Chapter Four:
Touching You, Loving You
A lot of people get Dutch wrong. One of the things they say is that he's 'evil.'
Yes, he looks so evil as he closes his eyes while I trace a finger along the cleft of his chin. He used to hate that thing; he was self-conscious about it. That was until I touched it, and kissed it, and he found out it was a sweet spot; one of many we'd discover together.
Dutch is lying with his head in my lap, both of us wearing only what nature intended for us to wear. I feel that skin-to-skin contact would have more of an emphasis on what I am trying to tell than skin-on clothing. My free hand is in his, as we both listen to the sound of the warm rain pattering on the top of our tent. He despises being out in the rain; he hates the feeling of his clothes sticking to his skin, and how cold it makes him feel. As a younger boy, I enjoyed the warm rain; I loved the smell of it, and and had to jump in every mud puddle. I still love the smell of rain, but when you get to my age you can feel the rain creep into your joints. We've put together some tonics to help with this issue and it helps to a good degree.
Another thing they say is that he's 'crazy', and truth be told his choo-choo may have jumped the tracks, but we're crazy together. We have to be to survive in this world. He has what one could call separation anxiety; his attachment to me is to such a strong degree that he fears losing me; I reassure him it wouldn't happen. He doesn't even need to say a word to tip me off that his separation anxiety creeping up, I can just tell from his eyes; that separation anxiety doesn't just show itself in anxiety in him, but also sadness. He will give me personal space, of course, and when I get back he'll shower me with affection, though initially, he'll pretend to snub me but his eyes betray him.
Dutch tilts his head as I move my touch along his jawline, just lightly dragging a nail along his skin. He smiles, not a titch of anxiety nor sadness in those dark eyes, who glisten with happiness. I love seeing him smile, how that mustache twists and turns and I'll do things, say things on purpose to get him to smile and if he's already smiling, I'll make that smile widen more.
Each of the places that we touch, particularly those sweet spots, has a message and a meaning behind it, and this, and disserting the perception of my love and our relationship as I touch those spots on him, is what this chapter is about.
Touches to the jaw, silent speech. You can argue the same for lips, but it's the jaw that ultimately makes the speech. We say so much to each other without saying a word. A look here, a look there, a head tilt, little subtle gestures. This morning, even before he opened his eyes I knew he was going to feel sullen today if I didn't intervene; I woke up to the smell of the incoming rain. I averted that crisis with a back rub as he was once again using me as a glorified mattress. I ended up waking him up doing so, but he woke up in a good mood and remained so.
"I could stay like this all day . . . " Dutch murmurs, his eyes closing for a moment as he squeezes my hand, and gives a whisper of a kiss on my knuckles.
I just smile and trace a finger along his cheek, a spark in my eyes to match his. "I know you can. And for a good while we can. Sometime today though we have to do the trade run. We both know what Cripps is like about not having the product sit for long."
There was a camp raid the other day when I wasn't around, but Dutch was. Unfortunately, his arm went, and . . . Well, he had a limited capacity to defend. He knifed a few, pistol-whipped a few others, Cripps brought down a few with one shot of his Carbine Repeater but outnumbered, the rest got away with much of the goods. He felt ashamed but put on a brave face. I know he tried.
Dutch rolls his eyes. "He was short of one item for a full run. The turkey feather was right on the table!"
Oh, how that man makes me smile as much as he makes me want to rip my hair at times, and it grows even more as his kisses move from my hands up to my arm. I consider for a moment, and just lightly, lightly take hold of his nose, and run a finger along its length. He was distracting me! While I'm there though, touching the nose represents security; a strange sort of thing to perhaps symbolize, but when one was once self-conscious about it in the early years of dating, it means the difference.
People think he's manipulative; the man knows what he wants and knows he is adorable, and will run with it. As you know, he's a master of the puppy face and all those little gestures to get things out of me; I admit, I'm too soft when it comes to that. Alternately, he is also easy to manipulate as well; a touch here, a touch there, even when he's putting on a front can get him to where I want him to be. Words can also be a weapon; the right words can help talk him down, get him grounded and put in his place, soothe, amuse, to make him feel special. Likewise, he can be a word master. Right now he's looking at me with that expression, combined with a pout, because he's not getting his way.
"You are just trying to derail my thoughts again, are you?"
Dutch feigns innocence, as if he's not known to try and distract me. "No . . . "
We lock eyes for a long moment. I know he's telling a little white lie, I'm trying to bring you this meaningful dialogue, but how could I be frustrated? I let my hand drift over to his chest, specifically over his heart. He brings a hand over to place it on top of mine, forming a physical connection. Now this one is a logical one; a touch over the heart, heart-to-heart.
"My favourite part on you, 'Sea." Dutch spoke almost in a growl, reaching up a little to lean his head against my heart for a moment; I close my eyes for a moment as I love it when he rests his head against my chest; the feeling of his gorgeous inky hair hair against my skin, the feeling of connection. I gently hold him there for the moment.
"Though your hands are there too . . . " Dutch takes hold of one again, and gives it a kiss; I'm convinced the man is addicted to touching them, kissing them, holding them, watching them, doing things that put him in the position to be touched by them.
I laugh, though enjoying it. "You're not going to let me do this thing are you?"
A knowing smile from Dutch gives me the answer. Yes, he's trying to distract me. Again.
Hands represent connection. We're constantly using them in everyday life, from the most mundane tasks of passing whatever bit of material to Cripps to fighting off O'Driscolls. We're always touching each other, holding each other, bridging communication with them. Now and then we give *those* gestures to each other, all part of our marriage.
I hear some call him ugly. An absurd accusation! I look down and see laugh lines in his eyes, that stupid smile, that nose . . . I only see a hopelessly adorable man who is now nibbling on one of my knuckles, complete with the same soft eyes as a spaniel puppy. Yes, how hideous.
And then there are those who do think he's a bit of a stud. Naturally, I agree. With that swagger, he likes to think he's showing me off around town, but in reality, it's just as much of a time to show him off. I see the looks he gets when he's dressed in his best from both ladies and gentlemen and it fills me with pride. Some even think he looks just as good dressed down, and I'd agree. Some call him babygirl and, well, I do too. If you really want to get him to blush, call him Babygirl Kitten Whiskers.
"You are irresistible!" I grin and tap his nose.
Dutch just outright grins, nipping at my finger. I love seeing this playful side to him, I love bringing it out, as he does with me. We're two old fools in love who often act like we're back in our earlier years together and I love it. May it never change.
"I've been called worse."
I've heard the words from bounties who have the face of a potato to some of his study subjects, many of which I have a hard time distinguishing; good on Dutch to know who from who. So many of them wear similar outfits, similar hairstyles, and some even sound like each other. I think he's a gorgeous man and his unique features make him stand out among the rest.
I've heard he is stupid. While I do consider myself the brains of our relationship, and he has many of those moments where I think his brain was left on the side of the road somewhere between Van Horn and Tumbleweed, there's a strange brilliance to him. He does much of his studies when his study subjects aren't aware he's studying them; he'll walk into a bar and watch them interact in the corner of his eyes, on a verandah, on a walkway as he smokes a cigar or plays the harmonica. He'll dress down to blend in with the townsfolk, to mixed results; some recognize him right away with those unique features of his and other times he slips through the cracks.
I've been told our relationship isn't real and only exists in the minds of those with a 'creative imagination'. I heard this has been happening in some strange circles I've never heard of before. In all likelihood, *they*, the deniers, don't exist.
I let my hand slip down to Dutch's belly, which I start to rub over in slow, gentle strokes; I know that the whole region is ticklish but my intent is just to rub. He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh, his head tilting back. With the proximity to so many vital areas, this is a vulnerable spot for most living beings and to be allowed to touch it on some certain species, especially cats, is the highest honour, as means total trust. We have to admit he has some catlike tendencies; so an ultimate symbol of trust it is for us. I got him to 'purr' for you a little earlier, and he's starting up again as I trace a finger along the shape of his navel. Utter and complete trust in such a sweet and willingly vulnerable moment.
With the reactions I am getting out of him, who could deny we aren't a real couple? Who can deny the deep love that we have for another, and who are they to deny us? Pass the bucket, sponge and mop, I think he's melting on me, and maybe I'm melting with him into a puddle on the ground.
I've been told our relationship is 'toxic', nothing can be further from the truth. Soulmates are meant to be and soulmates we are. I am the head of the relationship - a purely consensual decision which also happened naturally - but in no way do I view Dutch as inferior, nor does he feel it. The love, respect and trust we have for each other is unquestioned, and I need him as much as he needs me.
"You tryin' to get me back to sleep, 'Sea?" Dutch murmured, one eye half open, sneaking a kiss on my belly and caught by surprise, I let out an unexpected squeak. I dare not react further as it'd only encourage him or give him ideas. I'm not a particularly ticklish individual as this idiot here is (do as you wish with this disclosed information about him, he deserves it), but there's something about the feeling of that mustache (which is softer than it might look), on your skin.
Some say he is charming and I am in full agreeance with them. Perhaps he is being more silly and adorable right now than what you'd typically consider charming, but charming nonetheless. He certainly knows how to work his charms; as you know, he enjoys getting me jealous and possessive. He knows what words to use when I'm mad with him, feeling down about whatever.
I maintain a large personal space when I'm particularly angry at him and he respects it and doesn't dare cross over that invisible barrier. Doing so means I won't hear those words, so I won't see the pleading in his eyes . . . And also means he won't be cuddling me much like how a child hugs a teddy bear when they need comfort, holding my hand to console. It's an incredibly hard moment for us both.
Right now though, I'm far from angry at him.
"No, not done yet!" I smirk and move my hand over to his waist; that spot over that sweet spot right hip that makes him squirm and he moves up into my touch like a giant cat. I love making him move, making him squirm and he knows it but never truly fights it.
Dutch grins a lopsided grin, that stupid, silly grin. "Nor do I want it to be done."
That slutty little waist that he has is perfect for dancing, particularly as he's gotten a bit soft in the middle; I'd wager to say he's an even better dancer now. A touch to the waist represents movement on the physical level, but also on the mental level. If he is feeling down, we often take hold of each other by the waist, pull each other against ourselves, and just hold each other like that for a long while. Maybe one arm would be over our torso but one would always remain at our hip. A particular adorable thing Dutch often does when I take hold of his waist is that he'll lift one leg off the ground, and balance his weight a bit against me when I least expect it as if trying to tip me over. I then proceed to tickle him or send him on his way with a smack on the ass if he does knock me off balance or nearly so, as he deserves it, the shit.
My next destination on Dutch is his face once more; I missed a spot. Along the way though I dance my fingers back up his torso again. He lightly places a hand over mine as if he is following me on my journey over his body, something I catch him doing from time to time. He seems to do it a bit absentmindedly.
"I want . . . I want what you've been done to me to be done to you." His voice is . . . Soft, asking. Maybe he thinks he's been neglecting me; truth be told he's nearly smothering me but . . .
I tap him lightly on the nose. "When I'm done here we can trade places."
I drift my finger over his mustache, and I lightly trace the shape of it that he trims to perfection. He gives me a nip; there's a spark in his eyes and he holds my finger in his teeth for a moment, as if it was one of his cigars, before he lets go after I give him another light boop to the tip of his nose.
"You are a pain in the ass!" I scoff, and my idiot companion just grins.
"You knew what you weres getting into."
I huff, but ruffle up that lovely hair of his. "Don't remind me. I got that all that and more."
Dutch lets out a hearty chuckle, absent-mindedly playing with one of my hands again. He just can't keep his hands off of them, even as we sleep he has to hold onto one. "I thought It'd be fun to throw in a few surprises!"
"Smartass!"
I know I shouldn't encourage him, but I grin and return to my duties before he tries to distract me again. I apologize for the interruptions I'm getting here; with Dutch, rarely does anything involving go right to plan.
I trace along the edge of Dutch's trademark mustache, which he twitches. In a moment he'll take a nip at my fingers; the playful glisten in his eyes tells me that time is coming very soon. As if on cue, he does take a nip but just misses my finger. The back of a finger strokes over that soft mustache, but instead of nipping at it, he gives it a kiss. From the mustache, I move my touch over to that silly soul patch; it's a silly, tufty thing. I give it a light tug. A touch to the lips means love; with them, we try to say all the right things with them, and we kiss with them. The thing with his head in my lap has a thing for having his mustache stroked.
I'm convinced there's not a place on Dutch's body where doesn't love being touched, and I find it charming. Even at our nightly readings, we'll be reading our paragraphs to each other, and he'll be touching one foot against mine, just for the contact. Or maybe to be just slightly annoying, or both.
"Sure you want to change positions?" I ask, warmly looking down at my love with his head in my hands; he looks so comfortable, and beautiful in such a state of bliss. He still looks willingly vulnerable.
Dutch nods and after a long moment, no words, just soft eye contact, he slowly sits up. He kisses me softly on the lips and I just as sotly return it, before he gently guides me onto his lap as I did with him. It's strange to have him being this quiet but he can say a lot without saying a thing just by his expressions.
He takes his time exploring my face with a finger, as he did all those many years ago. We were watching the clouds one day. We need to do another cloud-watching; right now it's raining so not great, but maybe when the rain stops, and the sun comes out.
"Eyes . . . " Dutch murmurs, tracing a finger along a cheekbone. "Windows into the soul . . . "
I almost cry at that. He'd been vocally quiet thus far today, as he often is when it rains, but it wasn't just the words, there was something about the tone in which he spoke them which went right into my soul with that statement. I hold onto one of his hands and give it a squeeze as he does often with me. My breathing is hitched and I feel a finger brush away a tear. I leaked a bit, I suppose.
"God, you're beautiful . . . " I whisper, and reposition slowly so that I can reach up and touch his face as it feels as if he is looking lovingly into my soul. "I don't say it enough but you are. You frustrate me, you know that, but then you catch me off guard like this, and . . . "
Dutch chuckles a bit at being called frustrating but he gets it. "I guess I'm doin' my job." He winks.
I smile and kiss his finger. Dutch is a man of many hats, quite literally. He's an outlaw who'll rustle livestock and has once or twice cleared out Emerald Ranch of its stock on some occasions and can clean houses of its valuables. He's a bootlegger, a bounty hunter, a market hunter, a gambler, a collector of tarot cards and purloined family heirlooms . . . And a purveyor of my heart.
"Yes, yes you are, Duchess, yes you are."
I smirk a bit as I want to demonstrate how that nickname affects him. "Duchess Babygirl Kitten Whiskers . . ." And sure enough, he blushes and coyly tucks his chin in.
Big bad tough Dutch Van der Linde, ladies and gentlemen.
He gets even tougher when I nuzzle my face against his tummy, and sneak a kiss in. He reacts with a squirm and outright *giggles*, a sound I'm sure you wouldn't expect to hear from him. I love how ticklish he is; it's an adorable trade secret I'm willing to let out of the bag and let you use as you wish; that's an honour (just return him towards the end of the day; he's a nice intimidation factor on those long trading routes). I often sneak it in as 'punishment' to 'reign him in' and just because. And this time it was 'punishment'; it seems only fair as well that he distracted me while doing this thing and I'll do the same for him. Plus, I couldn't resist when given such an opportunity.
"Now you aren't goin' to let me do this are you?" Dutch laughs, those crow's feet ever evident in the corners of his eyes.
I grin. "Maybe if I'm nice."
He kisses the back of my hand, and almost reluctantly brings it down with him as he moves to lightly touch where my ear connects to my jawline.
I close my eyes with a happy little sigh. Each time he touches that area I'm reminded of our second date. He was shy and awkward at first but it was the first place he kissed aside from my lips; I never thought it'd be so sensitive to touch, but . . . It was just waiting to be discovered.
"Memories . . . " He spoke quietly. "A touch here . . . Memories."
I let out a happy sigh but feel myself getting emotional again. Dutch looks down at me with concern in those expressive eyes. I take him by the hand that touched me in that sweet spot and give it a squeeze in reassurance, as he does for me so many times. Dutch needs a lot of reassurance, more than he lets on at times.
"It's okay . . . " I speak softly, massaging a knuckle. "It feels good to release these feelings. You just helped draw them out."
"How is it that we know what each other thinks . . . ?" Dutch asks in a soft voice, unmistakenly mixed with awe and wonder, unexpected innocence even, and a slight emotive shake to it. "How we even know what we'll say next?"
I kiss his fingers and feel a tear escaping from my eyes, which he softly wipes away, and I see the waterworks turning on for him too. A lot of people see the stoic side of Dutch, and I see it as well, but at times, well, he makes himself emotional.
"Because we're soulmates."
Dutch repeats that word in nearly a whisper. You're likely familiar with how (sometimes obnoxiously) loud he can get when he talks, but when he speaks quietly, it's such a sweet, sweet sound that bores into my soul.
"Soulmates . . . "
I give his hand another squeeze, link my fingers in between his and softly wipe away his tears. He puts on a halfhearted stoic show as I do so, but I know better. There's little that can get past me; he knows but still tries.
"I ain't cryin', 'Sea. Allergy season."
I just smile a bit and shake my head. "You softy."
"I ain't a softy!"
I laugh and grab that lovely chin of his as he studies my face; he closes his eyes and lets out the best imitation a man can make of a cat purring. With a free hand, he holds my hand there. I'm convinced he set himself up for that to happen; as per my footise mention a bit ago, if he can find a way to get some part of himself touched, grabbed, or kissed, or swatted, he'll find a way. Dutch is a needy fellow, and needs reassurance; I think some of that comes out of his need to be affectionate and to get affection, though ultimately the love we have for each other has a heavier weight on the scale.
"If you say so."
Dutch gives me a light tap on the nose. "You really want to draw this out, don't you? Not that I'm complaining, I could stare at you and touch you all day . . . " His voice has a low, deep quality to it and feel his eyes dance among his point of view.
"Alway among my favourite places to . . . " He purrs as a knuckle of a finger drags along my collarbone.
Love biting, Dutch likes to love bite me there. Not always in a romantic context but when he's in a playful mood, when he thinks I'm not paying attention enough to me or him to me. Normally I actually enjoy it but there's a bruise there from a few nights ago when he got a bit too hard. He felt terrible, as did I; I . . . Hit him as an involuntary response and we just held each other.
"I'm not mad at ya anymore . . . " I reassure warmly as he avoids touching the bruise and I lightly touch him on his wrist. "Wasn't really after five minutes. You felt you were neglecting me and got a bit enthusiastic. Truth be told you never neglect me. Never."
I give him eye contact, which tells him I speak only the truth. His affection is nearly suffocating.
It's no secret that Dutch has large hands, and I love them. They cover so much ground over my smaller and slightly delicate frame (which makes me being the one in charge a bit amusing) frame but he takes his time. He moves his focus right over to my heart.
"Forever my favourite part of yours."
I tease. "My hands might get jealous."
Dutch grins a playful grin, a sparkle in his eyes. He likes those hands so much he'll do anything to 'accidentally' touch them or be touched by them. "Oh, I think I may have a way to derail their jealousy."
"Don't I know it!"
I let out a hearty laugh, and let out a long, happy sigh as he 'draws' hearts over my heart. I almost cry again; damn him for making me feel emotional again. It's a sweet little gesture that started in our early dating scene and sort of went the wayside of other affectionate gestures, but seems it's making its way back again, apparently!
"Been a bit since we've done that eh?" Dutch reminisces, now tracing an H and a D over my heart, as if he were carving our initials on a tree.
Just as he had done with me, I place my hand on top of his as he 'draws' on me, as if guiding him, though there wasn't any need for such. He knows my body as well as his own. He purrs again as he 'draws' a star over my heart.
"Because you are my guiding star."
It should be illegal for Dutch to be as cute as he is. I should have every right to handcuff that man, put him on the back of my horse and take him to jail for that crime of stealing my heart and making me feel what I do.
"And you say you aren't a softy." I know better.
Dutch's cheeks flush at realizing what he's said, though it was very sweet. He has long had moments over the years where he had caught himself off guard and I help with the catching. He has a big smile as he cradles my head in those paws of his that could light up the entire of West Elizabeth, where we're camped at right now, and maybe beyond. His eyes look at once filled with love, with a bit of playfulness.
"Okay, you win."
I nuzzle my face against his belly again, taking pleasure in hearing those little un-Dutchlike sounds of happiness as he shifts slightly, helping me move up closer against him a little more. He doesn't make a bad human headrest. He's gone soft in all the right places and I love him more for it.
"Hmmm where should we go now, hmm . . . " Dutch murmured, walking his fingers slowly down my form.
I feel as if I'm ready to purr. He hasn't lost his edge in making me feel good; if anything, he's better at it. Just so he doesn't get any ideas, I gently tease him. "Not that kind of story, Dutch, the rating isn't high enough."
He blushes a bit again. "Aw, where's the fun in that?"
"You'll get your un later, Duchess." I smile, tapping his arm, one of my love taps that I reserve for those I especially hold dear to me.
For the most part, Dutch loves it when I tease him. Sometimes I get a bit harsh and it cuts deeper than it should, but he never gets upset for long and of course, he'll tease me at any opportunity. Another thing that people might take wrong with us - particularly me, is the teasing, the assertion that it hurts the confidence of those that I love and nothing could be further from the truth. I call this fellow an idiot and he still struts about like a peacock when he's well-dressed and I come into town with him. Truthfully I only tease those I love in this manner, sometimes I go a bit hard, we both can, but it's out of pure affection.
I sigh as Dutch traces his hand trace along my belly. His fingers *dance* on my form, as if exploring the vast range, as we do from time to time. Instead, he's patrolling the range on the smaller man with the head on his lap, who is using his softening and warm torso as a pillow.
"Vulnerability . . . " Dutch purrs, his touches moving in slow, rhythmic touches that he knows that I love. "Vulnerability as well as trust, and with that trust, a willingness to show vulnerability to each other."
And he is right. Even in the way I'm lying, I'm in a vulnerable position; I'm the top dog so to speak and yet my lower form is open and available to him, but willingly so. I hitch my breath for a moment as he finds his way down to the 'v' in my groin.
"Are you going where I think you're going?" I ask in a playful tone.
Dutch tilts his head, looking innocent but I know better, and he knows too. His voice takes on a playful lit, that Southern drawl of his coming out to play. "Just travellin' down south a little for our next destination."
"Be careful you don't start something you can't finish!" I wink, but let out a sharp breath as he is now using both hands to explore each side of the 'v'; from his touch, he is being more playful than trying to be seductive (the term playfully seductive might apply here), but well, my body reacts all the same.
"Passion . . . " Dutch murmurs, slowing his touch some. "After all these years, we still have it, 'Sea."
My voice takes on a rougher tone as I feel my heartbeat start to pick up a pace. "That we do. . . . "
We might reserve our most intimate moments of passion and fury for Fridays, lovingly termed 'Hosea Fucks Friday', minus the odd time our multi-hat-wearing lifestyle allows it and decide that Friday is far too long to wait. Those times when Cripps puts us up in a hotel to give us some more privacy (and for him to get a bit of peace when he grows weary of hearing us get a bit excited), those times when I wake up first and take in the gorgeous sight of this man pre hair pomade and looking at once gorgeous and ridiculous as he wakes at the same time, and nothing could be held back.
Dutch takes a gentle hold of my hand and eases me up when he feels, and sees me shifting. "I still have the magic spell on you, don't I?" He's practically beaming, even puffing his chest out just a touch.
"Oh, you . . . " I can't get frustrated at that, anything but.
Dutch holds me close against him with his strong arms; our hearts up against each other. I almost posessively wrap a leg around that waist, silently minding him who he belongs to.
"Who belongs to me?" I almost growl.
Dutch's eyes are soft, and I let out a soft sigh as he rubs my back and rests his head against mine. He got me worked up and now he's trying to get me to relax? This silly man! It's a wonder I haven't ripped my hair out by now.
"I do."
I was that soft 'I do' that softened me back again. I gently pull away just a moment, just so that I could frame his head in my hands. Our foreheads touch when he gently brings his forehead against mine. There's been a few times when I've seen stars when his head smacked against mine in an attempt at a forehead 'boop', but he was careful this time.
"That's right!" I smile and kiss the tip of his nose.
Dutch's mustache twists into a lopsided smile. "I think I'm in love with you, Hosea."
Our lips meet, a kiss is made, and a kiss is returned, and I find myself pushing Dutch onto his back again on that single-person bed.
