I simp 30yo Men

:D any pronouns. 25 Instagram: @mama_sparky Art Blog: MamaSparky-art

[mamasparky-art]

i wanted to draw him without a helmet,,

[stewed-blog]

i humbly request.. charthur my beloveds… <3

first time drawing arthur, therefore my first charthur only for you because i love you dearly, u are the they to my them

[mamasparky]

The urge to want to include homophobia/racism typical of the time period in rdr2 works and wanting the bless ignorance of pretending it never happens

[gooseinsoup]

[ghoulishly-yours]

RDR2 U.S-scale traveling guide

or what i like to call getting your people across the country without handwavey game mechanic map sorcery

hi y'all. i constantly overthink things for fics and travel times is one of them. i have spent [REDACTED HOURS] on this beast so there is likely to be mistakes. if so, forgive me, and i'll make corrections, but to my eyes at this moment it looks about right.

so here is my public service announcement from the self-imposed trenches:

if you stop treating the rdr2 map like gameplay compression and start treating it like actual united states geography, these people are not popping from valentine to saint denis in an afternoon unless they have invented satan’s own horse.

so i made myself a working travel cheat sheet for fic, and i am posting the useful part here.

this is not meant as “exact canonical mileage.” rockstar’s map is stitched together out of multiple real-world regions and vibes. this is a fiction clock. the point is to make the road cost something again: time, money, weather, witnesses, horseflesh, and one’s increasingly shredded dignity.

the basic rule use the game map as your location directory. use this post as your timing logic.

baseline 1899-ish travel logic for fic

on foot 15 to 20 miles a day on decent roads 10 to 15 if the ground is rough

horse, steady and sustainable 25 to 35 miles a day

horse, hard push 45 to 60 miles once, then the next day is worse

farm wagon / freight cart 12 to 18 miles a day rough 18 to 25 on better roads

stagecoach 50 to 80 miles a day best corridors can flirt with 100

rail 250 to 500 miles a day depending on line, transfer, delay, and how much the universe hates you personally

riverboat / steamer 80 to 150 miles a day upriver 120 to 250 on open water

the drafting rules that save lives

use hours only for local movement: town to nearby ranch, estate, station, camp, or outlying site

once a route clears 35 to 40 miles, treat it as a full day problem

once you are dealing with hundreds of miles, horse travel becomes a chain of feed stops, weather, nights, sore bodies, and ugly compromises

stagecoach is faster than private horse travel, but it is public, scheduled, and full of eyes

rail is the fastest lawful option, but it creates tickets, station records, porters, delays, crowds, and the deeply nineteenth-century problem of being perceived

in Lemoyne, add the social visibility factor

in Ambarino, factor in weather and elevation

in New Austin, add water and forage problems

in Roanoke, add road misery and topography

the big corridor cheat sheet

this is the part that kills half our accidental teleportation habits dead.

Colter ↔ Valentine steady horse: 10 to 14 days hard horse: 6 to 8 days coach mix: 5 to 7 days rail once you get on line: 2 to 3 days

Valentine ↔ Strawberry steady horse: 8 to 12 days hard horse: 5 to 7 days coach: 4 to 6 days rail transfer route: 2 to 3 days

Valentine ↔ Blackwater steady horse: 2 to 3 weeks hard horse: 8 to 12 days coach: 7 to 10 days rail: 2 to 3 days

Valentine ↔ Annesburg steady horse: 4 to 5 weeks hard horse: 2 to 3 weeks coach: 12 to 16 days rail: 3 to 4 days

Valentine ↔ Rhodes steady horse: 5 to 6 weeks hard horse: 3 to 4 weeks coach: 15 to 20 days rail: 3 to 5 days

Valentine ↔ Saint Denis steady horse: 5 to 7 weeks hard horse: 3 to 4 weeks coach: 18 to 24 days rail: 3 to 5 days

Strawberry ↔ Blackwater steady horse: 2 to 3 weeks hard horse: 8 to 11 days coach: 6 to 9 days rail: 2 to 3 days

Blackwater ↔ Rhodes steady horse: 4 to 5 weeks hard horse: 2 to 3 weeks coach: 11 to 15 days rail: 2 to 4 days

Blackwater ↔ Saint Denis steady horse: 4 to 6 weeks hard horse: about 3 weeks coach: 14 to 18 days rail: 3 to 4 days

Blackwater ↔ Armadillo steady horse: 2 to 3 weeks hard horse: 10 to 14 days coach: 8 to 11 days rail: 2 to 3 days if the line is behaving

Blackwater ↔ Tumbleweed steady horse: 4 to 6 weeks hard horse: 2 to 3 weeks coach: 13 to 18 days mixed rail and coach: 3 to 5 days

Rhodes ↔ Saint Denis steady horse: 7 to 10 days hard horse: 4 to 6 days coach: 3 to 5 days rail: same day to 1 day

Rhodes ↔ Annesburg / Van Horn steady horse: 2 to 3 weeks hard horse: 10 to 14 days coach: 8 to 11 days rail: 2 to 3 days

Saint Denis ↔ Annesburg steady horse: 3 to 4 weeks hard horse: about 2 weeks coach: 10 to 14 days rail: 2 to 3 days

Armadillo ↔ Tumbleweed steady horse: 10 to 14 days hard horse: 6 to 8 days coach: 5 to 7 days mixed rail and coach: 2 to 3 days

Saint Denis ↔ Guarma steamer only fair-weather read: 4 to 8 days longer if diverted, delayed, or cursed

regional local-orbit cheat sheet

this is the part for scenes where you need “how far is x from the nearest useful hub?”

AMBARINO / northern edge

hub logic: Colter is not “near the snow.” Colter is already the snow problem.

Adler Ranch from Colter: 20 to 35 min by horse, 1 to 1.5 hours on foot

Cairn Lodge from Colter: 1 to 1.5 hours by horse, 3 to 4 hours on foot

Lake Isabella from Colter: 2 to 3 hours by horse, about half a day on foot

Mount Hagen corridor from Colter: 3 to 5 hours by horse, full day on foot

Spider Gorge / Barrow Lagoon belt from Colter: 2 to 4 hours by horse, half to full day on foot

Wapiti from Bacchus / Fort Wallace side: 3 to 5 hours by horse, about 1 long day on foot

Bacchus Bridge / Calumet Ravine from Bacchus Station: 1 to 1.5 hours by horse, 3 to 4 hours on foot

Cotorra Springs / Donner Falls from Bacchus Station: 1.5 to 2.5 hours by horse, 4 to 6 hours on foot

consider: cold, grade, ice, bad footing, and exposure waste time faster than raw mileage.

NEW HANOVER WEST / HEARTLANDS / CUMBERLAND

hub logic: Valentine is still the cleanest anchor here, but “cleanest” is not “tiny.”

Horseshoe Overlook from Valentine: 30 to 45 min by horse, 1.5 to 2 hours on foot

Cumberland Forest belt from Valentine: 2 to 4 hours by horse, half day or more on foot

Emerald Ranch from Valentine: 3 to 4 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Emerald Station from Emerald: 20 to 30 min by horse, 1 to 1.5 hours on foot

Flatneck Station from Valentine: 3 to 4.5 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Heartland Oil Fields from Valentine: 2.5 to 3.5 hours by horse, 6 to 8 hours on foot

Cornwall Kerosene & Tar from Valentine / Flatneck: 4 to 5 hours by horse

Fort Wallace from Valentine: 5 to 7 hours by horse, 1 long day or more on foot

Bacchus Station from Valentine: 7 to 9 hours by horse, 2 days on foot

Limpany / Bards Crossing edge from Valentine or Flatneck: 3 to 5 hours by horse

consider: broad country, decent horse ground, but the miles still stack. Errands are possible. Casual nonsense is less so.

NEW HANOVER EAST / ROANOKE

hub logic: Annesburg and Van Horn are your ugly little anchors.

Annesburg ↔ Van Horn: 1 to 1.5 days by horse, 4 to 6 days on foot, about 1 day by coach

Butcher Creek from Annesburg: 3 to 4 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Beaver Hollow from Annesburg / Van Horn: 5 to 7 hours by horse, 2 days on foot

Doverhill from Annesburg: 4 to 5 hours by horse

Willard’s Rest from Annesburg: 2.5 to 3.5 hours by horse, 6 to 8 hours on foot

Brandywine Drop / Roanoke Valley from Annesburg: 4 to 6 hours by horse

Elysian Pool / cave belt from Annesburg or Van Horn: 4 to 6 hours by horse

consider: roads exist, yes. the land still hates you. ridges, hollows, mud, river bends, and industrial filth keep stealing daylight.

LEMOYNE

hub logic: Rhodes is the inland anchor, Saint Denis is the high-speed lawful anchor, and the marsh punishes optimism.

Braithwaite Manor from Rhodes: 45 to 75 min by horse, 2.5 to 3.5 hours on foot

Caliga Hall from Rhodes: 45 to 75 min by horse, 2.5 to 3.5 hours on foot

Clemens Point from Rhodes: 35 to 50 min by horse, about 2 hours on foot

Bolger Glade from Rhodes: 1 to 1.5 hours by horse, 3 to 4 hours on foot

Scarlett Meadows interior / Hill Haven side from Rhodes: 1.5 to 2.5 hours by horse

Shady Belle from Rhodes: 4 to 6 hours by horse, over 1 long day on foot

Lagras from Saint Denis: 2 to 3 hours by horse, 6 to 8 hours on foot

Lakay from Saint Denis: 3 to 4 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Sisika from Saint Denis: 2 to 4 hours by boat, plus paperwork and prison logic

Bluewater Marsh belt from Saint Denis / Lagras: 3 to 5 hours by horse

consider: the South is fast only on paper. roads help, but swamp, heat, visibility, and social scrutiny all tax the scene.

WEST ELIZABETH

hub logic: Strawberry is mountain-west travel, Blackwater is open-country modern travel, and Tall Trees slows both.

Wallace Station from Strawberry: 1.5 to 2.5 hours by horse, 4 to 6 hours on foot

Hanging Dog Ranch from Strawberry: 1.5 to 2 hours by horse

Pronghorn Ranch from Strawberry: 2 to 3 hours by horse, 6 to 8 hours on foot

Owanjila / west lake road from Strawberry: 1.5 to 2.5 hours by horse

Big Valley interior from Strawberry / Wallace: 3 to 5 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Riggs Station from Blackwater / Strawberry split: about 4 to 5 hours from Blackwater

Beecher’s Hope from Blackwater: 1 to 1.5 hours by horse, 3 to 4 hours on foot

Manzanita Post from Blackwater: 3 to 4 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Aurora Basin / Tall Trees interior from Manzanita or Blackwater: 4 to 6 hours by horse

consider: Strawberry country is timber, slope, and stubborn road. Blackwater country is easier moving, but much more watched.

NEW AUSTIN

hub logic: Armadillo anchors the east side, Tumbleweed anchors the west side, and the desert lies about what “not far” means.

MacFarlane’s Ranch from Armadillo: 4 to 6 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Benedict Point from Armadillo: 3 to 4 hours by horse, 6 to 8 hours on foot

Mercer Station from Armadillo: 4 to 5 hours by horse, 1 long day on foot

Twin Rocks from Armadillo: 2 to 3 hours by horse

Ridgewood Farm from Armadillo: 2.5 to 3 hours by horse

Thieves’ Landing from MacFarlane’s / Blackwater route: 5 to 7 hours by horse from MacFarlane’s, roughly 2 days on foot

Hennigan’s Stead interior: 1 long day by horse, 2 to 3 days on foot

Fort Mercer from Tumbleweed or Armadillo side: 4 to 6 hours by horse from Tumbleweed

Rathskeller Fork from Tumbleweed: 3 to 4 hours by horse

Plainview / Rio Bravo interior from Tumbleweed: 4 to 6 hours by horse

Gaptooth Ridge belt from Tumbleweed: 3 to 5 hours by horse

consider: heat, water, forage, and exposure matter as much as miles. desert travel is a logistics scene wearing a cowboy hat.

GUARMA

hub logic: once you hit Guarma, mainland travel logic gets thrown into the sea.

Aguasdulces is your landing point

Sugar mill / Fussar compound from Aguasdulces: 20 to 45 min on foot

Cinco Torres from Aguasdulces: 1 to 2 hours on foot

Manicato from Aguasdulces: 2 to 4 hours on foot

plantation / jungle interior: half day to full day depending route, weather, guards, and how badly everyone wishes to die

return to mainland: multiple days by steamer, no privacy, no stealth, no fun

consider: Guarma is not a road system. it is a dock, a patrol pattern, jungle, and terrible luck.

camp quick read

Colter frozen crisis camp. even “short” exits can turn into overnight disasters.

Horseshoe Overlook still the easiest errand camp, but town runs now take planning.

Clemens Point near enough to Rhodes for pressure scenes, far enough that every visit leaves tracks.

Shady Belle good for Saint Denis adjacency only if you respect the swamp and the roads.

Lakay hiding distance, not comfort distance.

Beaver Hollow isolated, grim, and annoying to extract people from on purpose.

the shortest possible version

if your fic is using actual U.S.-scale travel (like mine because clearly i enjoy pain), then:

Valentine to Rhodes is not a ride, it is a journey

Valentine to Saint Denis is not romantic horseback wandering, it is weeks

Blackwater to Saint Denis is a major corridor, not a quick hop

Rhodes to Saint Denis is one of the fastest horse corridors in the whole setting and it is still about a week at a sustainable pace

New Austin should always cost more water, time, and patience than people think

rail is the cheat code, but it is a public cheat code

stagecoach is respectable and faster than private riding, but it comes with schedules and witnesses

hours belong to local orbit

days and weeks belong to actual interregional travel

this covers the main towns, camps, stations, estates, and story-relevant destinations. i did not list every abandoned shack and hostile cave in the map because i do, despite appearances, still believe in mercy.

[dloeza]

rat day

[elenmorgansfav]

Young Charles bc i feel like we are totally ignoring the fact this mf was all alone

[ccccchepushilo]

EVERYBODY LOVES CHARLES SMITH

alt version

[irotbeautifully]

uhh commission me

[caughtinred]

…How did it come to this?

🧠UNDEAD OUTLAWS IS HERE! 🪰 Get your physical copy of undead outlaws, a fan-made Red Dead Redemption 2 zine, out now! DISCLAIMER: This is a zine!!! "Undead Outlaws" is not intended to be nor ever will be a real playable game. This is fake gameplay of a fake game for a fanfiction!!

Mixing by ExidySorceror

[caughtinred]

🧠ZINE RELEASE 🪰 I am so happy to announce that "Undead Outlaws" is live and available for free on Itchio.

Thank you all so very much for your support in this massive project. I hope you love it! Click here to read!

[dentdechien]

Death awaits

[mamasparky]

Here is my secret santa for Sam! @purplecatdad

Sorry it took some time to finish it since it got a little bit away from me. Hope you like it!! (textless version under the cut)

[roamingtigress]

❀~𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚢~❀

A story of growing old and the vulnerabilities that come with it.

"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."

Done as a @rdrevents Winter Exchange gift for Louie @ @mamasparky!

(Ao3 link)

Rosy

by Roaming Tigress

"Hey, you don't look too rosy, old friend. I thought this warmer weather would — "

A punch to the gut.

"My days of looking good are long over, Dutch."

Dutch means well, I remind myself; he's been worrying over me like a mother hen ever since we arrived in Horseshoe Overlook. I only took on a bit of a cough, that's all; maybe my lungs were still defrosting from Colter. To give him peace of mind, I even considered visiting the local doctor's office in Valentine, thinking they might have had a tonic to remedy it. But . . . A series of events happened there, and well, I instead decided to try to treat it myself with some of the local herbs in the area — yarrow, mint, ginseng, and the like.

The concoction worked to varying degrees, but never truly went away, and maybe I'd just rather not know what is going on with me.

But onto cheerier subjects.

We enjoyed our little fishing trip with Arthur on Flat Iron Lake, and even caught some beauties! We caught some nice bass, lake trout — even a few sturgeon. Arthur certainly *can* fish a bit if he puts his mind to it (and has some distance between himself and a market). And besides a meal for ourselves, it was nice to have a moment with just the Old Guard. There was no disagreement about it from Arthur, and Dutch? Dutch revelled in it.

"Before any of them back there . . . There was us."

We only turned back with our catch when we felt it was just a matter of time until a search party would be sent for us. It was on our way back to camp, though, that a nagging, painful, raw thought crept into my mind that lulled me into a sense of vulnerability.

Was I now . . .

Less attractive to him?

Growing old is hard: the aches, the pains, the insecurities that make you feel exposed and vulnerable. It's a slow, insidious creep. Oh, you think you can outrun it, but it gets you when you're asleep, when you're at the campfire with friends. You hear those names brought up, and you realize it as a lifetime ago when you were still speaking to them.

'Was Dutch going to leave me for someone younger?' was a dreaded question that burrowed into the inner recesses of my brain.

On the slow, steady hack to Clements Point, I considered how to phrase the question. I hadn't wanted to sound accusatory; I wouldn't get anywhere there, he'd just think he was right. And yet, I had to know; I had to be to the point, I had to know where I stood. He might think he could push around the others at camp, but he knows — even stubbornly — that he can't get me to back down.

I would ask Dutch when we were in a quieter place in camp; our personal matters aren't everybody's issues, after all. Every evening, every early morning, he's been taking a liking to standing dramatically — that flamboyant pose of his where he stands with his hands on his hips and looks lordly to all the shorebirds — on the fishing pier or shore as he collected his thoughts; it might be a stretch to say so, but he has a few.

Yes, I would ask him then.

Dutch likes it when I join him there; he doesn't always act like it; sometimes, he'd act as if I interrupted some great train of thought, and maybe I'm right, but a man needs to take a break; every train needs to stop at the station. But his mood doesn't last; cigars are a nice placation, and he never rejects a fresh brew of coffee.

And a telltale twinkle in his eyes tells me I've worked my magic; I've conned him into tolerating my presence!

And then, we're talking about old times, maybe where to move next, or if it was evening, the events of the day.

And maybe, whisper sweet nothings.

And maybe, a kiss.

But let's get back to camp first.

We may have bragged about the big sturgeon that got away. The two we caught were sizable, sure, but we spoke of a legendary beast still lurking along the Lannahachee. A fish so old that it was pure white, and had to be two, no, three hundred years old.

Jack liked the story, and Sean might have been a believer, but that might have been the drink talking. Lenny, Tilly, Charles and John were a little more skeptical. Karen, Molly, and Abigail humoured us. We might have had a little support from Reverend Swanson, though. Susan scolded us, thinking we were a terrible influence on the young boy for telling such tall tales. But Dutch was confident that Jack would be the one who would reel him in.

Good on you, Dutch, for staying your ground, taking a stance against such overreaching dream-crushing.

The stew was considerably better than the turtle-coyote-milkweed-spoonbill concoction the night before, and my stomach was thankful for it.

*****

And then came evening.

And there Dutch was, standing on the dock, cigar held between his index finger and thumb, his free hand on his hip. He's staring off to the islands, with probably not a thought in his head, but giving the impression there was a thousand rattling around in his head.

"Thought I would meet you here," I gently tease.

Dutch let out a snort, tapping the ash from his cigar. It's a particularly richly scented one; I myself am more of a cigarette man, but I can appreciate the scent of a good cigar. Dutch smells of them; I'm disappointed when he washes it out of his hair, his clothing, his body. Eau de Cigar adds a little more to his character, not that he needed help in that area, but it adds a little masculine finesse.

And then he laughed, right from his belly, the corners of his eyes crinkling in that charming way they do. Crow's feet? More like ostrich's feet!

"You're like clockwork, Hosea."

I laughed with him.

He's in a good mood, and a bit of guilt tugged at me for the question that swirled around in my head like a swarm of bees looking for an exit out of their hive. I even felt that tingling of anxiety arise in my gut; it isn't the man and his little tendency towards difficult pigheadedness I fear in the least, but those dreaded what-if's. I needed to know, but my heart told me to forget the matter; it's better not knowing.

I studied him for a moment, watching the slow puff of tobacco smoke form a half circle as he tipped his head back ever so dramatically. Dutch likes to put on a bit of a show when he has an audience, even if it was one man in the seats — or on the dock.

I lowered my head, my eyes cast down on the dock boards. I let out a slow breath, almost absently shuffling a foot.

"Dutch . . . "

Uncertainty and vulnerability crept into my voice too fast for me to catch and release back into the water.

Even if I had, Dutch would have caught it on his line.

When I tipped my head back to look him in the eyes, I could see the softer expression in Dutch's eyes. I was supposed to be his rock, and here I was, before him, acting like some nervous school boy. He tipped his head in that endearing way he does when he's puzzled or concerned or maybe both, and I might have even smiled a little at that.

"Hosea?"

Oh, he had to ask. He just had to ask.

Well, might as well get it over with.

I swallowed, suddenly looking back down at my feet, feeling the sudden welling of tears. I couldn't let him see them. I had to stay strong, to be that rock he needs, even when things have been looking up.

But when I felt a finger on my chin, I knew I was caught.

I offered no resistance as he tipped my chin up so that he could look me in the eye with that same soft expression. It was a rare moment where I let him take the lead, and I swallowed again as he softly — heartachingly softly — wiped a tear from my cheek. He doesn't catch me crying often, but when he does, oh, there's no escaping his tenderness, no matter how fast I try to run.

"What's the matter, Old Girl?"

I gulp hard, suddenly unable to find the words.

"Did you . . . Dream about her again?" He almost whispered; speaking softly is foreign territory for Dutch, but he's capable of it when he puts his mind to it (which is rare).

Bessie. He means Bessie.

As I've been feeling well, not so well, I've been dreaming of her more often. Sometimes we'd be dancing in a field of wildflowers. At other times, it would be her, Annabelle, Dutch, on a picnic by a river. There were dreams of meeting Bess for the first time, in a variety of situations and places; at the theatre, at a train station where I lost my luggage but she took pity and helped set me right, and once, at a beach resort. They were always those kinds of dreams where, when they ended, and you had to wake up and face the realities of the day, you grieved over their closure.

Why must real life not be as beautiful as those dreams?

Dutch never liked these dreams, though; it wasn't so much that he was jealous he was dreaming of someone else — I shared my heart with both of them — but he felt I was having some sort of premonition, that my end was nearing, and she was ready to meet me at the door.

But, no. I was determined that he didn't need to have that worry over his pretty head.

"Dutch . . . "

He tilted his head again, damnit!

'Breathe in, breathe out, Old Girl.'

And I did, and found my voice again.

"Dutch, do you still find me . . . Attractive?" I slipped my hand over his as he cupped my jaw, absently, nervously rubbing a finger over his rings as I've caught myself doing while talking him down from whatever ridiculous plan he was cooking up in that head of his.

He tilted his head a little more, the expression going from merely soft to . . .

Devastated.

"Of course."

Shock enveloped Dutch; his cigar dropped out of his fingers and onto the dock. It was an uncharacteristic gesture; he loved to dramatically toss — no, throw — his cigars in any given direction, not caring if it would even end up in the stew pot.

Later, Arthur would pick that damn thing back up when he went fishing in the morning; our unruly son, bless his soul and ten toes, is a bit odd.

But, let's move away from the subject of Arthur's weird habits — I could write a whole story on that, but I think I'll spare him the embarrassment — you came to read a story about a misunderstanding between two old men, and a story about a misunderstanding between two old men is what you will get.

"Of-of course I do . . . " Dutch's voice was shattered; it had been a long while since I've heard him speak in such a tone, and a longer time since I've heard him stammer.

I think Dutch would feel less pain if he had a knife put deep into him and had it twisted, and it gnawed at my very core.

Now I felt guilty, and tried to look away, only for him to scoop both his massive hands underneath my jaw — with frustrating gentleness — so that I would have to look up at his handsome face again.

"What would make you think that?"

I let out a slow, defeated sigh, but I look deep into those eyes, and see a whole world spinning in them; and I wish for him for it to stop.

"'You don't look so rosy, Old Girl.'"

Dutch took in a sharp breath and then roughly let it out; its sound was rattled. A shaking finger trailed up to lightly stroke a cheekbone; oh, how he loved those things, how he loved touching them, kissing them.

"No . . . No . . . " He recoiled, struck by his own words he had spoken at the start of the day.

It was as if he had mortally wounded me.

In truth, my pride *was* hurt, but, it wouldn't be the first time. It wasn't a fatal injury; a mere close call. With a little nurturing, a little time, and maybe something better in my belly than another awful stew, it would heal in time.

But in the meantime, I settled for him holding me close, his soft lips kissing my forehead, and then bringing a hand up to kiss that, too. He was trying to make me smile, and well, maybe I did.

But he couldn't see for the kisses he kept giving me; out of affection, out of love, yes, but also out of appeasement. As if it at any moment I would turn heel and walk out of camp — a fear *I* had earlier.

"I was just . . . Hoping that the warmth would take away your sickness."

​

Dutch was scared. Scared that our settling down in Clements Point was in vain.

​

"But . . . "

​

Scared of losing me.

​

"You are as handsome as the day I met you."

​

Dutch was on the verge of tears, but I was well past the verge; he was just doing a little catching up.

​

"Oh, Dutch . . . "

​

And then, *I* was holding him, our tears intermingled with each other's as we stood cheek-to-cheek.  I rubbed gentle circles across his back, softly kissing that beautiful nose.

​

I had felt Dutch was at his most beautiful when he was feeling vulnerable, and maybe I still felt a little guilt for bringing it out, but he could afford a little humbling.

​

"I wish I could feel it."

​

"I mean it . . . " He half-whimpered, half-whispered, and not convinced he meant what he said, nestled his face into the crook of my neck. He did this often when he felt vulnerable, needing comfort, reassurance, and a need to be believed. He didn't care that Father Time was causing it to sag, the skin thinning.

​

And then, maybe absently, maybe just wanting to hear me laugh, Dutch pressed a kiss between my neck and ear — my tickle spot — caused me to break the mood with a ridiculous, snorting laugh. I even tried to stifle it, but to no avail.

And of course, he did it again — and I was glad for it; it felt good to laugh again; oh, how it felt so good to laugh.

"Dutch . . . !" I genuinely *squeaked* through my tears, and teasingly I grabbed his nose — just nearly missed a playful nip from him. I leaned in, though, grabbed it again, and whispered, maybe a little conspiringly.

"You're going to cause a scene!" I snuck a playful wink in, maybe finding amusement in the idea of a small audience.

And then he laughed, and pulled back just enough that he could get a good look at my face, which he thinks is as pretty as a painting. He blinked away the remaining tears, bringing his hand back up to my cheek to stroke with his thumb. He wiped away a tear, thinking my face was too handsome to bear them, but something else gave him pause.

"Looking rosy again, Hosea."

He softly squeezed my hand — if you guessed that my hands were his favourite part of me, you would be correct — and softly held it to my cheek. Indeed, it did feel a little warm; surely it was from the Lemoyne air. Had to be!

"See?"

Dutch wore the biggest, stupidest grin across his face; maybe a little crooked, the type of smile he likes to reserve for me. But I wasn't going to give him credit for making me feel a little rosy, would I?

Oh, no, perish the thought!

"It's a warm day, Dutch," I nodded with feigned ruefulness.

But Dutch was one step ahead!

"The sun's going down, Hosea."

Dutch just had to speak to me in that tone; a soft, almost vulnerable and certainly *needy* tone where I know it would be only a matter of time until he would butter me up with kiss; slow, long, lingering kind. And yet, his words were at once literal and figurative; we're growing old, and we know it.

How many kisses did we have left?

Dutch wouldn't let me dwell, though; he gently framed my reportedly handsome face in his hands, and softly, tenderly kissed the night away.

​

[mamasparky]

AH!!!

This is so so cute!! I love this so much!! My old men and their oddball son!! I love the way your writing style feels like a train of thoughts and hosea keeps getting a bit distracted thinking about how much he loves his family!

THANK YOU!!!!

[kinoselynn]

his sweetest little thing

[mamasparky]

How do I tell rdr writers that the word “teenager” does not exist yet till like the 1910s but won’t become mainstream until after ww2 with the burst of suburbs and independence from one’s family

[waste-iisolation]

...meow