#red dead

[zxid]

bunch of jovier that been in my drafts for a while,,,

[glorifiedturkey]

Turn Back The Clock Chapter 15: I Bite At The Hand That Feeds Me, has been posted

[impalaaa-67]

arthur morgan mumbling ‘you’re a brave girl’ (like he does to his horse lol) whilst he pushes his big cock inside you, stretching you out whilst you whine and babble about it being too big, but arthur knows you can take it. you always do

[roamingtigress]

So It Has Ended, So It Has Begun

A story of aging and the changes it brings forth with, and of intimacy and touch. (contains mature/sexual content; I don't think it's too explicit but this is your old man yaoi warning!) (AO3 link)

Age.

It creeps up on you.

At one point, you could reach the kitchen with one bound from the bed, and the next, the kitchen might as well be in the next county.

Ageing can be cruel not only to the body, but to the mind.

Ageing causes some memories to fade, others to linger painfully. Alternatively, age causes those memories to stay like your old friend, the steady workhorse, who knows you still need them by your side even with the passages of time that threaten to make them obsolete.

And sometimes, it's those fond memories that hurt the most.

You remember when you were young, vigorous, and could take your loved one for a merry run through the wildflowers, make love to them, and last until the sun rose over that meadow's rolling hills.

You remember how you made them feel complete, alive, and just . . .

Good.

And you felt good making them *feel* good. It felt good that you could deliver, to bring them to another level of being.

You become one under the stars, among the lupins, a crescendo of crickets and katydids as you go about lovemaking slowly, tenderly. There was no need to rush in a world that had come to a stop; no wars, no famines, no strife. No worries of finances, of job security or deadlines.

When climax was attained, you would wrap your arms around them. You would kiss them on the neck, their shoulder, the space between, and you'd ask them if they felt good.

And the answer was always the same.

It was just you and the one.

Or so you thought.

Maybe a roving band of outlaws out by Little Creek would catch sight of you being brought to your highest point of pleasure. A rough bunch, on their way to rob some homestead - or maybe your campsite - decided to stop for a show. But so into each other you were, they drew no attention to themselves.

At another time — particularly if you're named Hosea Matthews or Dutch van der Linde — you're drawn by the idea of being caught. If you're feeling particularly sinful, a church. Feeling too respectful? Try the intertwining alleyways of Saint Denis, used by the stuffy affluent crowd on their way to their backdoor businesses or apartments. Maybe you're feeling like putting on a private performance, a back row seat in a theatre. What's another voice in the chorus?

Then, of course, there are the times you just want to feel as if you're the only ones in the world. A cabin tucked away in Ambarino, maybe a long-abandoned stable in Colter, would provide you with the privacy you sought.

And then came the day when you could no longer deliver.

It can appear almost overnight, or arrive at the door after a long cross-country ride.

There's the worry that they would take on a wandering eye; perhaps one of the greatest stings of it all. You even begin to look at others differently, maybe thinking your loved one takes a fancy to that rotund gentleman in the bowler hat at the poker table. Maybe it's more obvious: a well-bosomed lady who offers deluxe baths at the hotel.

But the biggest hurt comes from not being able to send your beloved to their highest level.

You may remember your first time with them — the awkwardness, the shyness, but the way they cried out for the first time. And in Dutch's case, it was a literal crying out.

Many decades later, I can still remember it; at once, sharp and strangled, animalistic, even. I might have even pitied the animals that might have heard him. His knuckles nearly turned white as he gripped my bedroll; he was on his hands and knees, his head dropped in exertion. His breathing was heavy, each exhalation rattling through his then lithe form. I held onto him firmly by the waist, letting him ride it out.

Then came the aftercare — soft and tender. I held him in my arms by the fire as he sobbed in the crook of my neck.

Yes, you read that correctly; sobbed.

Oh, I think most of you know Dutch a bit now; as you can imagine, he did *try* to hide the tears, but I always knew they were.

There were the soft whimpers as he tried to bite them back; in those early days, Dutch feared judgement from me. Wasn't proper 'for a man of his age' to cry. He would look away, ashamed, a smidgen defensive when I told him all the reassuring words, as if not believing me. He was a firecracker in his youth, but he melted when I softly, softly wiped the tears away. Knowing he couldn't 'escape', Dutch almost shyly kissed my fingertips — one thing that never faded with time, and I'm glad of it.

And not to be outdone, Dutch certainly knew how to make me feel good.

On the occasions we would switch — to prove his worth as a worthy suitor — he would last all night, from sunset to sunrise, with intermittent breaks to kiss every inch of my body, just to send the message in a little deeper.

And I loved every minute of it.

The kisses continue — all night if I let him, but we haven't switched in some time.

I wanted to tell myself that he wants me to show him what I still feel, what I am capable of.

I didn't want to believe that his interest was waning; that his mind was elsewhere, maybe wanting to have a younger little thing on the side, maybe with a little more money than me, who would make him feel good in his winter years.

But I did.

The fading of my virility was but a slow burn; at first, a mere fading of the bonfire's brightness. Oh, it burned, and the embers that sparked sent the flames arising just as they started to die, but the embers became fewer. The fire that lasted from evening to morning became a smouldering mess of sooty logs, ashes and smoke somewhere between 1:30 and 2:00 am.

Simpler put, my stamina was waning.

I decided to slow it down a bit; let it linger; maybe I would last longer. I wanted Dutch to feel that connection for a little longer; how disappointed I felt my hips aching, and that telltale leaking began when it was barely past midnight.

As previously mentioned, Dutch would once last all night, leading into morning, but who do you suppose conditioned him to have such stamina?

Yours truly.

I had let him down.

Now, Dutch is no fool — well, for the most part — for as much as he can act like one. He was catching on, week by week, hanging onto the changing patterns. How long I lasted, and how much earlier he heard the change to my breathing as I was reaching my peak. Perhaps I was the fool, thinking that well, he would overlook, thinking that maybe I had just wanted to close it off earlier so that we could get to the aftercare, which by then, had become our favourite aspect of intimacy.

How wrong, how deluded I was.

"Calling it an earlier night again, Old Girl?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Now, I'm something of a master at lying, but when you're caught off guard by someone who knows you so deeply, your natural-born skills come to a halt. You freeze, inwardly, outwardly. Your mouth opens, your words prepared, and yet, all that comes out is silence.

Quick, say something quick.

I wanted to lie. I wanted deeply to lie, to say that the fire had faded — and indeed it had, rhetorically — but I found myself sputtering out the truth.

"I . . . Don't have it anymore, Dutch."

The bandage was ripped off.

And now, I had to brace myself.

Dutch knew when I was lying anyway; I would be double the fool to think otherwise. We know each other a little too well; there are always the slightest telltale signs that always slip out, no matter how deeply we think we don't. There's always a twitch of Dutch's mustache, and for me, a slight turn out of my right foot. Dutch — without a slightest inching of his mustache — *insisted* that he saw it on the first day we met as I spoke of the women I knew.

I'll let him win that war.

But I remember the expression on Dutch's face — weary and sunken from years of age and sun exposure, but still devilishly, exquisitely handsome — when I broke the news to him gently that evening.

It was an expression of soft determination, but understanding — and love.

"That's not what I felt, Hosea." His voice was agonizingly soft.

It was a Friday that had started like so many Fridays before. Strong and steady, that started with a kiss that went from my neck to my navel, which got Alfred Lafonde standing at attention, but lasted not a minute past quarter to one.

I let out a heavy sigh, dropped my head to the height of my bony collarbone, and shook it in that exasperated manner one does when they've been with someone for over thirty years. I couldn't let myself see his puppy eyes; I always fell for them, always let them change the course, but this time, I stubbornly refused to let that happen.

Dutch wasn't getting it, I told myself, looking away as he tilted his head in that irresistible way so that he could look me in the eye.

I had been prepared to let him go; even rehearsed what I was going to say in front of the mirror when he wasn't around — a rare occurrence, considering he insisted on being particularly underfoot these days. The very thought ripped my heart out of my chest, but I had loved Dutch so much that I didn't want to force him to live the rest of his years in celibacy.

Another bandage had to be ripped off.

I had to push him away; it was the only way.

"Dutch — "

He took the gentlest hold of my wrist, effectively pulling the kill switch.

'Damn it, Dutch.'

"I . . . "

Dutch's voice wavered in that way it did when he was about to cry, breaking me down a little more.

Damn, he knew.

Damn, he knew I was about to release him into the wild, giving him the freedom and the fulfillment he deserved.

Damn, you can't keep anything hidden from him, Hosea.

Even now — especially now.

"I know."

'Knew it.'

And then, to make it work, came the kiss to my knuckles, with all the softness of a kitten. Dutch even nibbled at them softly, with his lips alone.

"I know."

Tears stung my eyes.

"Leave me, Dutch!"

My voice was venomous — it had to be. I couldn't be gentle. I couldn't be soft. Dutch is a stubborn man and has to be driven away.

"H-Hosea . . . " His voice shattered like glass.

I had ripped his heart out. It was the only way, I told myself.

"Hosea . . . "

Then came the tears, the wail of despair, the cry of a man being ripped from the reason of being.

"H-Hosea, no . . . "

I should have refrained, but I found myself gently stroking a thumb over his cheekbone, wiping away a tear I made him shed.

"Dutch, you wouldn't be happy . . ."

That stubborn fool just kissed my hand again, the tears flowing faster than I could catch them.

"N-No . . ."

Another kiss, his entire *being* shuddering in agony at the thought of no longer me, his forever, he had called me as he kissed my forehead, putting down breakfast on the table that morning.

"Nobody would want me . . . "

Those were words Dutch would never have said in his younger years; the idea of being on his own was preposterous. He was cocky and pretentious, and carried himself in the manner that would suggest that the world was his oyster. And with the right words, the right gestures, anyone would be in that special little club of Dutch devotees.

"Nobody . . . "

And now, he was clinging to me, each sob breaking him down a little more.

'My god, what are you doing, Hosea?' 'It's for the best.'

"You're still handsome, Dutch," I reassured, a little gentler now, as I uselessly wiped away each tear I felt slip through my fingers. "You still have it, Dutch. Why, you — "

There was a half-scoff in between those sobs, a bitter sort of self-deprecating scoff.

"Can't even get nocturnal tumescence."

Then it dawned on me, and I didn't know if I wanted to laugh or cry, in a bittersweet relief, and so, I did both.

'Nocturnal tumescence.' Of course, Dutch would know the technical term for an erection during sleep. His drive to impress has not wavered.

I pulled that old fool into my arms, my hold tight, but gentled it when I felt how bony his shoulders had gotten. A little frailer these days, but still handsome by any definition, and I was reminded of how even he needed just a little more care despite all the pomp and circumstance that continued to haunt me.

I can't cast him out now.

"Well, I suppose we're stuck with each other," I felt myself laughing through my tears, and brushed a kiss to his cheek. "We'll see each other through this, Dutch."

I paused, considering that maybe he hadn't wanted me anymore after pushing him away.

"I'm sorry, Dutch . . . "

Then came the tilt of his head, a soft, understanding expression in his cloudy eyes.

"For what?"

I interlocked his fingers in between mine and kissed him on the nose. How adorable he is with that expression.

"For thinking . . . " My voice became small, briefly even looking away, in shame.

And then, suddenly, I was the one in his arms. His biceps might not be what they were when we first met — heaven's no, but mine aren't anything to write home about — but I still felt a degree of their former strength.

"For trying to drive you away — "

I couldn't even get a full sentence in without Dutch interrupting me.

With a kiss, mind. A soft, almost pleading kiss; one of those long, lingering ones, telling me that he had forgiven me, but was terrified of the thought of me not being with him.

I should have known.

But insufferable Dutch remains, and my attempt at driving him away to better pastures had backfired on me terribly. I had only managed to drive him further into my arms, feeding the urge for *him* to comfort me, to make me feel wanted, letting me know with the softness of how he held me, the subtle strokes of my thinning hair.

Even his lips were insufferable! Soft and pliable, as they had been despite the decades that have gone by far too fast.

I wanted to scold him for being a little rude, but I didn't have it in my heart when he finally let me up for air.

"I just . . . Wanted what was best for you," I spoke softly but with gentle firmness, lightly touching his cheek, the closest thing to a scolding that I was capable of doing.

"I want you to be happy."

There came that head tilt again.

"A life without you isn't life."

Yes, he's still at it, waxing poetic until the end of time.

Dutch squeezed my hand again and then placed it over my heart. It thumped a slow, steady beat, the very symbol of being alive and feeling alive.

"That's still working, Old Girl."

I smiled a sad smile.

Somehow, those words, the deepness of that little gesture, got me a little choked up. Maybe I was getting a little soft around the edges. Maybe Dutch had manipulated me, the fiend.

"At least one thing of ours is still working."

Dutch laughed at that, and I was glad of it.

And then he kissed me on the side of my neck, leading into my shoulder, his manner unhurried and without hunger for seduction, but with a want of wanting me to still feel something, to still feel connected.

There was no telltale tingling within my groin, and I was glad of it.

My neck, like my navel, my once narrower waist, the once well-defined "V" of my groin — and embarrassingly, my ears — once belonged to a zone of certain *daytime* tumescence. Even the lightest stroke of his hand, the slightest pressure from his teeth, an exploratory lick of his tongue, or a brush of that damn mustache in those areas had me damn near pulling the trigger. He was, at times — most times — deliciously deviant, knowing my reactions, and I would ensure he would get his just punishment.

And he hated it, of course.

Now, though, Dutch was taking me to a level of intimacy that, in my youth, I may have overlooked. A soft, deep intimacy that conveys feelings beyond word and love beyond measure.

And maybe, a little mischief in an attempt to start a fire within.

His lips and teeth found my earlobe that he gently bit down on — maybe he was a little hungry. I laughed, finding the whole experience, the sensation to be . . . Ticklish.

Trust him to ruin the mood.

But Dutch again — when he decided to free my earlobe of its captivity — looked at me with that handsome head tilted in questioning, but with those old eyes sparking with joy, a touch of mischief.

Bless him for trying.

"You still feel, Old Girl."

I do.

And I'm glad of it.

Before I could get too contemplative, Dutch slipped his hands down to my waist, and I gasped.

For a moment, I felt something.

It was a shadow of its former self, but I felt the same shiver down my back, which sent the hairs on the nape of my neck to rise — and maybe, something else threatened to rise, but couldn't quite hike over the mountain.

In our younger days, we experimented; Dutch was adamant that he could take me and ride me into town. And so, I decided, the risk taker that I was in those days, why not let him take the reins?

And so I did.

I remembered how gently he laid his hands on my waist as he eased me into his lap, with me straddling him. Dutch was still very new to the matter of making love to a gentleman who would treat him right, but, learning and wanting to prove himself. In truth, he had already proven himself to me the moment we first made eye contact; a once-in-a-lifetime event when you know you have met your soulmate? Nay, once in a century event.

It was the first time he took me.

Yes, he took me before I took him.

I moved down against him slowly at first, giving a chance for us to feel each other; for me, to feel how well he filled me, and for him, to first feel that connection.

As mentioned, Dutch was eager and ready to prove his worth, but there were telltale signs that he was scared of somehow breaking me. That maybe, he wasn't as cocksure and intrepid on the inside as he had led me to believe; typical Dutch! But I didn't let him know that I knew; I hadn't wanted to humiliate him. I chose to let him show what he had rehearsed for.

And he showed me.

It was not an award-winning performance talked about in the magazines — Dutch didn't last long, which came as no surprise given his experience, but it was the effort in that cabin somewhere in Big Valley, the convenience of what he wanted to bring to me. The awkwardness of trying to find our rhythm together somehow added to the experience.

Love. Making love, he called it. A 'dress rehearsal', he also chose to call it.

Even then, Dutch danced his dance with words; some moving into step, while others, well, leaving you stumbling over your own feet.

But I decided to keep him around; it would have been wickedly cruel to inflict him upon other persons, and well, he was rather cute.

And maybe a little romantic, a warm body to wrap my arms around, to feel a calm, steady heartbeat.

I also had no willpower — it was the next morning when we chose to show him what I knew.

I was gentle and slow with him, wanting to give him only the very best experience, to make him feel as good as he made me feel. I even spent a little extra time preparing him. Gun oil was used; there are more appropriate applications that can be used now, but it was on the dresser, and it did its job admirably. He was even so touch-starved and needy that he ground against my fingers as I stretched him, something Dutch never stopped enjoying as time marched on.

As it came to be, preparation, along with the aftercare, became some of our favourite moments while making love, or, bluntly, mindless fucking with the risk of being caught when the mood struck — or when he chose to hold a battle of dominance in which I always won.

Dutch wanted me to take him hard on that first time, to be punished for sins committed, but we can't get our way.

I instead let Dutch just *feel* me, become familiar with my girth — I am not a man to brag, but, at the time, he had only been taken by men who wanted Dutch as something of a pretty plaything — and I had reason to believe that I was a bit more well endowed than I had imagined Colm to be.

But beyond everything, I wanted Dutch feel *good.*

I hadn't wanted to leave him sore that morning; that would come later, under consent, with a shy confession that he wanted me to take the reins — maybe a few times literally, we got into some unconventional scenarios, if you will — to put him in his place, to dominate him. It was not only an expression of a desire to feel me taking control, but also a showing of deep trust, and later, a relief of power that comes from being the top dog in charge of the pack.

Inwardly, deeply, selfishly, though, I had also desired the image of him begging me for more, that no other man can offer him what I did.

And he did.

'Please . . . ' Dutch pleaded with a fluttered sigh as I pushed myself deeper into him.

Then came a sharp exhalation of my own as he dug his nails into my back with a distinct suggestion of neediness, even a fear that I would just up and disappear.

I told you.

Dutch's desperation awoke a hunger within me, but I held firm on my resolve and brushed him with a soft kiss as he rested his head on my shoulder. He was almost cautious as he moved down on me; I knew he loved how I felt inside him, and likewise, he wasn't a bad fit. What I hadn't known at that moment was that he was beginning to cry; a silent cry, of feeling wanted, protected, safe, and feeling safe for being wanted.

Damn you, Dutch. I thought I was holding my ground.

And then, I noticed the tears.

Then it became official; any willpower, any grasp of that resolve, was gone like a ghost.

I ended up working in a steady rhythm, effectively giving Dutch just a little of what he wanted to satiate his hunger — but leaving him to salivate for more.

'Shhh . . . '

Just an appetizer, Dutch, just an appetizer.

We had a late breakfast that morning.

1935.

I gasped sharply when I felt his hand come to my belly; that sneaky, sneaky man had found an opening in my pyjama top, and walked right in. His touch was soft, and perhaps it was the softness that did it; a slight awakening of an old friend as his hand drifted to my navel.

Thanks, Dutch, you took me on a bit of an adventure back to a time when, before it was them, there was us.

1875 was the year, and the day was somewhere between Monday and Friday.

I had cozied up in his lap, with my back against him as we casually perused the newspaper. We were in some scruffy old hotel room in a nondescript town whose name evades me now, but the type who would frown upon our personal arrangement. We were hoping for a mention of our latest shenanigan being reported, but not even a sentence of a mention. The shame of it all!

But, then, as if to comfort me from such great disappointment, Dutch's hand drifted from my chest to my midriff, almost explanatorily experimental in manner; bold, but shy at once — Dutch had always been something of a contrarian, part of his charm. We had only known each other a week, but eager we were to get a feel for each other and, quite literally!

The combination of his kiss to the side of my neck, the lightest, almost playful brush of his thumb over my navel, was all too much, and Alfred Lafonde rose from his seat and said hello to Dutch.

Lightning has struck.

He surmised, in all his cockiness, that he pressed the right button.

Sigh.

It was only going to go downhill from here.

Dutch would later discover my other most intimately sensitive regions that night, and if you can imagine, became even wholly insufferable for it.

He traced my then sculpted groin with a curious stroke of a fingertip, through the valley of that "V" that had decided to have affections for. With a sharp breath, I gripped the thinning bed cover; my actions only encouraged him and furthered Mr. Lafonde's sordid agenda.

Insufferable!

But that wasn't enough.

Dutch decided to try his hand at becoming a vampire as a legitimate career, and grazed his teeth against the side of my neck. He was only gently testing my reactions — or so he had me to believe — but a sensation that brought on the curling of my toes. After a kiss there, Dutch thought my neck was worthy of a taste, and he approved of it.

I may have sprung a leak.

Sadly, as they say, though, all good things must come to an end. As if knowing I may have gotten a little drunk on nostalgia, the friend who popped over to visit warmly bid their adieu.

Thank you for the visit.

I placed my hand over Dutch's as he laid it on my belly, the very most vulnerable part of the body, along with the throat he not so subtly asks for kisses on. It was then, though, that I came to an understanding — several decades later — as to why he had craved being touched there as much as he did. For Dutch, a stroke or kiss to the belly was such a deeply intimate and comforting display of trust and love, and it took the retirement of Mr. Lafonde for me to appreciate it.

Arousal — as certainly lovely as it was while we had it — was the one too many shakes of the spicing tin that masked the richness of the dish's flavours. Each touch, at times a random pattern, at others, a slow encircling, even from fingers that were stiff and bent in old age, was savoured. I might have even arched my back up, encouragingly pushing into his touch.

He happily reciprocated.

I might have to ask for more belly rubs, won't I?

I closed my eyes, let out a long, slightly ragged sigh, and leaned back against Dutch, sleepily surrendering to his touch. I was all his when a straying hand moved up to my chest, teasing, twirling silver tendrils of my chest hair, envisioning him doing so again as a younger man, with only a hint of that mustache, smoking a cigarette in some dingy hotel room. I would be reading the paper, pretending not to notice, but there would be a telltale upturn in the corner of my lips that gave it away.

And then Dutch would kiss me on the top of my head, chuckling lightly at my stoicism, or lack thereof.

1935.

He planted a kiss on the top of my head. I could feel his lips through my thinning hair, and he chuckled against my scalp.

Oh, you, Dutch.

Oh you.

I didn't even need to open my weary eyes to see his proud smirk upon my waving of the white flag as he worked his hands on me with the same tenderness that I had used — and still use — on him. It felt good.

Some things end, some things change, and some new chapters are written.

And some doddering old men still can't keep their hands off of each other, and some of those doddering old men are still braggadocios about how good something really is.

But . . .

"So it has ended, so it has begun."

[roamingtigress]

Sir.

[keenanmcateerart]

old one of arthur :)

[roamingtigress]

The outlaw in the straw hat