It's a dingy little place, the rat and something, Arthur's already forgotten the name. They have surprisingly good drinks though. Not great, but good, and cheap. And as far as he's concerned there's no thief worth their salt who doesn't appreciate cheap.
The place smells of old beer and smoke and it's not exactly Arthur's kind of place, but it's not not his kind of place either. He sits at the bar, nursing a whiskey, already gone ahead and booked a room, if this Israel doesn't show up then he's still got a place to get washed up and rested before he heads out so it's not a total waste of money. Even if he'd prefer to just camp somewhere outside town.
He checks the time so he knows how long this guy takes to show up, if he does.
Dingy isn't Izzy's idea of a good time, but he isn't here looking for a good time. Not exactly. He's here because he's in the middle of a disgusting, ragged dive of self destruction and this random encounter sets his teeth on edge.
He nearly leaves the bloke hanging, but ultimately decides that he hates himself just enough to see it through. If it goes badly then he'll leave. It's as simple as that.
So he arrives five past, quietly, and takes a look at the clientele. The place is lively but not too lively. Just enough that the cast glances at his arrival don't start anything on the immediate. This isn't his territory and he is without his gang, so a man alone could mean any manner of wild cards.
The only person that looks remotely familiar is a man sitting at the bar, so he heads that way, intercepted immediately by the barmaid from who he orders a double measure rum. Neat. Old habits'n all that dross.
"Arthur?" as he perches against the bar, not quite decided if he'll sit. A man of small stature, but great power if that makes sense. He's all harsh angles and hard work from the lean of his lip to the grey in his temples and beard. Say nothing of the branding under his left eye or the swallow on his neck, just peaking up from the collar of his black dress shirt.
Arthur notes the sound of footsteps coming his way catches his attention, part of him wondering if it's some bounty hunter come to collect or the guy he'd been texting, though that's cleared up real quick when he hears his name and looks up.
"Weren't expectin' you to show," he says simply, neither impressed nor disappointed, and looks Izzy up and down. He knows better than to think 'small' and 'weak' are interchangeable — Javier would kick his ass and rightly so if he didn't — and the man doesn't hold himself with the barest hint of that kind of frailty.
Arthur, on the other hand, is built like a battering ram. Broad and round and gruff from the gravel of his voice to his body language, a few scars on his face and a nose that's been broken multiple times that speak volumes about the kind of man he is and the life he's lived, to say nothing about the scars under his clothes.
When the barmaid brings over that double of rum, Arthur takes it, staring the other man right in his eyes and daring him to do something about it before he downs the whole thing. A brief tip of his head in a gesture to the stairs that lead up to the rooms accompanies it with a simple, "c'mon."
From the figure to the attitude, Izzy all at once understands why he drunkenly solicited this man's attention. He is in every way so much like the man he is yearning to beat out of his system, that it is almost joyful to see the drink stolen out from right in front of him.
What a fucking bastard. He's perfect.
Izzy gives Arthur a look, but keeps his mouth shut and peels off to follow. His heart beats faster, but honestly? He's been in worse situations by his own hand and he is just on the other side of a death with these days so what does it fucking matter, anyway.
The only thing he doesn't understand is why he didn't go home with the cunt last night.
Duty, maybe. Or maybe it was the fact he was anticipating another rotten run in with Edward. Izzy's throat is still sore from it, to be honest. Ed is never gentle when they meet like that, always pent up and furious, there's nothing tender about it. There never has been. Izzy tells himself that it suits him fine. He isn't good for more, anyway.
"I have two rules," he says, voice worn and smoky once the door to the room closes behind them. He barely looks at Arthur as he slips his gloves and unbuttons his leather waistcoat, intent of leaving all his clothes in an orderly pile to locate later when his brain is barely firing. Luck providing, of course.
"Don't break anything if you can help it, and no emotions. I'm here to get fucked, I don't care about your life or whether your mum hugged you enough."
Arthur barks a laugh at that, it's loud and sharp and genuinely amused and he shakes his head. "And here I was hopin' to tell you all about how my daddy never loved me," he says, a little wry in the smirk that just barely pulls at his lips. "If I wanted to talk about my feelings I'd pay one of them workin' girls downstairs for their time, don't you worry about that."
He leans back against the door, thumbs tucked in his gun belt as he watches the other man disrobe and makes no move to join him. Doesn't even the minimum courtesy of taking off his weapons, just watches.
A little surprised by the man's age-- not disappointed, not at all, but generally if someone seeks him out this way they're younger than him. Sometimes moreso than he's comfortable with. He wonders what it is that brought him to Izzy's attention, but he figures after a moment that it's the same thing as everyone else. Arthur's built like a brick shithouse, he's sometimes affable but rarely nice, and he just seems like someone who'd be comfortable putting someone in their place.
"You got an out?" A safeword, he means. Doesn't expect he's gonna push this guy even close to too far, but he's been surprised before.
“Basilica,” he answers without hesitation or pause in his efforts. Rough and ready would be fine but Izzy treasures these clothes and they are his only set at present so he must preserve them.
Izzy straightens up and turns to the other man, weight on one hip. He’s got an attitude, even naked, even here to have the hell fucked out of him and then some.
Like his head and beard, the hair on Izzy’s chest and arms are salt and pepper, his skin is marred with hand poked tattoos and scars that could tell a thousand stories.
In truth, he’s about forty or so, but a life at sea is hard. He was turning grey in his first three years at Blackbeard’s side and blames the man entirely.
Arthur takes a moment, just a quick one to give Izzy a quick, appraising look. Approving, though he doesn't say a thing about it as he pushes himself off the door and saunters over to the other man.
"Really got a mouth on you, ain't you," he says, casual as can be as he moves around to his back-- he can practically taste how eager Izzy is for something hard and fast and that makes Arthur certain that this is something to take his time with. "We're gonna have to do somethin' 'bout that."
He takes Izzy's wrists, one by one, grip firm but almost gentle as he juggles them into the grip of one hand and takes his lasso from his belt.
"Now--" Of course, the gentleness is gone the next instant. He just wanted to get his hackles up about this not being what he was looking for for a moment. Arthur ties the rope around his wrists quick and rough, plenty experienced in tying people up so they can't escape, and he wraps the other end of the rope around his hand to make sure he won't lose his grip. "How much are you plannin' to fight me here, Israel?" He asks, not expecting an answer that's worth a damn. Especially not when he pushes at the back of his leg with a boot to drop him to his knees.
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@ninetoes (and prose just 4 u)
It's a dingy little place, the rat and something, Arthur's already forgotten the name. They have surprisingly good drinks though. Not great, but good, and cheap. And as far as he's concerned there's no thief worth their salt who doesn't appreciate cheap.
The place smells of old beer and smoke and it's not exactly Arthur's kind of place, but it's not not his kind of place either. He sits at the bar, nursing a whiskey, already gone ahead and booked a room, if this Israel doesn't show up then he's still got a place to get washed up and rested before he heads out so it's not a total waste of money. Even if he'd prefer to just camp somewhere outside town.
He checks the time so he knows how long this guy takes to show up, if he does.
you spoil me
He nearly leaves the bloke hanging, but ultimately decides that he hates himself just enough to see it through. If it goes badly then he'll leave. It's as simple as that.
So he arrives five past, quietly, and takes a look at the clientele. The place is lively but not too lively. Just enough that the cast glances at his arrival don't start anything on the immediate. This isn't his territory and he is without his gang, so a man alone could mean any manner of wild cards.
The only person that looks remotely familiar is a man sitting at the bar, so he heads that way, intercepted immediately by the barmaid from who he orders a double measure rum. Neat. Old habits'n all that dross.
"Arthur?" as he perches against the bar, not quite decided if he'll sit. A man of small stature, but great power if that makes sense. He's all harsh angles and hard work from the lean of his lip to the grey in his temples and beard. Say nothing of the branding under his left eye or the swallow on his neck, just peaking up from the collar of his black dress shirt.
😘
"Weren't expectin' you to show," he says simply, neither impressed nor disappointed, and looks Izzy up and down. He knows better than to think 'small' and 'weak' are interchangeable — Javier would kick his ass and rightly so if he didn't — and the man doesn't hold himself with the barest hint of that kind of frailty.
Arthur, on the other hand, is built like a battering ram. Broad and round and gruff from the gravel of his voice to his body language, a few scars on his face and a nose that's been broken multiple times that speak volumes about the kind of man he is and the life he's lived, to say nothing about the scars under his clothes.
When the barmaid brings over that double of rum, Arthur takes it, staring the other man right in his eyes and daring him to do something about it before he downs the whole thing. A brief tip of his head in a gesture to the stairs that lead up to the rooms accompanies it with a simple, "c'mon."
no subject
What a fucking bastard. He's perfect.
Izzy gives Arthur a look, but keeps his mouth shut and peels off to follow. His heart beats faster, but honestly? He's been in worse situations by his own hand and he is just on the other side of a death with these days so what does it fucking matter, anyway.
The only thing he doesn't understand is why he didn't go home with the cunt last night.
Duty, maybe. Or maybe it was the fact he was anticipating another rotten run in with Edward. Izzy's throat is still sore from it, to be honest. Ed is never gentle when they meet like that, always pent up and furious, there's nothing tender about it. There never has been. Izzy tells himself that it suits him fine. He isn't good for more, anyway.
"I have two rules," he says, voice worn and smoky once the door to the room closes behind them. He barely looks at Arthur as he slips his gloves and unbuttons his leather waistcoat, intent of leaving all his clothes in an orderly pile to locate later when his brain is barely firing. Luck providing, of course.
"Don't break anything if you can help it, and no emotions. I'm here to get fucked, I don't care about your life or whether your mum hugged you enough."
no subject
He leans back against the door, thumbs tucked in his gun belt as he watches the other man disrobe and makes no move to join him. Doesn't even the minimum courtesy of taking off his weapons, just watches.
A little surprised by the man's age-- not disappointed, not at all, but generally if someone seeks him out this way they're younger than him. Sometimes moreso than he's comfortable with. He wonders what it is that brought him to Izzy's attention, but he figures after a moment that it's the same thing as everyone else. Arthur's built like a brick shithouse, he's sometimes affable but rarely nice, and he just seems like someone who'd be comfortable putting someone in their place.
"You got an out?" A safeword, he means. Doesn't expect he's gonna push this guy even close to too far, but he's been surprised before.
no subject
Izzy straightens up and turns to the other man, weight on one hip. He’s got an attitude, even naked, even here to have the hell fucked out of him and then some.
Like his head and beard, the hair on Izzy’s chest and arms are salt and pepper, his skin is marred with hand poked tattoos and scars that could tell a thousand stories.
In truth, he’s about forty or so, but a life at sea is hard. He was turning grey in his first three years at Blackbeard’s side and blames the man entirely.
“Put up or fuck off, Arthur.”
no subject
"Really got a mouth on you, ain't you," he says, casual as can be as he moves around to his back-- he can practically taste how eager Izzy is for something hard and fast and that makes Arthur certain that this is something to take his time with. "We're gonna have to do somethin' 'bout that."
He takes Izzy's wrists, one by one, grip firm but almost gentle as he juggles them into the grip of one hand and takes his lasso from his belt.
"Now--" Of course, the gentleness is gone the next instant. He just wanted to get his hackles up about this not being what he was looking for for a moment. Arthur ties the rope around his wrists quick and rough, plenty experienced in tying people up so they can't escape, and he wraps the other end of the rope around his hand to make sure he won't lose his grip. "How much are you plannin' to fight me here, Israel?" He asks, not expecting an answer that's worth a damn. Especially not when he pushes at the back of his leg with a boot to drop him to his knees.