Chapter Text
A – Aftercare
Uncle’s idea of aftercare is lying there like a collapsed sack of laundry and announcing, with great solemnity, that he may never walk again.
Not because anything went wrong.
Because of the lumbago.
“Oh, Lord,” he groans, one hand on his lower back, the other reaching blindly for the bottle beside the bedroll. “You’ve done it now. Woman’s killed me.”
“You’re fine.”
“I am not fine. I am wounded in the line of duty.”
“You were lying down the whole time.”
“Exactly. Defenseless.”
Despite all the complaining, he is not useless afterward. He will throw an arm around you if you curl near him. He will offer you water, though he pretends it is a heroic sacrifice to reach for the canteen. He will pat your hip with lazy affection and mumble something like, “You did all right, considering you nearly crippled a sick man.”
Then, after a pause:
“Come closer. For warmth. Medical reasons.”
B – Body Part
Yours? Your backside.
Uncle is not subtle. He has never met subtlety, and if he did, he probably tried to borrow money from it.
He likes watching you walk away. He likes making comments that get him smacked. He likes resting his hand there with the confidence of a man who truly believes charm can get him out of consequences.
“Now that,” he says, squinting appreciatively, “is worth getting out of bed for.”
“You never get out of bed.”
“Exactly. That’s how you know I mean it.”
His? His belly.
Uncle is not ashamed of it. Why would he be? That belly has survived whiskey, stew, hard ground, bad weather, worse decisions, and several decades of avoiding honest labor. He pats it like an old friend.
He claims it makes him better to lie on.
He may be right.
C – Cum
Uncle talks a much bigger game than his body is always prepared to support, which means when he does finish, he treats it like a historical event.
“Well,” he pants, staring up at the canvas above him, “there goes the last of my youth.”
“You had youth left?”
“I was saving it.”
He is smug afterward, though in the tired, half-dead way of a man who has exerted himself more than he intended. He will make some ridiculous comment about leaving you “properly appreciated” and then immediately ask if you can pass him his bottle, his shirt, his blanket, and possibly his dignity.
If you tease him for being exhausted, he becomes deeply offended.
“I’ll have you know I gave a performance.”
“You complained through half of it.”
“That’s part of the performance.”
D – Dirty Talk
Uncle’s dirty talk is terrible.
Not ineffective.
Terrible.
He has the confidence of a legendary seducer and the phrasing of a man who learned romance behind a saloon from three drunk cowhands and a raccoon.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that and my lumbago’s liable to improve.”
“Careful now. I’m a delicate instrument.”
“You want Uncle to show you a good time? Might take a while. I’m on doctor’s orders to move slow.”
“Come here, darlin’. Don’t make me get up. That’d be cruel.”
The worst part is that sometimes, somehow, it works.
Mostly because he says it with that lazy grin, eyes half-lidded, voice rough with amusement, like he knows exactly how ridiculous he is and expects you to enjoy it anyway.
E – Experience
More than anyone wants to imagine.
Uncle has been around. Unfortunately, he will tell you this. Repeatedly. In unnecessary detail. Usually while everyone is trying to eat.
“I was quite the specimen in my day,” he says.
Arthur, from across camp: “Nobody asked.”
“Women used to fight over me.”
John: “To get away?”
Uncle ignores this because Uncle’s relationship with reality is loose and mostly recreational.
In bed, though, there is some truth beneath the bragging. He is lazy, yes. Shameless, yes. But he knows how to make someone laugh, relax, stop taking the whole thing so seriously. He knows where to put his hands. He knows how to take his time.
Mostly because taking his time is all he ever does.
F – Favorite Position
Anything that does not require him to support his own weight.
Uncle has strong opinions about this.
“On top? With my condition? Woman, are you trying to bury me?”
His favorite is you on top while he lies back looking like a man enjoying both pleasure and retirement. One hand on your hip. One hand behind his head. A grin slowly spreading across his face like he has personally invented leisure.
“There you go,” he murmurs. “See? Teamwork.”
“You’re doing nothing.”
“I’m supervising.”
He also enjoys spooning, because it allows intimacy, access, and minimal spinal commitment.
Very important.
The spine must be respected.
G – Groaning
Constant.
Uncle groans before, during, after, and sometimes for unrelated reasons halfway through.
Some groans are pleasure.
Some are effort.
Some are lumbago.
Some are because his knee cracked.
It can be hard to tell.
“Ohhh, Lord.”
“Was that good?”
“Yes.”
“Or your back?”
“Also yes.”
When he is genuinely enjoying himself, his groans get lower and rougher, losing a little of the comic exaggeration. That is when you know he is not just performing. His eyes close. His hand tightens on your waist. His voice goes hoarse.
Then he ruins the moment by whispering, “If I die, tell the world I died doing what I loved.”
H – Hair
Messy, thinning, and entirely beyond discipline.
Uncle’s hair has the energy of a man who woke up three days ago and decided grooming was a conspiracy. It sticks up. It falls flat. It does whatever it wants, much like Uncle himself.
He claims women like it.
“They like character,” he says.
“They like soap too,” Arthur mutters.
During sex, his hair somehow gets worse. His hat disappears. His beard scratches your skin. His mustache tickles at the worst possible moment, which he pretends is deliberate technique.
“That there is experience,” he says proudly.
“That was your mustache.”
“Experienced mustache.”
Pubic hair? Untamed, naturally.
Uncle claims this is not neglect but “authentic masculinity,” which is the kind of phrase he only uses when trying to make laziness sound philosophical. It is grey, wiry, and absolutely not styled with any intention beyond surviving another day.
If you tease him about it, he looks offended.
“Darlin’, that ain’t hair. That’s history.”
“History needs trimming.”
“History should be respected.”
He would not be fully careless if he actually expected intimacy, though. Uncle is lazy, not completely uncivilized. He might make a half-hearted attempt to tidy himself, then immediately complain that bending that long aggravated his lumbago.
“Almost crippled myself trying to be beautiful for you.”
“You trimmed for thirty seconds.”
“And I may never recover.”
I – Intimacy
Uncle is sneakily intimate.
Not romantic in the polished, serious way. He will not gaze into your eyes and confess his soul unless he thinks it might get him out of chores. But beneath the laziness and foolishness, there is warmth. Real warmth.
He likes having you tucked against him afterward. Likes your leg thrown over his. Likes your hand resting on his belly. Likes the quiet after laughter, when neither of you has to perform anything.
Sometimes he will stroke your back without making a joke.
Sometimes he will kiss your forehead and pretend it was an accident.
If you mention it, he denies everything.
“I am a hardened man of the world.”
“You cuddled me for an hour.”
“That was treatment for my lumbago.”
“Cuddling?”
“Advanced medicine.”
J – Jacking Off
Uncle calls it “restorative private therapy.”
Nobody else calls it that.
He is not ashamed. Shame requires energy.
He usually does it lazily, half-drunk, half-asleep, thinking about your thighs, your mouth, the way you roll your eyes when he says something stupid and then smile anyway. He likes imagining you climbing into his lap and telling him he does not have to move.
That part is very important to the fantasy.
No movement.
Maximum reward.
Minimum labor.
Afterward, he sighs deeply and says something tragic like, “Still got it,” to an audience of absolutely no one.
Then he naps.
Naturally.
K – Kinks
Uncle’s kinks are ridiculous, but not complicated.
He likes:
- Being pampered.
- Being praised for doing the bare minimum.
- You on top.
- Slow sex because he can pretend it is sensual and not because his back hurts.
- Being called handsome, especially if he knows you are humoring him.
- Laughing during sex.
- Your hands in his beard.
- Having his belly touched.
- Lazy morning sex where neither of you fully wakes up.
- Mild jealousy, mostly because it lets him say absurd things like, “I’ll fight him,” while sitting down.
His biggest kink is being wanted without having to earn it too hard.
Which, honestly, is extremely Uncle.
L – Location
Anywhere soft.
That is the whole requirement.
Bed? Good.
Blankets? Good.
Hayloft? Risky, but acceptable if properly cushioned.
Hard ground? Absolutely not.
“Darlin’, I am a romantic, not a farm tool.”
He enjoys quiet corners of camp, hotel rooms when the gang has money, and anywhere he can lie down and claim seduction is happening through “strategic stillness.”
If you try anything adventurous outdoors, he immediately begins negotiating.
“Against a tree? With this spine? No. I’ve survived too much to be taken out by bark.”
Still, if you spread a blanket down and bring whiskey, he may be convinced.
For health reasons.
M – Marking
Uncle does not mark you with much sophistication.
He gives lazy bites, beard burns, and the occasional accidental bruise from grabbing you too enthusiastically when his balance betrays him.
He loves if you leave marks on him, though he pretends to complain.
“What is that?” he says, peering at a red mark on his chest.
“You told me to bite you.”
“I said gently.”
“No, you said, ‘show me passion.’”
“Well, that was before I knew passion had teeth.”
He secretly loves it. He will absolutely show the mark off indirectly, stretching his shirt collar just enough and sighing like a martyr.
“What happened?” someone asks.
“Woman tried to kill me,” Uncle says proudly.
N – Nudes
In a modern AU, Uncle would be a menace.
He would not send flattering nudes. He would send the world’s worst thirst traps by accident and then insist they were artistic.
Bad angle.
Too much belly.
Half his face missing.
Possibly a sock in the background.
Caption: still got it
If you sent him something actually seductive, though, he would go very quiet.
Then he would zoom in.
Then he would lose the ability to be normal for several hours.
Later, he would say, “You know, that picture of yours did wonders for my circulation.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“I’m healed.”
“In what way?”
“Spiritually. And elsewhere.”
O – Oral
Giving?
Surprisingly enthusiastic, provided he can do it lying down or from a position that does not threaten his lower back.
Uncle is lazy, not selfish. There is a difference. He enjoys making you squirm, especially if he can act like he is doing you a favor.
“Well, I suppose if no one else is qualified…”
He is messy, warm, unhurried, and far too pleased with himself when you react. He laughs against your thigh if you get impatient, which is infuriating and effective.
Receiving?
He loves it.
Obviously.
He treats it like a divine tribute.
One hand in your hair, the other pressed dramatically to his heart, like he is seeing visions.
“Lord,” he breathes. “I forgive all my enemies.”
“You don’t have enemies.”
“I might after this. Men get jealous.”
P – Pace
Slow by necessity, preference, and philosophy.
Uncle believes rushing is vulgar, exhausting, and bad for the back.
He likes lazy sex. Warm sex. Sex that feels like both of you had nowhere better to be and no intention of finding somewhere. He likes dragging it out, kissing, touching, teasing, stopping to complain, starting again, and acting as if this is all part of a refined erotic method.
Sometimes, despite himself, he gets carried away.
That is when the pace turns rougher, his grip tightens, and his voice drops into something less foolish.
For about thirty seconds.
Then:
“Hold on. Cramp.”
Q – Quickies
Uncle does not believe in quickies.
Not morally.
Physically.
“A quickie?” he says, offended. “With my medical history?”
But he can be persuaded if the situation requires urgency and the position involves minimal effort. A quickie with Uncle is chaotic, funny, half-dressed, and full of whispered complaints.
“Hurry up,” you say.
“I am hurrying.”
“You’re sitting down.”
“At great speed.”
If someone almost catches you, he is no help whatsoever. He will make the worst possible noise at the worst possible moment and then blame you.
“You startled my lumbago.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It’s a mysterious illness.”
R – Risk
Uncle likes the fantasy of risk more than actual risk.
He will boast about being a dangerous man, a wanted man, a lover of adventure, a figure of wild masculine daring.
Then a twig snaps nearby and he nearly throws his back out trying to hide.
He likes mild risk: someone nearby, a locked door, having to stay quiet, the thrill of being naughty without real consequences. But actual danger? No, thank you. Uncle has survived too long by avoiding effort, gunfire, and responsibility.
“Risk is for young fools,” he says.
“You were just flirting with me behind Pearson’s wagon.”
“That was calculated.”
“You fell into a bucket.”
“Calculated poorly.”
S – Stamina
Complicated.
Uncle’s stamina is not athletic. Let us be honest.
But he has endurance in his own strange way. He can fool around lazily for ages. He can kiss for a long time. He can touch you until you are shaking. He can lie beneath you and offer encouragement, commentary, moral support, and occasional complaints about his pelvis.
He may not be fast.
He may not be graceful.
But he is persistent.
Mostly because he refuses to admit defeat.
“I ain’t done,” he says, offended.
“You look done.”
“That’s just my face.”
T – Toys
Uncle prefers whatever is nearby and does not require assembly.
A scarf.
A belt.
A bottle of whiskey used less as a toy and more as emotional support.
A pillow under his back, which he insists is not sexy but is absolutely necessary.
He is open-minded in a lazy way. He will try things if you suggest them, but he will complain first. The complaining is part of the ritual.
“You want to tie my hands?”
“Yes.”
“With my lumbago?”
“That has nothing to do with your hands.”
“It’s all connected, darlin’.”
Still, if you tie him up gently and climb into his lap, he suddenly becomes very cooperative.
Suspiciously cooperative.
U – Unfair
Uncle is unfair because he weaponizes helplessness.
He will look at you with those tired, pleading eyes and act like you are cruel for making him do anything. Even sex.
Especially sex.
“Come here,” he says.
“You come here.”
“With my condition?”
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m injured.”
“You are lazy.”
“Wounded by accusation.”
Then, while you are busy rolling your eyes, he will pull you down onto him and kiss you like he has been waiting all day.
That is the unfair part.
He acts useless.
He is not entirely useless.
Unfortunately.
V – Volume
Too loud.
Not always sexually loud. Just loud in general.
Uncle talks. Groans. Complains. Praises. Laughs. Curses. Makes noises that could mean pleasure, pain, digestion, or spiritual revelation.
You will need to cover his mouth at least once.
He enjoys this far too much.
“Oh?” he murmurs against your palm, eyes gleaming. “Trying to silence me?”
“Yes.”
“Many have tried.”
“Uncle.”
“Few have succeeded.”
Then you move your hips and he immediately shuts up.
For about four seconds.
W – Wildest Fantasy
His wildest fantasy is being thoroughly seduced with absolutely no labor required on his part.
A soft bed.
A full belly.
A warm woman.
A bottle within reach.
No chores.
No Dutch speeches.
No Arthur calling him useless.
No one asking him to lift anything heavier than a cup.
In this fantasy, you climb into his lap, call him handsome, do all the work, and afterward tell everyone he cannot possibly help around camp because he needs to recover from satisfying you.
“That,” Uncle says dreamily, “is love.”
“Your fantasy is medical fraud.”
“My fantasy is being respected.”
“You mean spoiled.”
“Same thing, if done properly.”
X – X-Ray
Uncle’s body is exactly what you would expect from a man who has spent decades drinking, sleeping badly, eating whatever Pearson makes, and avoiding labor like it owes him money.
Soft belly. Hairy chest. Old scars he exaggerates the stories behind. A back that may or may not be as ruined as he claims. Stronger arms than expected, because despite everything, life on the road does not let a man become completely ornamental.
He is not pretty.
He is real.
Warm, heavy, scruffy, shamelessly masculine in an unpolished way.
And if you look him over too obviously, he preens.
“Admiring the goods?”
“I’m assessing the damage.”
“Plenty of women have admired that damage.”
“Name one.”
He pauses.
“Some of them were shy.”
Y – Yearning
Uncle yearns in ridiculous ways.
He pretends it is hunger. Or thirst. Or boredom. Or his lumbago needing feminine attention. But sometimes you catch him looking at you across camp with something quieter in his face.
Not lust exactly.
Fondness.
Need.
The lonely ache of a man who jokes so people do not notice when he wants to be kept.
He wants someone to choose him even after the joke is over.
He wants to be wanted when he is not useful, impressive, young, rich, brave, or sober.
This is why he gets soft after sex.
Not sentimental.
Never that.
Just soft.
“You still here?” he mumbles, half-asleep.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“You want me to stay?”
He grunts, pulling you closer.
“Don’t make a production out of it.”
Z – ZZZ
Uncle falls asleep almost immediately afterward.
This is not personal.
This is Uncle.
One minute he is making some smug, filthy little remark about how you are welcome, and the next he is snoring with his arm thrown over you like a fallen tree.
He is warm, heavy, and impossible to move.
If you try to escape, he tightens around you instinctively.
“Where you goin’?” he mutters.
“To breathe.”
“Breathing’s overrated.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“That’s affection.”
“You’re snoring.”
“That’s music.”
Then he falls asleep again before you can answer.
In the morning, he will claim he stayed awake all night protecting you.
“You were snoring.”
“Protectively.”
Bonus – Lumbago
Uncle’s lumbago is both a medical condition and a seduction strategy.
He uses it shamelessly.
Can’t chop wood. Lumbago.
Can’t help Pearson. Lumbago.
Can’t stand watch. Lumbago.
Can’t possibly be expected to move from this bedroll when you are sitting there looking so pretty. Advanced lumbago.
“You know,” he says, patting the space beside him, “doctor told me warmth helps.”
“No doctor told you that.”
“Spiritual doctor.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“Then explain why I feel better when you’re on top of me.”
The worst part?
He says it with such absolute confidence that you almost laugh too hard to kiss him.
Almost.
And when you finally do climb over him, his hands settling happily at your waist, his grin turns slow and victorious.
“There now,” Uncle sighs. “Medicine.”