|The Damage Which Does Not End The World pt.2
||[May. 22nd, 2011|03:35 pm]
Pairing: Al Swearengen/Seth Bullock; Al/Jack Langrishe implied
Rating: N17/M for bad language, m/m sex, power exchange, non-con, armchair psychology implied
Disclaimer: I own nothing, make nothing, nothing to look at here...
Spoilers: info about the rather truncated ending of the series. Some notions pull from Meredith's character in "44 in Chest".
Summary: Al guides Seth in working through his part in acquiescence to Hearst's demands by sharing some of his life- journey from powerlessness to powerful. Huge assumptions made re: Mrs. Anderson's role and Jack Langrishe's role in Al's life.
Bullock had not thought his fear could hit a higher pitch, but as Swearengen pulled his pants and under-drawers down to his knees, he began shaking. Now the litany in his mind was I can't live though this, I can't live through this, No, please, God, no, I'll die, I'll die, I CAN'T, I CAN'T!
The skin of his buttocks was all goose-bumps and sweat, hard muscle twitching and jumping. Al took a second to evaluate the younger man with a flesh-peddler's eye. Firm, hard, no fat at all; almost too angular, not near curvy enough. Deep cleft, though, and tight. Trick could get off just rubbing between those cheeks, jack off all over his ass. Not too much to hold on to, but manageable. Shit, fucker's got a set of hairy ones, even if they are all clenched up.
He took his dark uncut prick out of his long johns, making sure it rubbed against Bullock’s ass as he reached for Doc Cochran's pussy cream. He'd been told often enough how fuckin' huge it felt from that angle. Some voices had spoken with admiration, others with trepidation. Lucky fuck I am, he thought wryly, blessed with an appealing dick. Lucky fuckin' me.
The touch set Bullock trembling harder. Holy Mother of God, Al's prick felt like the handle on a pickax. Why is his prick so hot, he wondered? He felt a rough hand on his back, almost like the bastard was trying to steady him, to soothe him. He could feel something else break inside his soul, and stifled a sob.
A leathery hand slapped his right ass-cheek. “You listenin' to me?” a gruff voice questioned.
Bullock moved his head a fraction up and down.
The voice continued. “You ever fucked anybody up the ass, Bullock? No? First thing you need to know is, you gotta get things loosened up in there. Now, some fucks just start rammin' and shoving, and those are the fucks that deserve a blade to the throat after, you want my opinion”.
Al paused to unscrew the lid of the jar, dug out a big dollop, and smeared it at the top of Bullock's ass cleft. Bullock could feel Al's rough left hand, middle stump wrapped in its dirty bandage, firm on his hip.
With horror, he felt his ass-cheeks being pulled apart.
“Jesus, Bullock, don't make this harder than it already is, hmm? Fuckin' ease off the clench! Oh, and you might want to stuff some a'your shirt in your mouth, give yourself something to bite on”.
Tears continued to leak out Bullock's eyes as he bit into the fabric bunched around his cuffs. He tried to go limp, thinking about injuries, but the first touch of cold lotion on his virgin hole tightened him up again.
Al looked dispassionately at the tightly furled, light-brown pucker below him. Not a very hairy one, at least. One a' them starfish-lookin' ones. Least he's clean. Point for you, Sheriff, he thought to himself.
He coated his left thumb with the cream, rubbed the pad of his thumb around and across this target, then set his thumb-tip at the center of the twitching hole. He could feel a kind of buck coming from Bullock, trying to shake him off. As he concentrated on steadily pushing the greased thumb into the constricting sheath, Al absently patted the Sherrif's ass with his free hand.
Bullock stilled as he became afraid to move. It felt like he was taking a shit, but...not quite. Slippery-like. He expected a tearing, searing pain, but this was more of a squeezing, pinching sensation. Then something loosened in the tight muscles guarding his sensitive hole and he felt Al's thumb slide fully into him. He could feel sweat starting to drip off his forehead onto his hands. He wanted the thick thumb expelled out of his body, but dreaded what would then follow. Jesus, he could feel that last big knuckle holding his hole stretched and open. His fear of that digit being replaced by a prick three times that size made his stomach roil. He'd felt less helpless looking down the barrel of a gun.
Al reached into the jar again, getting a larger scoop. He braced his stomach and prick against Bullock's ass, grimacing as the motion of pushing his thumb forward caused some pulling on his stump's bandage.
Widening his knees for balance, he reached around Bullock's hip and took hold of his prick. Unsurprised at the beginning hard-on he found, he sought for that rhythm that would let him fuck Bullock's ass with his thumb while pulling his prick in front. A twist of his thumb and he would be at that inner nut-spot that felt so fuckin' good when touched.
He idly wondered if the widow or the schoolteacher had ventured a dainty, spit-covered finger up there...Bullock's sudden arching made him think not.
Bullock's humiliation doubled when he realized his dick was getting hard. He started to try to twist away, but then Al's fist reached the head of his dick and started its return slide, and getting away seemed like it could wait a second or so. A shameful thought began forming. I wonder if this is how he jerks his prick when he's alone?
And then Al's thumb touched something that shut down Bullock's thinking entirely, save for a fleeting image of the sparks flying from Blazanov's telegraph contraption. He arched his ass up, towards Al, as if he wanted more violation. It felt to him like the thrusting was going too slow, and he started bucking now to fuck Al's thumb faster. He would save shame for later—right now, he needed more of that hot, sparky sensation that seemed to run from his ass to his prick on a hot bright rail.
He stuffed more of his shirt between his teeth. He wanted to cry "No!" and "Yes!" and "God!" all at the same time.
Fuck, Al thought. Shoulda spared some lotion for my own prick. Bronco Bullock here coulda got me off with just the ass-rubbin'. He kept a steady pulling slide on the younger man's prick, which was now flowing with its own juices.
A snarling voice ran though his mind “This IS a grip I am used to, Mr. Swearengen”.
Fuck you, Hearst, he thought. I will fuck you out of both our minds, you murdering fuck!
A noise beneath him made him realize his anger had roughened his handling. His rhythm steadied, only going faster again to match his increasing pressure on Bullock’s prostate. Bullock began to issue short, whimpering breaths that came closer and closer together. Low grunts of effort came from deep in Al's throat. The friction of Bullock's ass cheeks on his prick was lighting a flame deep in his belly. For the first time since his mutilation, he had real hope he'd be giving Dolly something to really work with next time she was on her knees.
Suddenly, Bullock stiffened; a long second passed...then his back heaved as hot thick fluid spurted from his prick onto the faded quilt under his belly. Al slowed and lightened his touch. His thumb was clenched over and over by the Sheriff's spasming hole. After a last hard clench, he slid his thumb out, drawing a sob from the man under him. A last rub against Bullock's ass for his own hard-on, and Al pulled away. Wiping his hands with a corner of the bed sheet, he pulled a chair to the head of the bed and sat, waiting for Bullock to stop shaking.
“Bullock,” Al began. “I'm not going to get into your apparent...enjoyment of what just happened here. " He noted the cooling puddle of semen on the quilt starting to spread below Bullock's balls ." But would it be fair to say you thought you were going to get ass-fucked just now?"
Bullock's mind found language again. Sodomy. Sodomite. Ass-fucking. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
Al raised his eyebrows. “And if I had gone that far, why would you have let yourself get ass-fucked?”
A fake look of puzzlement came over Al's face as he went on. “Had you not wanted that outcome, how could that have happened? Would it have been because you're a pussy? Because you didn't fight me hard enough? You didn't want any of this,” (at least at first, he thought to himself), “so what the fuck happened? Were you...weak?”
Bullock saw a red haze before his eyes. In a sober, hard tone, the words started flowing. “No, you goddamn son-of-a-bitch. It was because you tricked me, and used hardware to hold me, and threats to ruin me, and over-fucking-powered me with tools and tricks and un-fucking-fair advantage, you miserable piece of shit!”
Al looked tired. He put a hand on Bullock's shoulder.
“And when we fail,” he continued, “because we're out-armed, or tied up, or held down by some fuck much bigger than us, or because some asshole can afford a better fuckin' private army, or because we're just not in the right place when Hell breaks loose...” he forced the younger man to meet his eyes “is it rational to say we're “weak”? That make any fuckin' sense to you?”
He could see some comprehension coming into Bullock's eyes, even mixed with the confusion. “You saying not being able to stop...bad shit from happenin'...that can't all be laid to...droppin' the ball, bein' too stupid to get it right?”
Al sat back, arms crossed. “Oh, it can be, if you don't try, or you hide your eyes from it like a little kid scared of the dark. But a man gives his best effort to divert the shit that's comin', and is just out-gunned, so to speak?” He shrugged. “Man can lose a game, without turnin' into a loser”.
Bullock looked younger than his years as he pondered Al's words. I can lose, and not be a loser? I can fail, and not be a failure? The words rolled around his mind like shiny new marbles, like an unexpected gift on a poor Christmas morning. Are they real, or will they disappear if I try to touch them?
Al stood, tucking his half-hard prick (Fuckin Bullock strikes again, he thought) back into his long johns, snapped a few snaps closed, and walked over to the Sheriff’s coat, feeling for the pocket and finding the key he knew would be there. After a long look at Bullock's back, ass still canted up a bit, he quietly lifted the Sherrif's gun and gun belt, walked into his office, and laid them behind his desk.
He could feel the faded cotton sticking to his prick with his own fluids that had started to leak, there at the end. Twenty years ago, there would have been a hell of a bigger puddle under that boy, he thought with a smile that had a touch of nostalgia.
Sitting down again by the bed, he nudged Bullock's cheek until he could see his eyes again.
“Now, I'm gonna unlock these cuffs.” He noted the younger man's stiffening.
”Couple things can happen after that,” he continued. “You can control yourself and we can have any conversation you think you need to have with me, wipe your ass so the missus don't smell unfamiliar lotions and the like if she should happen to get up close to your nether regions, and get the fuck home.
“Or, you can act the fool, go for your iron that ain't where you saw it last, by the way, while I get my blade, which location I know exactly, and this night will have an unhappier turn than it has to. I can play it either way, preferrin' the former.”
Bullock closed his eyes. “Open these cuffs. I give you my word I will take my leave without trying to cause you harm, and I expect your guarantee, for what that's worth, that neither of us will speak of this...fuckin' lesson. To anyone. Ever!”
Al waited a long beat: “Agreed, then.”
Al turned the tiny key in the cuffs' keyhole. “Now, you're gonna be stiff for a minute, in your arms and legs and neck.” He dampened a rag in the washbasin and tossed it over. “Clean yourself before pulling your drawers back up. I am dead serious about women and their noses sniffin' out the strange”.
Al gathered his discarded clothes and started dressing.
“So as not to further intrude on your sensibilities, I'll be lookin' out the window here while you get yourself together,” Al said, figuring the Sheriff wouldn't be familiar with the reflective clarity of the side window back into the room.
The younger man seemed to relax and fall naturally back into his upright, self-assured posture as he cleaned and dressed himself. Seemed...lighter, somehow.
“Can I ask you something?”
Jesus, Mary and Joesph, this night is never gonna end, thought Al. But he had started it; he'd finish it right.
“Yeah. Make it short.”
“Why didn't you...what stopped you from, you know...doin' everything you could have?”
He figured that was coming.
“Okay if I turn around, Bullock?”
Al faced the other man, crossed his arms, raised an eyebrow. “Didn't want to, for starters.”
“Look, Bullock, I happen to not have an interest in men. I prefer a woman's snatch, or mouth, and on a rare occasion, a woman's ass, but I don't happen to have a natural bent towards a man’s parts, other options bein' available. Besides, not meanin' to hurt your feelins', but I doubt your virgin hole would’ve handled my eight and a half without ill result. I'd not have you bleedin' on my bedclothes or bringing your bloody as well as come-stained under-drawers home for Mrs. Bullock to find. Got too much respect for the woman for that.”
Seth held onto the foot-board, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Al pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a second. In a soft voice, he heard, “how did you know this would work?”
He opened his eyes.
“Seen it work,” he said, moving to the chair behind his desk, putting his feet up as he poured a last shot for himself.
Looking past Bullock, he continued. “I knew this kid in Chicago once, been made a whore. Pitiful fuck...mother threw him in an orphanage so she could go off whorin' herself, a family took him in long enough to beat and blame him for their own boy dying, then back to the orphanage to be pimped out as a fuck-boy. Short, skinny little fuck, too, even after he was beyond his “tender” years.” He gave a sarcastic snort at this.
“Anyways, his head was all fucked up like yours was, all bemoaning why he wasn't a good enough son for his mommy to keep him, or a good enough brother to keep his foster brother from dyin', or a good enough kid to make his foster family treat him fair. Just like you, all beatin' his breast and cryin' how worthless he must be, everything he touched turnin' to shit they way it did. Sorry fuck had decided to check out, see...not a doper, but settin' aside money for dope for one great big hit, put himself outta his misery.”
Bullock quietly sat down in front of Al's desk. AL had a distant look in his eyes and had gone quiet.
“So,” Curiosity making Bullock prod in spite of his better judgment, “did he?”
Al shot him a sharp look. “Jesus wept, Bullock! How the fuck would I have heard his story if he offed himself? I need to call Johnny in here, help you figure this out?”
Before Bullock could answer, Al continued.
“No, he did not, because about that time,” Al paused to absently wipe one side of his mustache, then the other, “a fancied-up dude bought a couple hours with the fuck-boy, and liked his prick and the like enough to become his regular trick.
“Now, what I heard was, the fancy dude worked on the kid's head similar to how I just did to you. I suppose there were some differences, being as that was a nineteen year old fuck-boy with nothing, and you're a grown married lawman, businessman, and pillar of the community...but bottom line, that boy got it through his head about taking your damage like a man, moving past it if you still got living breath, gettin' to the point where he could give some damage back, situation warranting, of course.
“And not blaming himself every time life handed him a sack of shit.”
Bullock looked down at his hat to conceal a beginning smile, knowing he was flirting with Swearengen's concealed knife, suspecting he was flirting with concealed demons. “So, how'd that boy turn out? If you know, I mean.”
Al finished his shot. “The fuck should I know? Far as that goes, cocksucker coulda made the whole thing up. His story was that the fancy-dude trick had feelings for him, but knew whatever talents the boy had in the sack with men, romance and fairy-tale, happy-ever-after was not on the table as an option. Kid's honest fondness was for the ladies, not that there's a red cent in that, outside of running 'em.”
He sighed before continuing. “Kid said the fancy dude gave him a decent-sized stake so he could quit havin' to be a fuck-boy. Took that stake, plus the money he laid by for that suicide dope, and “lit out for the territories” as they say. “
Moving towards the corner where he had laid the Sheriff’s hardware, he said over his shoulder, “I can tell you this: that kid surely did better for himself after that fancy dude schooled him like I schooled you tonight, that he would've, had the wailing and breast-beatin' over fuckin' failure kept on.”
Bullock accepted the tools of his office. “You figure that kid had appreciation for that schoolin'?”
His ass twitched as he tried to discern the possibility of any kind feelings towards Swearengen, and failed completely, although he no longer felt like putting a bullet through his brain.
Al had his hand on the doorknob. “What? Oh, fuck no. Feeling I got was, the kid stayed kinda on the angry side a while...seems like he said they met up again and came to some kind of friendly understandin', but don't quote me on that.
“Never can tell, going through something like that with another person. Might lead you to trustin 'em for the rest of your life, them already knowin' your secrets, or might lead you to never wantin' to lay eyes on 'em again, same fuckin' reason. Who the fuck knows with people, hmm?”
Bullock stepped over the threshold. “Expect that depends on the particular cocksuckers involved”.
A gnarled hand slapped him on the back. “Expect it does”.
Leaning over the railing, he called after the Sheriff as Bullock descended the stairs. “Have yourself a suck or a drink on the house if you like; otherwise, I'll bid you fair-fuckin'-well.”
He turned to Davy. “If Dolly don't have a payin' customer, send her on up.” As he walked into his rooms, he called over his shoulder. “Tell her it shouldn't take long,” as he surreptitiously brushed his fingers over his hard-on.
Don't have to be a connoisseur of the male asshole to appreciate the Sheriff did have a nice hot tight one, he thought to himself. Prick was a fine specimen, too, far as that goes, if an honest opinion were to be solicited.
Bullock headed out into the false dawn. A new day, he thought. I get a couple hours sleep, I think I'll ask Martha where she'd like a flower garden, put in something pretty.
Al woke to an unfamiliar tapping on his door. “Yeah,” he called.
“Open the damn door, ya layabout!” an Irish brogue came through the door.
Oh, Christ, what now? Al thought to himself. What the fuck has him up at this hour? He grabbed his pants from the chair, sliding them over his long johns, buttoning up as he walked to the door.
. There stood Jack Langrishe with a...a tea tray?
“Yer poor afflicted lady-in-waiting was strugglin' with his Highness's breakfast tray when I thought to rescue her from her plight and humble myself to serve yer lazy arse,” Jack said, putting the tray on the desk with a flourish.
“Come in, Jack”, he said with a smile, and closed the door.
“Well, as you could have seen, had your wits not been befuddled by a late and dissolute night, I'm already in,” Jack retorted as he sat down.
“You are that,” Al agreed. Jack's dramatic bullshit always had that warmth behind it, some inborn actor craft.
Jack poured Al a cup of coffee, and filled a glass with water from the pitcher he also brought up. He walked to the window, strolled around the office before coming back to stand behind Al.
“Coffee AND water? Will I find you've secreted a canteen of tea in your coat?” Al said with a tired smile, keeping his eyes on his eggs.
“My boy, giving young men absolution through the wee hours is thirsty work, at least as best as my poor memory can recall.”
Jack laid his hands on Al's shoulders, massaging them lightly. Al leaned his head back against Jack 's stomach, feeling the solid warmth against the back of his head.
“Your recollections are correct, Jack.” He sighed. “I am fucking exhausted still, though the redhead bears some blame.”
Hearing no footsteps in the hall, Al allowed himself a moment of complete relaxation. Opening his eyes, he looked up at Jack, still behind him. A half- hidden smile played over his lips as he reached up and patted Jack's hand with surprising tenderness, then held it tightly for a heartbeat.
Thanks, Jack,” Al said in a low voice. “Thanks for everything.”
Jack held still a second, then leaned over and whispered in Al's ear.“I'd do it all over again, my boy. No regrets for any of it." His lips touched Al's ear so gently, it might have been an accident.
Straightening, Jack clapped his hand on Al's shoulder, and walked to the chair on the other side of the desk. Coffee poured and cutlery clinking against the plates, two old friends enjoyed their breakfast.