and push back into that hand, but instead he reaches up to thread his fingers into the string around Josey's neck. "How do you walk around with a noose all the time?"
There's a half-beat of silence. "Never thought of it like that before," Josey admits. His thumb rubs almost absently against the small of Stallion's back; Stallion lets out a quiet sigh and rubs his forehead against the side of Josey's neck even as he tightens his hold on the silly little white man string. Josey's hat, always, always in the way, tips back so far it almost falls off.
"Maybe you should."
The cloth of Josey's gloves is scratchy, unpleasant on his skin. It's more noticeable when Josey lays a palm on his face and tilts his head up for a kiss. Stallion obliges easily, one hand tugging Josey's hat off while the other tightens on the string he's holding so Josey can't pull back.
Which he does anyway, staring mutely at his fingertips. "Oh, damn, sorry," Josey sighs. Stallion draws his brows together before he sees the smear of white paint on Josey's fingers. "One day, I'm gonna be able to do that without screwing up your paint."
Stallion tangles his fingers more firmly in the string and uses it to pull Josey's face back down to his own. "It's alright."
-----------
The first time he tops Josey, it's so nerve wracking that he vows to never do it again (Josey calls him stupid, months later, rolling onto his stomach with a huff and... wiggling. It's not the first time he's broken a vow for Josey and it won't be the last).
He spends most of the time gentling him, running his hands from shoulders to thighs, drifting his lips between shoulder blades and neck, cheek and throat. The sex is almost incidental to it, to letting Josey learn what he had to learn all those years ago.
Bill Tempest might have touched him, might have hurt him, but he's not broken, not without honor.
-----------
Dawn is just lighting the clouds when Stallion stirs in his blankets and realizes he's alone. He takes this in, drifts a hand along the pelts underneath where Josey should have been and sighs to feel them cold.
<Are you being difficult?> he asks the air. He sits up when he gets no answer and reaches for his clothes. Josey's are gone, which tells him nothing, but his boots are still haphazardly kicked into a pile of skins off to one side. So. He didn't go far.
There's a giggle outside his tent the minute he starts rustling around and a little head pokes in. <Savage Stallion, your white man is doing women's work again. Come, come, get him before the warriors see.>
Stallion grimaces. The warriors of his tribe already think little of the man he was willing to throw his life away for; Josey's insistence on doing certain things isn't helping either of them. <You could have stopped him, New Moon. He listens to you.>
The little girl grins, throwing her dark hair over her shoulder. <He's funny. I like him.>
<Which is why you shouldn't let him embarrass himself in front of others.> Stallion gives up on finding his moccasins (Josey sometimes steals them, when he's stumbling around in the dark and can't find his socks) and waves New Moon aside so he can exit.
Josey's voice assaults him the instant he steps out of the insulating layers of hide and wood. "I can make my own damn breakfast. Been doin' it for years," Stallion hears, and sighs. He turns to the campfires, where the women are tittering quietly into their pots and the children are staring, open-mouthed, at Josey.
He's crouched next to a modest fire, roasting what look to be... lizards?
<I told you,> New Moon whispers loudly, small hands tugging on the fringes of his clothes, <Women's work. I like your white man, Savage Stallion. You should keep him; you won't need a woman to feed you.> She dimples a big grin up at him, white teeth in a bronze face, and then she trip runs to Josey.
"Josey!" she calls, waving wildly, the only word of his language she knows. Stallion feels like hiding his face behind his hands when the men and the women both turn to pin him with disapproving stares. See what comes of bonding with white men, they seem to say in one voice, See how different they are?
Josey turns in time to catch New Moon in one arm, grinning right back at her, and she's taking flight already, Stallion can see. Josey absently pats her head and nods to whatever she's saying like he's got a chance of understanding her and then he reaches out to turn one of his lizards. He looks up again when New Moon turns to point at him excitedly.
Stallion smiles at Josey's head nod and resigns himself to lizard for breakfast.
-----------
Josey presses his scars to Stallion's skin when he sleeps.
He counts them, sometimes, when Josey sleeps. Stallion thinks to himself, "I almost lost you before I knew you," while he touches six of them and, "I almost lost you so soon after I met you," when his fingers stutter over a seventh. Bullets, all of them, the white man's foul weapons. Stallions got scars of his own, but they are thin pale things, caused by knife and stone rather than lead.
And they call his people the savages.
His scars ache in the cold, Stallion knows, like a million little bullets jabbing into them over again. On those nights, he cradles Josey close, traces the bumps and indents where the bullets shattered bone and flesh. There's unevenness to his bones, a jagged curve here where the bone fused sloppily, a catch further up where a bullet indented its shape into solid flesh and it never healed properly.
It's amazing he has the use of his hands at all, is what the Healer had proclaimed so long ago, and Stallion knows it's true.
His ribs are little better, Stallion knows, skipping oddly under his fingertips when they touch, shifting strangely on that side when Josey breathes. At times, Josey unconsciously decides they hurt more than his arms do and curls around him, chest to back, to soak up his heat. It's not so bad now, Stallion understands, they are young and they are strong, unbroken for all that's been done to them, but someday...
Josey will hurt when they are grey, in the same way the Shaman's leg hurts him, and Stallion sometimes wishes that Tempest was still alive just so he could break every one of his bones.
-----------
<Savage Stallion!> Stallion turns, eyes opening wide, because he knows those words and he knows that voice, but he can't make the two of them combine in his head. Josey doesn't understand his language, can't, he's said on more than one occasion, rueful, crouched with the very young while the elders shake their heads and laugh.
<Savage Stallion!> he hears again. Josey's voice is... distinctive among his people. It is a white man's voice, he knows, but it is also only Josey's, half-ruined by drink and screaming, capable of whispering secrets into his skin in the dark and then repeating them in the light until he believes them fully.
"Josey?" he finally calls back, squinting into the setting sun for the flash of bright hair.
Josey's grinning fiercely when Stallion lays eyes on him, New Moon standing proudly behind him. <Savage Stallion?>
He's aware, vaguely, of the chattering of his tribe around him, but Josey... Josey chose to learn his language, to learn to call him his true name and Stallion just wants to stand and stare for a moment.
"Shit," Josey says after a half-beat, hands coming up to thread through his hair, "I said that wrong didn't I? I called you a lamed horse, huh? Damn it, thought I'd gotten it right final--"
Stallion's hand snaps forward to grab the hair at the back of Josey's head and pull. He smashes his mouth to the other man as soon as he's close enough, feeling Josey amiably part his lips to let him inside even as he made a confused noise in the back of his throat.
There're a few whooping calls from the women stirring pots and a few good-natured grumbles from the warriors guarding them and Josey starts to pull back with an embarrassed mutter.
"It sounded fine to me," he tells him, catching Josey when he would have stepped out of his space. Stallion pauses, then grins slyly and adds, <Sun Eagle.> After all, it's only fair that if Josey can call for him in two languages, he should be able to do the same.
Those nearest him laugh louder, chattering as they point to Josey's hair and Stallion laughs with them as he pulls the confused man into their tent.
Fandom: Stallion (Yaoi Press Media)
Characters: Savage Stallion, Josey Blackwell
Pairings: Stallion/Josey
Summary: The art of belonging.
See my previous post for details about this series, if you'd like. Otherwise, ignore. It's, um, romance novel trashy and sweet, if the summary didn't give that away. Yeah. Also, it's just a bunch of random ass scenes thrown together. I hope it works. Vaguely. Maybe? Okay.
Dragging Bill Tempest's corpse through the desert when you wanted to collect his bounty might not have been the smartest idea he'd ever had, but Josey's so thrilled with it that Stallion keeps his tongue. Hopefully someone would be able to identify the pulped man.
The horse, white-starred and clearly enamored with Josey, carries them all admirably well.
They paint the desert with an evil man's blood.
-----------
They're walking, giving the horse a break, when Josey narrows a sudden looks his way.
Stallion stares back, walking smoothly around a rock that would have imbedded itself into his moccasins.
"Don't that hurt?" Josey finally asks.
Stallion takes a moment to blink, halfway incredulous, then silently offers Josey his waterskin. White men, he knows, have a tendency to get delusional in the heat much quicker than his own kind.
Josey bats it aside without even glancing at it. "I meant that thing," he says, and then he's releasing Horse's reins and stepping in close enough that Stallion's breath catches; all he wants to do is lean in and breathe Josey in. A thumb hooks into the strap holding his loincloth in place and tugs while Josey nudges against his cheek. "How d'you ride with this thing on all the time?"
Stallion wants to rumble like a mountain cat and push back into that hand, but instead he reaches up to thread his fingers into the string around Josey's neck. "How do you walk around with a noose all the time?"
There's a half-beat of silence. "Never thought of it like that before," Josey admits. His thumb rubs almost absently against the small of Stallion's back; Stallion lets out a quiet sigh and rubs his forehead against the side of Josey's neck even as he tightens his hold on the silly little white man string. Josey's hat, always, always in the way, tips back so far it almost falls off.
"Maybe you should."
The cloth of Josey's gloves is scratchy, unpleasant on his skin. It's more noticeable when Josey lays a palm on his face and tilts his head up for a kiss. Stallion obliges easily, one hand tugging Josey's hat off while the other tightens on the string he's holding so Josey can't pull back.
Which he does anyway, staring mutely at his fingertips. "Oh, damn, sorry," Josey sighs. Stallion draws his brows together before he sees the smear of white paint on Josey's fingers. "One day, I'm gonna be able to do that without screwing up your paint."
Stallion tangles his fingers more firmly in the string and uses it to pull Josey's face back down to his own. "It's alright."
-----------
The first time he tops Josey, it's so nerve wracking that he vows to never do it again (Josey calls him stupid, months later, rolling onto his stomach with a huff and... wiggling. It's not the first time he's broken a vow for Josey and it won't be the last).
He spends most of the time gentling him, running his hands from shoulders to thighs, drifting his lips between shoulder blades and neck, cheek and throat. The sex is almost incidental to it, to letting Josey learn what he had to learn all those years ago.
Bill Tempest might have touched him, might have hurt him, but he's not broken, not without honor.
-----------
Dawn is just lighting the clouds when Stallion stirs in his blankets and realizes he's alone. He takes this in, drifts a hand along the pelts underneath where Josey should have been and sighs to feel them cold.
<Are you being difficult?> he asks the air. He sits up when he gets no answer and reaches for his clothes. Josey's are gone, which tells him nothing, but his boots are still haphazardly kicked into a pile of skins off to one side. So. He didn't go far.
There's a giggle outside his tent the minute he starts rustling around and a little head pokes in. <Savage Stallion, your white man is doing women's work again. Come, come, get him before the warriors see.>
Stallion grimaces. The warriors of his tribe already think little of the man he was willing to throw his life away for; Josey's insistence on doing certain things isn't helping either of them. <You could have stopped him, New Moon. He listens to you.>
The little girl grins, throwing her dark hair over her shoulder. <He's funny. I like him.>
<Which is why you shouldn't let him embarrass himself in front of others.> Stallion gives up on finding his moccasins (Josey sometimes steals them, when he's stumbling around in the dark and can't find his socks) and waves New Moon aside so he can exit.
Josey's voice assaults him the instant he steps out of the insulating layers of hide and wood. "I can make my own damn breakfast. Been doin' it for years," Stallion hears, and sighs. He turns to the campfires, where the women are tittering quietly into their pots and the children are staring, open-mouthed, at Josey.
He's crouched next to a modest fire, roasting what look to be... lizards?
<I told you,> New Moon whispers loudly, small hands tugging on the fringes of his clothes, <Women's work. I like your white man, Savage Stallion. You should keep him; you won't need a woman to feed you.> She dimples a big grin up at him, white teeth in a bronze face, and then she trip runs to Josey.
"Josey!" she calls, waving wildly, the only word of his language she knows. Stallion feels like hiding his face behind his hands when the men and the women both turn to pin him with disapproving stares. See what comes of bonding with white men, they seem to say in one voice, See how different they are?
Josey turns in time to catch New Moon in one arm, grinning right back at her, and she's taking flight already, Stallion can see. Josey absently pats her head and nods to whatever she's saying like he's got a chance of understanding her and then he reaches out to turn one of his lizards. He looks up again when New Moon turns to point at him excitedly.
Stallion smiles at Josey's head nod and resigns himself to lizard for breakfast.
-----------
Josey presses his scars to Stallion's skin when he sleeps.
He counts them, sometimes, when Josey sleeps. Stallion thinks to himself, "I almost lost you before I knew you," while he touches six of them and, "I almost lost you so soon after I met you," when his fingers stutter over a seventh. Bullets, all of them, the white man's foul weapons. Stallions got scars of his own, but they are thin pale things, caused by knife and stone rather than lead.
And they call his people the savages.
His scars ache in the cold, Stallion knows, like a million little bullets jabbing into them over again. On those nights, he cradles Josey close, traces the bumps and indents where the bullets shattered bone and flesh. There's unevenness to his bones, a jagged curve here where the bone fused sloppily, a catch further up where a bullet indented its shape into solid flesh and it never healed properly.
It's amazing he has the use of his hands at all, is what the Healer had proclaimed so long ago, and Stallion knows it's true.
His ribs are little better, Stallion knows, skipping oddly under his fingertips when they touch, shifting strangely on that side when Josey breathes. At times, Josey unconsciously decides they hurt more than his arms do and curls around him, chest to back, to soak up his heat. It's not so bad now, Stallion understands, they are young and they are strong, unbroken for all that's been done to them, but someday...
Josey will hurt when they are grey, in the same way the Shaman's leg hurts him, and Stallion sometimes wishes that Tempest was still alive just so he could break every one of his bones.
-----------
<Savage Stallion!> Stallion turns, eyes opening wide, because he knows those words and he knows that voice, but he can't make the two of them combine in his head. Josey doesn't understand his language, can't, he's said on more than one occasion, rueful, crouched with the very young while the elders shake their heads and laugh.
<Savage Stallion!> he hears again. Josey's voice is... distinctive among his people. It is a white man's voice, he knows, but it is also only Josey's, half-ruined by drink and screaming, capable of whispering secrets into his skin in the dark and then repeating them in the light until he believes them fully.
"Josey?" he finally calls back, squinting into the setting sun for the flash of bright hair.
Josey's grinning fiercely when Stallion lays eyes on him, New Moon standing proudly behind him. <Savage Stallion?>
He's aware, vaguely, of the chattering of his tribe around him, but Josey... Josey chose to learn his language, to learn to call him his true name and Stallion just wants to stand and stare for a moment.
"Shit," Josey says after a half-beat, hands coming up to thread through his hair, "I said that wrong didn't I? I called you a lamed horse, huh? Damn it, thought I'd gotten it right final--"
Stallion's hand snaps forward to grab the hair at the back of Josey's head and pull. He smashes his mouth to the other man as soon as he's close enough, feeling Josey amiably part his lips to let him inside even as he made a confused noise in the back of his throat.
There're a few whooping calls from the women stirring pots and a few good-natured grumbles from the warriors guarding them and Josey starts to pull back with an embarrassed mutter.
"It sounded fine to me," he tells him, catching Josey when he would have stepped out of his space. Stallion pauses, then grins slyly and adds, <Sun Eagle.> After all, it's only fair that if Josey can call for him in two languages, he should be able to do the same.
Those nearest him laugh louder, chattering as they point to Josey's hair and Stallion laughs with them as he pulls the confused man into their tent.
