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historia-vitae-magistras · 4 months

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Christmas fic please?

☺️

The Blue Hour This is somewhat of a sequel to my other 18th-century fics 'When the Heart is Full the Tongue Will Speak" and "The Prison Ship," but it also stands alone. Valley Forge was arguably the worst winter of the war. Alfred's having a bad time. Matt tries to help. He has something for Alfred. This was supposed to be longer, but I had to say fuck it and put it in the queue, or it wasn't happening, so I'm so sorry for inflicting it on you. Apple pie reference is from the HC that Alfred's pie recipe comes from a nice Pennsylvania Quaker lady who took him in in the late 17th century when he was little after the Massachusetts witch crazes. This isn't a happy fic, but it is deeply loving. Also on ao3

Valley Forge, Christmas 1777

Alfred’s legs didn’t feel quite real as he approached the clearing. It was silent here. No animals. No people, either. Even the last chickadees, so faithful through the winter, had disappeared behind him as the previous winter sun faded from a depressing grey to pitch dark. He was a bit numb and more paranoid as he rounded a copse of trees and found himself staring at a pristine clearing. He recognized this house, grey stone with a heavy slate roof. There was no glass in the windows, but cheery, flickering firelight escaped through whatever slight cracks there were in the shutters. He hefted his rifle, bayonet attached, closer and approached, wary. The forest held its breath, and the fire crackling became louder as he approached. There was smoke from the chimney but no shadows of movement inside. He gripped his rifle. He should go home to his haphazard tar paper and log shack, but it was dark now, and Valley Forge was 30 miles behind.

He pushed open the door with a bang, rifle to his shoulder, and heard a surprised shout. A figure twisted, axe in hand, poised to hook it into Alfred’s neck and remove an arm at the shoulder like a branch from a trunk. Then, a note of laughter, and he was embraced.

Warmth hit him. First, Matt’s entire body was warm, and his clothes were fire-toasty. Then the smell of roasting meat floated, so solid it was almost visible, into his senses. Then, dizziness. Dizziness struck like a blow to the head. Alfred might have passed out on the floor if Matt hadn’t already had his arms around him.

Matt squeezed with more strength than Alfred had ever known his baby brother to have. The rifle was tugged from his hands, and he was suddenly sitting, sodden clothes and boots pulled off, feet stretched towards the fire. He might have vomited if he wasn’t so hallowed out. Matt was gone for only a moment, but Alfred grabbed a hold of him as soon as he was back.

“Have you changed your mind?” He grasped Matt’s sleeve with a shaking hand. “Did you come to your senses?”

“Have you?” Matt said, derisive even as he pressed a mug into Alfred’s hands. “Drink that, and the world will stop spinning.”

“Matthew---” He didn’t let go of Matt’s sleeve. “You haven’t come to—.”

“Bend the knee?” Matthew’s eyes flashed, and Alfred was all too aware of the axe on his belt and the rifle against the wall. “No. I’m not.”

“What are you doing here then?” He let Matt go and sipped on the contents of the mug—broth, salty and rich beyond belief. Matt was right. The world did stop spinning.

“It’s Christmas.”

“Is it?”

“It is,” Matt said with a watery smile. “I take it you got my note.”

“Pie at sundown,” Alfred recalled. “I got it. I could hardly believed you remembered that.”

“First apple pie you ever made me. I’ll remember it til the sun goes dark.” Matt was before him with a blanket and a stack of clothes. “Finish drinking that, put these on and then we’ll talk.”

They were his own clothes, what he’d left in the chest of drawers in Boston after he’d slipped his guards and disappeared across the border and into Quebec. He wanted to toss them back. They were the clothes of a crown subject, a boy with a British boot on his neck. Not the free man he wanted to be. That he was, but he hadn’t had a fresh shirt since his baby brother had dragged his corpse out of his shallow grave on the Hudson. He could wash it as often as he liked, but the linen was still wearing thin. His former things were practically new, the linen fresh and clean, the wool still warm. Alfred ran a hand over the fabric, still so chilled he hardly considered his pride as Matt turned away to tend to the bird slowly roasting over the fire and dressed. He glanced over his shoulder when Alfred slipped the shirt over his head. There hadn’t been a mirror to look at himself in months, and he didn’t want to. He knew his ribs were stark; he could feel them. Matt looked that kind of devastated that, if he hadn’t turned away, might have made Alfred cry.

“Have you had a decent meal since I saw you?” He didn’t look over his shoulder again until the shirt was over his head, and he’d buttoned the blue waistcoat over his chest. Everything was so ill-fitting now.

Alfred ignored him. “Does Father know you’re here?”

Matthew snorted. “It’s Christmas; he’s so deep into the officer’s nog when I left he won’t realize I’ve gone unless I’m not there for epiphany morning with tea going. So I shot a turkey and pissed off south to find you. Looks like its a good thing I did too.”

“I’m fine.” Alfred scowled. “There’s a camp of thousands of men 2 miles from here with nothing but rice and vinegar for Christmas dinner. Next to them, I’m all right.”

“I’m sorry,” Matt said, and it damn well looked like he meant it, narrow shoulders bowed as he sat heavily onto one of the overturned logs he obviously meant to use as a kitchen chair for the occasion.

“You could feed a lot of people if you stayed. You’re a good hunter.”

“Don’t,” Matt said. “We’ve had this conversation. Look at you. You know I wouldn’t survive another war like this. You’re kissed by God himself and you look like death.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“Rice and vinegar, eh? Yeah well. Try some turkey and see if it compares.”

“Why do you keep coming to see me if you won’t pick a side, Matt? You’re committing treason and you know it.”

“You’re my brother.”

His shrug was simple, unemotional. The sky was up, the Earth was down, the snow was cold, and Matt would haul and shoot a turkey and walk four days just to sneak him a decent meal. He teared up. Maybe it was the cold, the deprivation or just how much he missed home and heart and heart. Throat working, shoulders shaking even if he wasn’t crying, he grabbed Matt by the shoulders and squeezed for a third time, kissing him on the forehead about a dozen times and just feeling something so desperately affectionate he had to ride it out like dizziness.

“I missed you.” He said.

“You too.” Matt had clamped himself around Alfred, playing as if he just held on; he wouldn’t feel how much weight he’d dropped since summer. After a long moment, he made Alfred sit on one of the logs and tossed the rucksack while he struck flint and steel and put tinder to kindling. “Have you been sick? You look terrible,”

“Everyone is.” He said. There was no point in hiding it. “You know what it’s like. A moving army is a healthy army. A camped army is a sick army.”

“Why do you think I like the woods so much? I could run from the British as easily as from the typhus.”

“Yeah, well, they’re my people. I can’t leave them.”

“Do you have scurvy yet?”

“Gettering there.” He poked his tongue at his teeth. He had all of them, but he was always so tired. It couldn’t be far away.

Matt pivoted and took an orange in each hand, shoving them at Alfred. “Father... he’s in the habit of buying two.”

“I can’t take these!”

“Think of them as reparations.”

“Won’t you get scurvy?’

“I get lime juice twice a day. Just take anything you want out of my pack and eat it. Take the rest tomorrow. I’ll get a rabbit on my way back if I get hungry.”

“Why do you have to go back?”

“Stop asking me that. Pick something for me to make out of what’s in there, all right? Anything you want tonight, and you can take the rest tomorrow.”

“I want you to stay.”

Matt leaned against the wall by the hearth, arms crossed. “And I don’t want to die. So stop asking. That’s the agreement. Stay alive. Not stay with you.”

“You should be my right hand. It should be me and you against the world.”

“You’re the one fighting with the world, Alfred. I already have. I lost. Pick a vegetable, eat an orange, have some wine and stop trying to sentence me to death because you’re lonely again.”

He was tearing up, and so was Alfred. They looked away from each other, and Alfred went to the pack.

He opened food like he had once opened pewter inkwells at the apothecaries, looking for the blue ink he liked better than the quickly fading walnut; there were cranberries, potatoes, apples, stalks of celery, onions, cabbage, carrots, mushrooms, honey cakes, tea, coffee, a jug of wassail and a smaller bottle of Madeira. Smaller quantities of sugar, flour, oats, rice, raisins and rye. There were more of his clothes that he hadn’t taken when he’d fled Boston nearly two years prior. And under all that, a length of blue cloth with shining brass buttons.

“Mattie.... What is that coat?”

His brother froze. He’d been dragging his knife down the side of the roasted bird and onto a rough-hewn platter. For one long moment, Alfred thought he might burst into tears.

“It’s for you.” He said.

“Whe did you get it?”

“General Montcalm.” He said. “It was too big so I hid it under the floorboards. Thought I’d wear it too the victory parade someday. It’s... it’s your colour now, isn’t it?”

“It— Yeah it is.”

“I hope its luckier for you than it was for me.” He said quietly. “I hope Lord Bonnefoy is better to you too.”

“Mattie.” Alfred said quietly.

Matt was standing there, eyes shut against tears, until he looked up at Alfred with those same big, hopeful eyes he’d always had before all this. Full of all the softness and warmth of Canada that may not have existed elsewhere that winter. Words stuck in his throat, and suddenly, so homesick he wanted to burst, Alfred opened his arms. Matt gave up on carving the bird, put down the plate, and allowed Alfred to pull him in again. If Matt had grown, it was only a little, and Alfred could still easily rest his cheek on Matt’s crown, which he did for a long moment.

“Thank you.” He said.

“It was meant for you,” Matt replied. “You’re... tall and capable like that. It will fit you, even when you fill it out again.”

“You’ll grow.” Alfred said. “Someday. And then we'll be fine."

Someday.

#hws america #hws canada #na bros #my writing || cacoethes scribendi #the ask box || probis pateo #alfred and matt || lonely boys with the longest borders #matthew || my country is winter #alfred || o beautiful for spacious skies

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jungle-angel · 5 months

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A Pair Of Lovebirds In Paradise (Calvin Evans x Reader)

Summary: You and Cal are excited beyond words to finally have some time to yourselves after your wedding

Notes: Sequel to "Wedding Day"

Warnings: SMUT 18+ only, some very kinky bedroom shenanigans, breeding kink, etc.

Tagging: @floydsmuse

"You sure Six-Thirty will be fine with you guys?" Calvin asked, the two of you making your way into the airport with his parents, sister and niece.

"Calvin that dog is attached to your father like a pig's wart," his mother told him. "I'm almost certain he'll be fine."

"Almost certain?" Cal asked.

"He'll be fine Cal," Henry said with a wave of his hand. "What's the worst that could happen? He leaps the fence and leaves a dead bird on Mrs. Dillard's porch."

That little comment had earned Henry a hard smack on the shoulder from Pat. It was no secret that Mrs. Dillard was a horrible gossip, nosy beyond all human reasoning and who had incurred the unfortunate wrath or Father McDowell's wife, Helen. Calvin could almost picture the whole scene in his head of Six-Thirty leaving something much worse than that on the wretched old hag's front porch or digging up her prized rhododendrons to look for the ham bone he had buried the previous week.

You and your husband both bid Six-Thirty farewell along with his parents. Poor Lucy didn't want either of you to go, but Cal had promised he'd be back soon.

The two of you had only turned around once before you and Cal had to hurry to the gate to catch your flight to Fort Meyers. Already the snow was coming down and you were both worried that you would have to stay overnight in the airport. Outside the windows you could already see the big red and silver jet, pulling off the runway to let off more passengers.

"You excited sweetheart?" Cal asked.

"More than I've ever been," you told him.

"I know, it'll feel good to get out of the cold for once," Calvin said. "Won't have to deal with any of those pricks at the college for two full weeks and we can spend all the time we want on the beach."

"And in that case you'd better wear plenty of sunscreen Mister," you warned him, giving Cal a playful tweak on the nose.

Cal laughed. "Don't worry sweetheart," he said. "Dr. Powers and his students were working on a test batch of homemade sunscreen last week and he gave us some of it."

"Ah so that's why his lab smelled like coconut oil and beeswax," you chuckled.

Calvin hummed as he pressed his lips to your soft cheek. You both couldn't deny that when Dr. Powers and his class were working on a test batch of sunscreen, his lab had smelled so good. You and Cal couldn't resist passing by there on your lunch hours, inhaling deeply at the smells of melted beeswax, coconut oil, raspberry oil and all the smells of whatever had gone into making it.

"Can't wait," he mumbled. "Two whole weeks in Florida and not a worry in the world."

You giggled a little as his kissing tickled your skin, your reverie interrupted when the desk clerk announced that your flight was boarding. You and Cal gathered up your suitcases and buttoned up your winter jackets, joining the rest of the crowd as they headed down the stairs and boarded the bus to take you to the waiting plane.

Everything went off without a hitch, your plane taking off in the snow and in the dark as it headed from the snowy north down to the warmth of the Sunshine State. You and Cal had snuggled into each other under a blanket, the both of you gazing out to the land below, only falling asleep when Cal could no longer keep his eyes open and the pages of Great Expectations splayed against his chest.

"Ladies and gentlemen, from the flight deck, this is your Captain, we will be landing in Fort Myers, Florida in less than twenty minutes," the captain announced.

You rubbed the grog from your eyes and pressed a kiss to Cal's smooth cheek, your husband groaning as he blinked his eyes open. "What time is it?" he groaned.

"Look out your window," you whispered.

The both of you looked out the window at the burst of color in the sky, reds, oranges, dark blues and pinks blending together perfectly while below, you and Cal could make out the darkened Florida landscape. You were amazed when Lake Okeechobee came into view, a sign that you were drawing closer as the plane turned over the lake.

By the time the sun came up, you and Calvin could see the palm trees, the swamps and the highways below. Off somewhere in the distance was a thin line that was the beach, but your destination lay beyond that.

"Almost there sweetheart," Cal said with a smile. "Almost there."

**************

Sanibel Island, Florida

You couldn't have imagined a better place to stay with your husband than where you two had wound up. The drive out hadn't been bad at all, the sun shining bright and the hot air making the two of you feel much better after having come from the colder states.

The little beach cottage that Calvin had found was utterly perfect in every way, a comfortable little place right on the beach painted in shades of turquoise and peach pink. The garden was beautiful with all the colorful tropical flowers and a little bird feeder shaped like a lighthouse. All the smells of the beach put you at ease, the calm slap of the waves against the shore and the burning sun that washed away your winter blues.

You and Cal had slept for most of your first day, exhausted beyond words from having to get up so early to catch your flight. You slept all through the night until you yourself, had awoken the next morning to see the sun coming up.

You found a little spot on the rocks that stood in the water, flat topped and smooth from years of waves and hurricanes beating against them. You were perched right on top of the rocks, dipping your feet in the water and your legs perfectly exposed from your navy blue shorts. Never in your life had you seen so many shells in one place, thousands, maybe even millions of shells all washed up on the beach.

You wished you had your camera, seeing as it was already appearing to be the perfect morning, hot and hazy as a thick, cloud of humid mist rolled across the ocean. You nearly gasped when you saw two dolphins jumping out of the water and back under again, hoping that they would swim your way.

You yelped when you suddenly felt your husband sneak up behind you to kiss your shoulder. "Whatcha lookin at sweetheart?" Cal asked.

"Two dolphins just jumped out of the ocean," you answered.

Calvin was completely surprised when he saw them jump again and you as well. You two spent the whole day exploring the beach, picking up shell after shell, your toes in the sand and the sea-breeze in your hair and the sun on your backs. You and Cal felt brave enough to go for a swim as the sun grew hotter, slathering each other all over with the sunscreen you had brought. Jumping off the end of the pier was the most exhilarating thing the two of you had done, feeling more like children again as you went under the water and bobbed to the surface again.

The diving for shells had been the highlight of your day, you and Calvin hoping to be able to find pearls to take home. You had both found a giant conch shell that had quickly become a horn, throwing the nearby fishermen into a fit of laughter as you passed it back and forth between you and them.

It was later in the night that Cal had decided to treat you to dinner at a small place in town, a little nightclub called Emilio's. Not since your wedding night had he seen you look this gorgeous in your pine green velvet dress and your black heels.

"Sweetheart, only you and Rose Clooney could pull off that dress so well," he whispered as he escorted you in.

You laughed a little bit at his complement but deep down, you knew it was true.

The evening was absolutely perfect as you and your husband enjoyed dinner and danced with each other in the open air. Surprisingly enough, you had both become fast friends with Emilio, the owner of the place and who's daughter was in fact a student at the university where you and Calvin had both started teaching.

"Wait, is your daughter Alessia?" you asked. "Alessia Martinez?"

"¡Sí! ¡Esa es mi hija!" Emilio declared happily. "And you're her teacher, yes?"

"That would be me," you answered proudly.

Emilio still couldn't believe it, but he was thrilled to have finally met both you and Calvin after having heard so much about you both from Alessia, who had been one of your students. You stayed right through dinner and danced a little while longer until you and Cal decided to head back to the beach cottage.

You both could have fallen asleep right in the living room, but the long trudge to the bedroom had been well worth it. You kicked off your heels and stuck them in the closet while Cal stripped himself of his black suit, hanging up the tie and jacket.

"Cal can you.....?"

"Hold on sweetheart," he yawned.

His fingers gently grabbed hold of the unnoticeable zipper on the back of your dress, pulling it down until it could go no further. He couldn't resist pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, the backs of his fingers caressing the soft skin on your back. You shuddered, drawing in a breath when you felt it.

Calvin kissed your cheek and trailed all the way to the curve of your neck, his arms coming to coil around you as your dress fell to the floor. There you were in front of him, naked as you had been on the night of your wedding, one hand trailing across your hip and stomach while the other moved slightly to caress your naked breasts.

"My pretty wifey," he sighed. "I love you so much."

He kept kissing you, more so when you turned around to face him, deepening it just a little as you helped Calvin unbutton his white dress shirt. You couldn't help yourself when you undid the last one, littering his chest with sloppy, open mouthed kisses.

Calvin grabbed you by the hips and forcefully pulled you a little closer, the lust burning in his eyes like sapphire flames. "Let me open a window to let in some air," he said.

Even with the air conditioning in the house it was still a little warm in the back bedroom. Cal pushed the window open just a crack and shut the bamboo slat blinds on the doors that led to the back porch. Outside you could hear the ocean, the breeze and the incessant chirping of frogs and night-birds which was music to your ears.

Calvin's lips attached once again to yours, kissing you deeply as you pushed his shirt off him. You felt his breath getting more rapid as your hands moved to undo his belt, the buckle clinking as you undid it and pulled it from the beltloops in his pants and tossed it aside.

You both fell to the bed with Calvin rutting right into you, his cock already hard and throbbing, still imprisoned by his black dress pants and his shorts. You teased him just a little, your hand dipping low into the back to grab a handful of his firm ass-cheek

"Hey!" he said suddenly, his head shooting up to meet your gaze. "No butt stuff just yet sweetheart."

You giggled a little as you helped him off with his pants and then his shorts, both of you now free to explore each other's bodies as much as you wished.

"Wanna give you a honeymoon baby so bad, sweet pea," he groaned, sliding himself into you and sloppily kissing your cheeks and neck. "Wanna fill you up.....watch your body change and grow....."

An unholy moan escaped your mouth as he rutted into you again, the dirty words spilling into your ears and making the wetness between your legs worse than it already was. You wanted nothing more than for Calvin to spill himself inside of you, to feel it all rush up deeply and settle there.

And that's just what he did. As soon as he could see that you were about to cum, he lifted you upright, letting you steady yourself against his shoulders as you both came together. Your head fell against his shoulder, the both of you breathing heavily and shaking a little bit.

"You alright sweet pea?" he asked.

You nodded sleepily.

Calvin laughed a little before you both drifted off to sleep, the frogs, bugs and birds singing you both to sleep until the sun rose again the next morning and you awoke again, happily in each other's arms.

#calvin evans #calvin evans x reader #lessons in chemistry

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eupheme · 1 year

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IN THE WOODS SOMEWHERE | part v: epilogue

[masterlist]

joel miller x f!reader

Rated E - 5k

Tags: brief canon-divergence, reader is mid/late 30s+, canon-typical violence / mention of guns, mentions of anxiety, very vague mentions of early TLOU2 content, mild manipulation, protected piv

A/N - I had a couple ao3 comments asking about an epilogue/sequel, so I thought it would be fun to write out an (optional) epilogue of how I see their story ending 💕

And perhaps… it’s time to take a journey of your own.

EPILOGUE

Your fingers spread wide, as you hold them up near your shoulders. The exhaustion setting in, a tremble in your limbs as your eyes fix on the group some yards away in front of you.

Two on horseback - catching up from the scouts that had surprised you, when you had stepped into the wooded clearing. Four others on foot, two with their guns raised. A snarling dog with raised hackles barely held back on a leash.

Too tired to notice, to be careful. Now, you regret it, feeling the press of your own rifle as it nudges against the small of your back.

Forcibly ripped from you by a stocky, young man - sneaking up to disarm you as the other had approached from the front.

Your eyes stay fixed on the group now - darting between each of them as the silence lingers.

Five hundred fucking miles.

Give or take another dozen or so - lost trails and endless diversions. Avoiding the large cities and the QZs, as you took your time in the woods instead.

So close to where you were headed.

It has you wondering if you had left a little sooner - moved a little faster - if you could have made it.

You had spent a long time thinking about it. The offer, spoken on that walk. Written on the bit of paper, tucked so carefully into the book.

Telling yourself you'd be a fool to follow after him, when you saw the distance. Plotting it out on that worn map, now tucked into your back pocket.

Nothing more than wishful thinking. A dream.

There isn't such a thing as second chances any more.

But they had been one, hadn't they?

A reminder of how good things could be. That there were still things worth pursuing.

Only for your thoughts to turn on a time, telling yourself that staying there - in that small, remote cabin - was safe.

Another turn.

Wondering - was that safety worth it, now that you know what was out there?

You resist. Telling yourself that you'll stay. But you find yourself unable to help your own slow packing.

Categorizing wants and needs as the days pass in your home. Figuring out what you could bring with you. What could be left behind, to help someone else.

It was deep into spring, when something shifted. The cold winter melted into something new and promising - a warm breeze on your face as you stood on the porch.

You'd played it safe too long. Clung onto the remnants of before, spent enough time dwelling on ghosts. Knowing now that it was regret that ate at you, though it had taken until then to realize it.

Realizing it was never the journey that was holding you back, not really. Even with your idleness you had still survived before the cabin. Was brave enough to wander out - always coming back home.

It was opening yourself up again, that scared you. Leaving the familiar to follow in the footsteps of another, like you had before.

Trusting that this time, they won’t leave you.

The heavy bag hoisted on your shoulder, as you gave the cabin a final look. Everything tidy, anything personal taken with you or disposed of. Unable to bear the thought of those memories in the attic being looted, taken by someone undeserving.

The cabin is left though - waiting to welcome the next. You think there will be another. That the warmth and generosity that's been gifted here has become part of the foundation - seeping in.

A final touch to the horseshoe above the door. Saying goodbye.

Setting out, following the little marks you had scratched onto the map.

The days started to pass. You thought you had been set, from your patrols. But the full days on the road had left you exhausted.

Grateful that your indecision had drawn out into warmer days - not being able to imagine hiking through the cold.

That had you thinking of them often. Hoping, wishing, that they were okay. Daydreaming about finding them at the end of this long road - wherever it was leading you.

It takes you over a month of walking. Longer than you anticipated, even as carefully as you had planned.

Twice, you almost went back. Actually turning around and backtracking, before stopping - forcing yourself forward again.

Once, after a rainstorm that soaked you through, leaving you huddling beneath an outcropping of rock. Shivering as the night had drawn close around you, wishing you were back home - tucked beneath the quilts.

Another when you were hit with the vastness of it all. A fear that lanced through you, enough to buckle your legs. Miles of open road. So much could go wrong. The dead and raiders and a million other scenarios passing through your mind.

Both times, the thought of Joel and Ellie persisting brought courage back into your limbs. Remembering how far they had come.

Thousands of miles, not just hundreds.

If they could do it, so could you.

He wouldn’t have offered, if it hadn’t been worth it.

And, you trust him.

You trust Joel.

———

A sharp voice brings you back.

The bark of a question that you miss, blinking as you look down the barrel of the rifle pointed at you.

The man frowns, the barrel dipping and shifting in his arms as your eyes fix on him.

"State your business." He repeats firmly, leaving no room for anything else.

They haven't fired yet, which is more than you could say about some of the travelers you've met. Cautious, even with their numbers. Moving as a unit, almost as if they were part of a community.

And, maybe they were. Maybe you weren't as far off as you had thought.

"Jackson." You answer - voice coming out cracked and rough, from lack of use, "I am heading there. To meet someone."

Looks are exchanged, at your answer. Further confirmation, in a way.

A jolt going up your spine at the way the frown increases, the way the rifle adjusts in his grip again. The shifting of the others, an eerie, tight stillness in their posture - offset by the barking of the dog, the standing hooves of the horses.

"Give me a name."

The hand of another twitches towards their belt, the movement towards the holster subtle. You don't want to reach for your own hidden at your hip, not with these numbers. But if you have to, you will.

“Tommy.” You manage, through the pounding of your heart, “I’m looking for Tommy. I have a letter-"

The words die off, as the fingers close around the handle. A true silence lingering then, at the name.

Eyes flicking unconsciously towards one of the mounted riders - their face shadowed by the wide brim of an copper-colored Steton.

After a long moment, his head tilts back. A streak of sunlight passing over his face as he nudges his horse towards - breaking the rank to move in front of you. The thudding of his boots as he unmounts, bringing himself closer to eye-level.

A tightness in your chest, as you finally get a good look at him. You can see Joel in his face. It's in the set of his jaw, that same way they both frown.

A hand extended with a gruff command, "Show me."

Your own move slowly, to the breast pocket of your coat - the one next to your heart. The letter has been read a hundred times. The paper now worn and creased at the edges, the folded lines pressed deep.

Flimsy, as you offer it out for him to take.

His eyes scan the page, passing over the familiar handwriting. Lingering on the end, like you thought that they might.

They dart up to yours. Less suspicion and more curiosity now - the sharp frown exchanged for eyebrows that lift.

The smallest pull beneath his dark mustache, as his eyes flick over you for a second, assessing. Hands bracing on his hips in a way that feels so familiar that it aches.

"I'm Tommy." He tells you after a moment - as that hand is offered out again.

"I know." You offer a small smile as you take it this time - his hand strong in yours as he shakes it. As you tell him your own name.

A shallow jerk of his head, back towards the path that you'd been following.

“Think you better come with us. Sounds like we got ourselves a bit of acquainting to do.”

-----

Holy shit.

It's all you can think about - that word bouncing around in your mind. Repeating.

It had taken an hour to get to Jackson, you could feel the eyes boring into your back as you were crowded up to the front of the pack. Offered Tommy's horse, but you said you'd walk. Not wanting that extra attention.

But you could tell they were listening, when Tommy had asked you how you knew Joel.

"He, uh, stayed with me. For some time, over the winter." You had told him, cautious of your words.

You had felt protective of Ellie. Certain that Tommy might know about her, but neither one had never mentioned Joel’s brother before the letter.

It had also made you wonder if they had made it back. If they’d believe you, even with the note.

He nodded then, just a tiny thing. His next words had surprised you, "You're the girl from Colorado."

Your eyed flick to his, "Uh, yeah. I am."

Tommy smiled then. It seemed to come so much easier for him than it did for his brother. Brightening his face, making him look years younger, "Reckon he'll be pleased to hear you arrived."

Relief flooded through you. That they had made it back. That they were okay.

And god, you had hoped so. Old thoughts came back - hoping it wasn't just an idle offer. All those affections waning over time. Worrying he might not have wanted anything to do with you, anymore.

You were unable to help taking the bait, "Did he give you that impression?"

"He hasn't mentioned you much." Tommy had shrugged, "Lot of what I've heard was from Ellie.

A silence had come, a little pit forming in your stomach. But then, a kindness had come.

"But he's my brother, and well... I know him."

It had flowed into you. Wrapping around your heart and tying your stomach in knots. Making your steps feel lighter, on that last leg of your journey.

Now - the city looms up in front of you. The gates opening, beckoning you in.

In all your imaginings, you hadn't expected there to be a whole fucking town waiting for you.

A real one.

A running wooden wall, wrapping around a tucked-away town. Fields of farmland and the glint of a greenhouse. People filling the streets, actually looking happy.

When you hear there's hot, running water - you feel like you could weep.

Joel hadn't been lying, when he said there was more out there.

You hadn't known something like this had existed, anymore.

It’s hard to pay attention, as you’re led through the streets. Wanting to take everything in - each stall, every house. Not just horses, but farm animals. An expanse of grass peppered with cows, in shades of white and black and brown.

Almost tripping over your feet, as you follow Tommy inside the large house - tucked one road off the main street.

There’s a woman standing inside at the top of the wooden stairs. Seeming waiting for you, a beckoning of her arm that extends to you, once you reach the top.

“Maria Miller,” She tells you, with a smile. One you return as you make the connection, as Tommy sidles past her to grab the first door at the top of the hallway.

Beating her to the table, pulling the chair out for her to sit. A heavy sigh as she drops into it - passing over the bedroll tucked under her arm.

You can already see the way he looks at her. The worry that melts into a kind smile. The love in his eyes - fingers that brush her shoulder before he excused himself to head join the patrol again.

A silence, though not an uncomfortable one, settles in his absence.

"It's amazing what you have here." You offer.

Catching the way her hand rests on the curve of her belly, the unconscious circle it makes. Unable to help the way your eyes linger for just a moment, before darting back up and away.

Of course children had been born, in the years after. Ellie had been proof of that. But the thought of someone growing up here - in the family - brings a small smile to your face.

Another thing that you hadn’t thought was possible.

"Thank you. It's been a lot of hard work." Her answer is quiet, humble.

"You've been here a long time?" You press, taking quick stock of the room.

Forgetting how big houses can be. Used to the small cabin with its handful of rooms. Hearing the creaking of the floor from the others that lived here.

It's nice. An aged bedspread - a wooden dresser and dusty mirror. A shared bathroom down the hall. More than generous, for someone they do not know.

"From the beginning. Been about seven years now."

That pulls you back. Impressed - thinking about how difficult that must have been. The responsibility that must sit on her shoulders.

But unable to help the yawn that wracks through your body, "I'd love to hear about that, sometime."

"Sometime." She agrees. Pushing herself up slowly, with a smile, "Dinner is at six. We'll come and get you?"

The thought of sleeping that long in a real bed after those weeks on the road is a blessing. Still jittery beneath the exhaustion, unable to help your wondering as she turns to leave.

"Maria?"

You swallow, as she stands in the doorway. Looking expectant, as if she knows what you're going to ask.

"Will they be at dinner?"

Ellie, and Joel. You want to see them, even though the thought has your nerves and stomach flipping and tumbling.

Her smile is small, "I expect so."

A pause, as she considers. A seriousness clouding her face, the words spoken so carefully.

"Do you know Joel well?” Maria asks, as her eyes narrow slightly, “Did he tell you much about himself?"

The way she says it sends up an alarm. Catching on to the way she looks at you. Not quite concerned, but knowing. A fingertip scratching at paint, to see how thick the layer is.

You wonder if it's a warning. A caution.

But the world had turned grey a long time ago. Leaving no one untouched, not even yourself. You were in no place to condemn him.

"He stayed with me for a while." You meet her gaze as you sit on the bed, pulling a leg up. Resting an arm across your knee, "He never showed me anything but kindness."

For a second, it feels like she examines you. But it's a truthful answer - that despite the rocky meeting and his gruff demeanor, he had been good to you.

Tommy had bragged about her on the way back. You know a little bit and pieces about her past, and it gives you the feeling that once - she was very good at her job.

"Well, I'm glad to hear that."

The smile comes back, as her hand closes around the doorknob, "I'll let you rest.”

You’re asleep in moments.

———

It feels unreal.

Not that you faced discomfort in your cabin - but the eating hall is something else. Surrounding you with warm wood walls, strings of soft yellow lights strung across the ceiling.

Real electricity. You had marveled at it - flicking the lights in your bathroom back and forth, before you stepped under the spray of a scalding-hot shower. Your first in years.

Scrubbed clean, as you sit. Tables covered with checkered tablecloth. The murmurs of conversations - people and families filling the space.

A community.

You hadn't realized how much you missed it. Thought you had been content with that tucked away cabin. And you had - you just hadn't realized that empty feeling in your chest, as the time slowly passed.

Not until now.

That thought has you unable to keep your eyes flicking to the other tables, as you eat. Watching and waiting.

They'd brought you over early - laden your plate with fresh vegetables and baked bread. It had taken all your self-control to slow down, to not shovel everything into your mouth with bare hands.

Tommy's lips twitch when you finally sink back in your chair - your fork clattering on the ceramic. Plate all but licked clean, after your days on the road.

He smiles so much easier than Joel. You don't mean to look at him so much but it's so fascinating to see the same expressions flicker across his face. To imagine Joel younger, because Tommy certainly has to be. Wondering if he had ever grown his hair so long, laughed as often.

The thought feels.. not quite right.

That’s not the person you followed here.

Maria leaves the two of you alone for a moment, when she sees someone she's been meaning to talk to. It's in that moment that he leans towards you, an elbow pressing into the tabletop.

"Hey." He begins, in the same tone of voice Maria had used earlier. That skittish feeling flickers again, as your fingers press into the sticky, plastic tablecloth.

"I told my brother you were here. You're, uh, not gonna tell him, are you? Mike shouldn't have been so rough when we found you.”

There's still a throb in your shoulder and fingers from the way the man had twisted the rifle away from you, tearing it from your grip.

Definitely Joel's younger brother. Reminding you of your own family so much that it aches for a moment.

"Nah," Your smile is small, "I get it. Your smile is small. Gotta protect the ones you love, right?"

There's an unconscious way that his eyes flit to his wife that has you softening. His smile is genuine when he turns back, a flicker of relief across his face.

"Exactly. Thank you."

You're half-standing soon after to turn your plate in, an excuse to take a full glance around the room, when something - someone - crashes into you.

An expletive as the world tilts, as your hip jams against the table. Your hands grasping at the edge, barely keeping yourself upright.

"Holy fucking shit!" They cry, as arms crush around your ribs.

Your arm wraps around her, the tightness in your chest and throat having only a little to do with your inability to breathe.

She pulls away quickly when she remembers where she is, almost embarrassed. Still so much a teenager, fingers twisting as she talks a mile a minute.

"I knew something was up when Joel told me to meet him here. But I had no idea it was you! When did you get here?"

His name has your eyes lifting, glancing back the way she came. Where he lingers at the far end of the table - silent, as his fingers wrap tightly around the top rail of the chair. Two plates abandoned, kernels of corn spilling across the surface when Ellie had spotted you.

Joel looks at you like he's not quite sure you're real.

Like if he was anywhere else, he'd be closing that gap - hands cupping your jaw, tilting your mouth up to meet his.

The look of someone holding himself back.

"Just got in." You tell her, breathlessly. Smiling, as you sink back into your chair - Ellie pulling up the one right next to you.

Reaching for the plate that Joel passes your way, as he sinks into the chair next to Tommy - whose eyes are eagerly darting between the two of you.

“I didn’t think we’d ever see you again.” Ellie’s tone is accusing, as she loads up her fork, "You didn't tell us goodbye when we left."

"Ellie." Joel admonishes - knowing that it was a decision he had pushed for. Purposely getting up early, vetoing her when she has realized his intent.

There's another twinge of regret. But you don't have to feel that way again. Your answer comes slowly, with a smile.

"Well that's because it wasn't, right? I knew I'd see you again."

She gives a small, rolled-eye smile - one you remember well. Now that the initial excitement has ebbed, you get the feeling that she seems older. Wiser, maybe - some of her expressive energy subdued.

Maybe you're looking too hard.

It makes you wonder what happened, after they had left. If it was successful. A question heavy on your tongue - but you swallow it, saving it for later.

The space is filled with stories of your journey there. How you have a new appreciation of how far they walked, exaggerating the woes of your journey. How you couldn't wait to sleep in a real bed - a real house - tonight.

"Yeah, we’ve got the best place. You’re gonna stay with us, right?" They way she says it doesn't sound like a question, even though it is.

Oh. You hadn't really thought about it.

Well, you had - little fantasies during those long days on the road. Not knowing what to expect at the end, projecting memories of all three of you, curling up on the couch in front of the fire.

Unable to help glancing towards Joel, who is still giving you that look, his food still untouched. Seeming to not hear her question, leaving you to fend for yourself.

"Well, Maria and Tommy have a room set up for me already," You hedge, before you pull your eyes away to turn towards Ellie, "Think I'll probably be staying there."

She looks disappointed, nose wrinkling with confusion. Tommy is no help at all, leaning back in his chair, an arm slung across the back of his brothers.

"Well," Ellie picks at her food, nudging a piece of roll across her plate, "You gotta at least come and see it."

You smile.

"I'd really like that."

———

Ellie ditches you in the short space between the detached garage and the beige, two story house.

A sense of pride at showing you the plans for her own space - the first time she’d had one to call her own. Joel’s hand jammed in his jeans pocket as she explains it’s a still while off, still collecting the pieces.

But there was already a worn couch out there - a table scattered with graphite drawings. The old canvas bookbag that you recognize from the cabin, resting on its side as it’s contents spill out.

Drawn away by a girl and a boy her age when you get back outside - calling out to her as they pass by. Reminding her of a movie night that been planned.

A movie night.

The normalcy of it strikes you, as she looks to Joel before he’s nodding, and she’s running off.

His cupped-hand call after her that “he’ll come pick her up” as she waves a hand - still worrying, even in a place as safe as this.

The thought makes you smile, as he walks you to the door. A hand resting against the small of your back, like a gentleman, as the wooden porch creaks under your steps.

It feels like the way a date could have felt, a lifetime ago. Walking you home, that moment of nervous hovering just outside the front door, beneath the golden light.

You can’t help but feel nervous, now. A thrill at the touch of his hand, but Joel still hasn’t said much to you.

Not knowing where you stand, in this new world.

Suddenly desperate, to drag this moment out.

Once you step inside, there’s only so many rooms you can see before you’ll be back in the apartment down the street.

His hand jams in his pocket, searching for his keys.

“Joel,” You ask - his name feeling sweet on your tongue. Pulling a question to the surface that you’ve had for ages, saving it until you were alone, “Did they find a cure?”

He doesn’t look at you for a long second. Staring somewhere above your shoulder, before his gaze slowly drags to your face.

Where it tips up towards him, bathed in the bare bulb of porch light. His hand finds you then, like you had imagined. Like he had wanted to do, the second he had seen you from across the room.

Not wanting to believe that you really had come, until he had seen it himself.

You fold so easily. It feels like acceptance, as his head lowers. His eyes fix on yours - watching for any hint that things have changed in the time that has passed.

Seeing how your eyes flutter shut, the way your lips part for him. Waiting.

Distracting you terribly when his mouth finally presses to yours. A little hitch in your breath at the familiar warmth, the way it skitters down your spine to pool low in your belly.

Making you forget all about the question that he’s been dreading. That he hoped you had forgotten about.

That he hopes he’ll never have to answer.

The kiss awakens something in you - his body pressing against yours as your arms wrap around his neck. Fingers fumbling with the keys, managing to fit it into the lock just as his tongue sweeps into your mouth.

An arm loops around your waist as the door gives way behind you - legs moving with yours as he walks you backwards over the threshold.

Your fingers tugging eagerly at his shirt, his thumbing at the button of your jeans.

Never making it past the living room. The coffee scraping against the floor as his foot bumps it, as he spins you in front of him.

Dropping onto worn the sofa first, with its faded pale pattern. Eyes blown dark and burning as you stand breathless between his thighs. Kicking off your boots, shoving your jeans down your legs.

Strong hands that tug you onto his lap, soon after.

Finding each other again as his hips rock up into yours, letting you grind against the stiff denim. You’ve been apart longer than you’ve know him, but your body still remembers.

It feels novel to be somewhere so open like this - not tucked away behind a closed door, in a small room.

The flicker of pleasure in your belly igniting into a flame, as he peels off your sweatshirt. Leaving it to pool on the floor, as your fingers fist in the fabric of his flannel shirt.

“Joel.” You moan, against his neck, “I need-“

He groans, hips lifting when you reach for his belt. Knowing - feeling it too. Letting you drawn him out, flushed and heavy in your palm as your fingers wrap around his length.

Your clothed cunt rocking against his cock, where it curves up towards his belly. His own fingers wandering, slipping beneath the elastic of your underwear, sliding against slick, wet skin.

“Fuck, darlin’.” He grits out, finding your clit easily. Like he’s never forgotten, as his fingers circle like they used to.

It takes no time at all before you’re dripping. Aching with anticipation, with the time that has passed. Pleasure was never a priority after he left, and it feels like the weeks of denial have built to a breaking point.

So close to the cusp when you nudge his fingers aside to tug down your underwear. Wanting him inside you when you come, begging him for his cock as your words echo throughout the empty house.

A bitten back groan as he paws through a bag half-lying beneath the couch. His own from the cabin, finding a pocket and tugging out the foil packet inside. Rolling the latex over his length before his hands grip at your hips. Lifting you over his cock.

Letting you drop down.

Your groan is loud - his name a sharp, broken warble as he fills you. Aware enough through the haze of pleasure to slap a hand over your mouth, stifling the sound out of habit.

“None of that, now.” He husks, a hand wrapping around your wrist.

Tugging it down as his hips jerk up, pressing himself deeper into you. Dragging against your walls as another whimper comes.

“Just us, sweetheart.” Joel coaxes. Helping you set a rhythm as you begin to bounce on his cock, “Been waiting to hear how you sound.”

How you moan his name, when he fucks you. Not having to hold back as he tugs you down when you rise. The filthy slap of skin meeting skin, a hissed groan when your mouth meets his again.

Every single sound.

Feeling how you clench around him, the erratic flex of your hips beneath his hand. Fingers that drift down to pet at your clit, pulling back to run his nose along your throat.

“Can feel you squeezin’ me, baby.

Voice slow as smooth, just like you remember. Louder than he usually is, his encouragement no longer a muted whisper.

“Wanna hear you when you come for me. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” You pant - your movements turning into a messy grind now. “Oh my god, Joel. I’m so close-”

The old couch squeaks as he takes over, thrusting up into you, in time with his fingers. Again and again as the pressure builds and builds, the words falling from your lips soon twisting into a drawn-out cry.

“Christ, that’s my girl.”

You’re barely able to hear him over the pitch of your voice, sounding muted to your own ears as the pleasure crashes into you. Fingers pinching onto his shoulders so tightly that he grunts, grinding his cock deep so he can feel the tight pulse of your orgasm.

But the words echo, with each sharp exhale of your breath. Clinging to them and him, as he follows so soon after you - his head tipping back as he groans.

Just as desperate as you were, underneath it all. So much hope forged in the script of that letter. Days spent wondering if you’d even see it.

Burying it all down, like he always did.

Strong arms wrap tightly around you, as you come back down. As the words still repeat in your mind.

My girl. My girl. My girl.

———

The couch is a little narrow, even with your leg thrown over his hip. Eyes closed as you listen to the muted bustle outside, as you inhale the familiar scent you’re come to know so well.

Head tilting so you can hear his heart instead, thrumming loudly against your ear. A hand stroking down your back, slipping beneath the sweatshirt you tugged back on.

Unable to help the urge of touching bare skin.

His heart kicks up a beat. The briefest moment before there’s the low rumble of his voice.

“Ellie’s idea. It ain’t a bad one.”

It has you blinking - sleepy from pleasure. From the warm comfort that being wrapped in him brings.

“Wouldn’t be all that different than before. More room, even.”

A sudden jolt, as you realize what he’s asking. An alertness rushing through you as you push yourself up to peer down at him.

Eyes scanning his, to see if he’s serious. A tick in his jaw as his teeth clench, waiting for your answer. Hoping he doesn’t have to explain further - still not good with words.

Hoping that this is enough.

If he had still been buried in you when he had asked, you wouldn’t have thought he was serious. Drunk on pleasure, words flowing and distorted by fantasy.

But he wasn’t, now.

And this isn’t the first time he’s asked you to come with them. He has asked, and you had - traveling all these miles. Bringing yourself right here.

After all that - surely you could take one more step.

“Okay,” You tell him.

A smile curving your lips that you think just might match his, barely visible in the dim light of the room.

In your new home.

“I’ll stay.”

Okay, the end for real this time! 💖 thank you so much for reading this fic, I had so much fun writing and sharing it. Honestly feeling so honored that there was wondering if there was more, so really hope you liked this!

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller smut #joel miller imagine #joel miller fic

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preciousthingsareprecious · 10 months

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Fic List Part 2

Okay so I have...a lot of fics apparently soo...this list will be more than two parts as I find stuff. This starts at 2019 and goes through roughly part of 2022. Please forgive me if there’s dupes or I forgot something that is your fav. Tumblr’s search feature even for me finding my own fics is...a mess

Part 1 of the Fic List

Master List (with AO3 Links)

Those Days We Miss

Damian dealing with missing Talia

Out Here Together

Dick teaching Damian about s’mores, connected to All the Fears will Pass but readable on it’s own

Love so Soft

Bruce Teaching Damian how to do s’mores! Spiritual sequel to Dick teaching him the same thing

All the Fears Will Pass

Dick and Damian, Damian tangling with Ivy for the first time

Alfred & Damian fluff

As the Years go By

Bruce being a Dad over Dick growing up

Of Baskets and Braids

Bruce, Dick, and Damian fluff, watching youtube and being a fam

Be There, For Me

Bruce and Damian, Damian having some flashbacks and Bruce taking care of him

Hearts Pounding and Blood Coursing

Robin and Batgirl have to save Batman (Dick!) from Scarecrow

Lego Land

Damian winning at Legos

Safe Together

Dick and Damian and fear toxin trapped in a grain silo

Down Here Below

Damian trying to disarm underwater bombs

And they Dig

Damian is kidnapped and stuck waiting around for rescue

Deterrent

Dick and Damian get hit with pollen that makes them unable to touch each other and they’re trapped in a collapsed building!

Laced Drink

Damian at a Gala and getting kidnapped.

Bleeding Out

https://preciousthingsareprecious.tumblr.com/post/188647957706/bleeding-out

Part 2 of a fic set with part one being Laced Drink. Featuring Dick off to save Damian!

Close the Chasm

Dick and Bruce talking about taking care of Damian

Underneath the Christmas Tree

A new present themed baddie in Gotham nabs Robin and it’s up to Batman to rescue him!

Out of Sight

Dick loses Damian in the chaos of a Wayne event getting hijacked

That Time Tim Totally Terminated Ra’s al Ghuls’ Entire Empire Part 1

Crack fic where to spite Ra’s Tim unionizes Ra’s ninjas and also comes home with two brothers

With Warmth and Love

Damian bakes cookies with Jason and Dick. Loose sequel to I’ll give All I Have

Here we are Together in the End

Content warning: Major Character Death, no comfort. This is my only no comfort fic so please be warned.

Dick and Damian deal with earthquakes in Gotham.

Light’s Out

The power goes out at the Penthouse and Dick and Damian figure out a way to enjoy the snow day

On a Cold Winter’s Night

The power goes out at Wayne Manor and Dick and Damian chill out

Under Repair

Jason helps Damian fix a car he’s just crashed…kind of

Put on Display

Robin gets nabbed by an obsessed fan and needs to be rescued

The Weight of Us

Dick and Bruce patrolling right after Bruce returns from being lost in time

A Lucky Shot

Dick and Damian and a series of unfortunate events on patrol

Damian at a Animal Rescue Farm

This Thrilling Day

Damian and Jon on vacation pulling Home Alone stunts

You Always Bring Me Home

Alfred and Bruce! Alfred being amazing and rescuing his Bat-lad

Just a Little Too Much

Damian being a little overwhelmed by a bad day

Bake it Just Right

Jason stress baking

No Day Like Toad-ay

Damian talks to a frog

And the World Spins

Dick has a very bad no good run in with Clayface

Time Ticks By

Tim and Damian bonding while escaping the Riddler

Safe Here, Safe Now

Dick and Damian training

#fic list #my fics #precious posts #long post #fics on tumblr #damian wayne #dick grayson #tim drake #jason todd #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #alfred pennyworth #duke thomas #bruce wayne #batfamily

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brazenskald · 2 months

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In my first year of university, I was going through a very tumultuous time. There was all the many new things that come from leaving home, some good, some bad. There were the difficulties of a demanding if rewarding job, and I first became acquainted with the not-so-fondly-remembered and not yet fully un-internalized “student lifestyle.” Terrible food, awful sleep schedule, and this omnipresent sense of impending doom that was, at least in my case in Fall 2019, surprisingly prescient. Throughout all of this, I was not prepared to be struck by the warmth and depth and resonant Truth that cut through the noise and spoke to me with a certain book I picked up, by happenstance, because of its pretty cover. That book was A Conspiracy of Truths by @ariaste. You may have heard of them. https://www.alexandrarowland.net/a-conspiracy-of-truths

Now, needless to say I devoured aCoT, and subsequently its excellent sequel A Choir of Lies. I was sorrowfully disappointed to find out after finishing the absolute rollercoaster of Choir that there was in fact, no further reading yet to do. And so, profoundly affected as I was by this (for now) duology, which I will doubtless craft a dedicated and appropriately lengthy treatise at some point in the future, I set the books in a prime place upon my shelf and turned to face the rest of the year buoyed in my hopes for the brightness of Spring and the long lusty laughter of Summer. Alas, they were all of them deceived for another global epidemic was to begin. One (or two) life-altering years in a pandemic later… I returned to university, fully prepared to enjoy the hell out of an actual honest-to-gods academic institution that didn’t begin and end with a computer screen. It hit like a truck. Same awful student lifestyle, more bad habits piling up, and a rapidly growing sense of my own undiagnosed issue rearing its ugly head. I made one decision that saved me, probably. I kept buying and reading phenomenal books. I kept looking for stories to motivate, enervate, and inspire. Somewhere deep in my subconscious, I remembered that fateful message spoken by a Chant on a page three years past. To loosely paraphrase, “Stories [are] people, and the way people are.” I chose to focus on resilience, made it my motto, and sure I still had lots of work to do, but it helped. It gave me the push I needed to keep going.

That last long Winter that seemed so dark that the sun was never going to come back? I went a-wandering, and lo, a new instalment from @ariaste ‘s Mithalgeard universe! Not a Chant sequel as such, but I couldn’t get my hands on it fast enough. It was an oasis. A respite from the grind and dreary routines. It was also gay as… well as gay as a rainbow covered in gold, let’s say. And I cannot recommend A Taste of Gold and Iron fiercely enough, because although in many ways I managed to end my degree on a high note, that book drew me out of the darkness of the coldest part of the year. It gave me the sense to smell the flowers, to bask in the green and golden glow of a soon-to-be-attained victory, long overdue.

Alex had by this point also published several shorter works, (and a whole library’s worth of content on AO3, naturally) which I leapt to read whenever they crossed my radar. It helped that I joined their discord community which was leaps and bounds more reliable in terms of getting updates and also just having the chance to share in mutual fandom gushing. If you’re even remotely interested in learning more about what I’ve talked about here, you should join in! https://discord.gg/XHJ9Uy5gef Everybody there is absolutely lovely. So why do I bring all this up? To summarize a preamble that is, to put it mildly, not short, Alex’s writing sings to my soul. I love it more deeply than my non-existent children, and their body of work continues to evolve and grow and deliver on the themes and core messages that hooked me with that first book.

But wait, there’s more! Life carries on, and with it comes new stories! Specifically, Running Close to the Wind! It’s Our Flag Means Death meets Mithalgeard, which if I haven’t convinced you to go and read those other instalments, well just trust me when I say that is a potent and persuasive pairing! It’s also going to be dropping at an important time for me, what with convocation, another big move in my life, and a whole whack of uncertainty. Much like Avra, Teveri, and Julian though, I’ll just have to brave the rocky waters and hold on to those nearest to me, and that’s what I’d like to focus on at the end of this post. A Conspiracy of Truth taught me that stories are people, A Choir of Lies showed how stories can change people, and A Taste of Gold and Iron drove home that stories we tell ourselves are the hardest to rewrite, but also the most rewarding when we take ownership of them. I anticipate that with Running Close to the Wind, Alex will likely show us (with ample amounts of pomp and queer circumstances) how the story of ourselves can only ever be written by interweaving the tales of those closest to us. Perhaps, we’ll even discover how to navigate the often stormy seas of uncertainty that seem omnipresent these days, whenever we deign to pull our noses out from whichever books we’re currently nestled within. I know that’s certainly something I’ll be looking out for, come this June, and now hopefully you will be too! (This last link does go to the webpage for Running Close to the Wind, Tumblr’s just being weird I guess.)

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captainsimagines · 2 years

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the warmth of the future || one

Summary: It’s been two years since you fell in love with Bucky Barnes, and the holidays are just around the corner. With even more love, more friends, and more family in attendance, you and Bucky fully intend to enjoy these days with as little drama as possible. But that’s not always the case with a relationship like yours, is it?

Pairing: DBF James “Bucky” Barnes x (Fem) Reader

Based on the Song: ‘Willow’ by Taylor Swift

Warnings: strong language; age difference kink; exhibitionism; anal fingering (Bucky receiving); blowjob; unprotected sex

Word Count: 7,160+

Author’s Note: Oh, I’m so ready for the holidays this year. Can’t wait for you guys to start this mini-series! I love these characters just as much as you do, and after so many messages this year about this fanfic in particular, I just had to make a mini sequel. I love you guys so much. I hope you enjoy and get into the early holiday spirit.

“I take back what I said before. You’re probably going to die by getting hit by a fucking bus.”

The sound of the horn near you is impossible to recover from. You know Bucky heard that over the phone. Still, you continue to sidestep several pedestrians and another taxi, running to the subway. A few weeks ago you two theorized the craziest possible ways you both would die. Bucky bet you’d be abducted by aliens and killed for being so annoying. You bet he would die by falling off a train in the icy Austrian Alps. “Funny, Barnes. Excuse me for being excited for Christmas break.”

Bucky scoffs gently. “So excited you can’t look both ways before you cross the street?”

You’ve navigated New York streets for years now. You know every crack, every turn, by heart. “You want me home on time, or no?”

Bucky grumbles, “Just get home in one piece.”

Home. It seemed like Bucky’s two-bedroom above his bar was more of a home than your own apartment. You spent more time in Brooklyn than you did Manhattan. Peter had practically bullied you about how much money you were wasting on rent. And you were, no doubt. It was a pain to wake up in Brooklyn and have to travel to Manhattan for work, but you did it anyway. And besides, it made sense. Bucky works nights, so him staying the night in Manhattan was illogical.

But home. That was wherever Bucky was. Warm beside him and wrapped up safely. This would be your third Christmas together, the third you’re spending together back home with your dad. It feels like a tradition now. Bucky had tried convincing his sister, Becca, to join this year but she planned an impromptu cruise with her fiancé instead.

Bucky didn’t blame her, though. It was her engagement present apparently.

This time, Bucky had rented a car and you two would be driving down today. With your assistant tagging along. Not because you were working this holiday break, but because Peter Parker had nowhere else to go in the city. His aunt died this year and this would be his first holiday season without close family to celebrate with. Peter was going to meet you at your apartment, but you were running late, and Bucky was calling to scold you for it.

I’ll put the book down after chapter fifty, I promise.

That promise is stale, Doll. I know you.

I prooooomise.

You had not, indeed, kept that promise and read all the way to chapter sixty today. But you had to. This was Loki Laufeyson’s third book in his insanely popular trilogy. It’s an impossible read to put down.

The reception becomes spotty the deeper you go into the subway station.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get home in one piece. Hey Bucky, would you love me if I was a worm?” The group of teenage girls swiping their Metrocards giggle beside you.

“We’re not doing this again. Get home.”

Rolling your eyes for no one to see, you bid him goodbye.

Another holiday with your family, another holiday with your friends, another holiday with the love of your life. How could life possibly get better than this?

Life did have ways of planting the smallest mishaps. Take the snow for example: Did Bucky know driving in the snow was such a major pain in the ass? He figured. Did he listen to your warnings about having to buy chains for the tires earlier? Nope.

One gas station, Peter’s googling of instructions, and an hour wasted putting the damn chains on later, you finally passed the town sign welcoming you home.

Your childhood town looked the same. It always looked the same. Feelings of nostalgia, scents of cinnamon, and an overall sense of calm quickly settled into your stomach as Bucky drove through town. Leaning your head out the window, you grinned widely as the car passed Wanda and Pietro’s flower shop, closed for lunch. Half of you wanted to fly out the car and bust down the door. The other half really wanted to see your dad first. A four hour drive was nothing with a good playlist and some burgers on the way down.

Once you finally pulled up to your dad’s house, you flew out of the passenger seat before Bucky had the chance to put the car in park. He followed less quickly as you, but his face showed his contained excitement. “It looks like the whole crew got here before us—”

Bucky’s voice floats away as your body slams onto the icy grass. “Oof!”

Clint squeezes tightly, his body weight compressing you into a smooshed pancake. “You’re here!”

“My…lungs…”

Bucky’s boot comes into view. “Get off my girl, Barton.”

“You get to see her every single day! Let me have this!”

Struggling, you shimmy like a worm and try your hardest not to touch anything intimate on the giant squishing you. “Clint. Remove…yourself!”

Your boyfriend’s loud sigh precedes his show of strength. Grabbing Clint by the collar of his winter jacket, Bucky yanks him upward and drops him on a high pile of snow. “Idiot.”

Clint’s laugh is interrupted by Pietro’s loud announcement of, “We’ve started decorating already!”

Sitting up, you dust snow from your elbows as best you can. “Without me?”

“We had extra hands,” Pietro reveals, grinning like a mad man. Before you can ask, a muscled body steps from the front door and onto the porch, wearing too little layers for the temperature outside.

“Steve!” Bucky exclaims, abandoning both you and Clint in the snow to run to his best friend. “You lied about visiting your mom!”

Steve runs a hand down the back of his neck, instantly turning red. He meets Bucky at the bottom of the porch and shares that clap-on-the-back slash bro-hug. “She decided to spend it with her partner’s kids and let me know a week ago.”

You huff as you stand, now dusting off your ass. “We had lunch a week ago.”

He meets your eye over Bucky’s shoulder. “And I didn’t exactly lie. Just omitted the truth.”

“Big fat liar.”

Steve ignores you, completely accustomed to your sarcasm and kindergarten insults. His attention returns to Bucky, as you turn your attention to Clint.

“Sometimes I think you want to kill me.”

Clint snorts, “I’m not that heavy. You’re just small.”

He accepts the shove to his shoulder. Clint would never admit it, but he acts this way because he’s an only child. By teasing you, Kate, and Wanda, he’s able to channel all that big brother energy somewhere. Why only you three? No one knows. Pietro is the same age and yet, receives Clint’s best friend energy. Maybe Clint Barton was destined to be a girl-brother—like a girl dad. The words sound stupid in your head as you repeat it.

He pulls your mini-suitcase from the trunk just as Peter emerges, shy as always around new people. “Clint, this is Peter Parker! He’s my assistant, but for the next week he’s just a friend! Got it?”

Clint barely acknowledges a single word you said besides the formal introduction. He shakes Peter’s hand and welcomes him to town, pointing back at the house as Peter lugs his own suitcase forward. With the snow, the pink of his cheeks, and his raggedy bag, Peter Parker fits in perfectly. As if the town gave its blessing.

“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like Steve?” Clint asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Uh,” you mumble, pulling Bucky’s suitcase out. “Ten. He’s been in my life since the beginning.”

Clint nods, a thin smile spreading across his face. Adjusting his hearing aid, he says, “Please let me know the new number when he tells you.”

“Huh?” But Clint’s already running back into the house, carrying your suitcase over his head. He’s lucky his dumbass didn’t slip on the driveway.

When you finally go inside, your dad and Sam are nowhere in sight. You can vaguely hear them near the back of the house, though. Steve is in the kitchen alone, chugging some water and Bucky gone.

“Why am I going to hate you?” you ask, setting your purse down on the dining room table. It’s littered with holiday decorations. Paper snowflakes, red and green candles, baking utensils.

Steve smirks, wiping his mouth. “I’m staying in your room.”

Your brows furrow. “Where the hell are Bucky and I supposed to sleep?”

“Oh, you’re staying in your room, too! Bucky gets the guest room.”

There it is.

“Wha—”

“Your dad isn’t taking any chances this time.”

Huh? What kind of joke was this? A cruel game Steve, Sam, and your dad must have come up with before you even entered the damn town, probably. “I’ve been dating the guy for two years! Of course we fuck!”

Steve purses his lips, eyes widening. “Oh, don’t worry, I know!” Sarcastic, loud, sonofabitch. “Fucking know well enough, too!”

One time. One damn time he walked in on you. “Don’t be jealous.”

He blinks. “Jealous?”

“You want to join? Just ask.”

Steve dramatically slaps his chest as he goes to grip at his heart. “I’m going to throw up in my mouth. Then I’m going to spit it on you.”

“Kinky.”

“You little—”

“Bumblebee!”

Your dad practically sprints into the kitchen, arms stretched wide. You jump up and down as you grip him tightly. “Dad!”

“The drive okay? You hungry?”

“Yes and no! How are you? How’s Monica?”

Your dad flushes at the mere mention of his girlfriend’s name. “Great. She’ll be here for the party.”

He swings you around twice, surprisingly strong for a man who works at a desk nowadays. Sam smiles brightly at the sight. “Gosh, I missed you.”

“I missed you too, but that’s diminishing by the second. What’s this about you barring my boyfriend from my bedroom?”

Sam shoves Steve when he starts cracking up, scolding him. Your dad scrunches his face. “Bumblebee, the horror stories I’ve heard from your friends! From my friends! I understand young love—well, young and middle-aged love, really—but I have more guests staying here this season than just you! I’m being considerate.”

You grimace, then gag dramatically. “I don’t know what frightens me more. The fact that my own father views me as a sex-crazed monster or that I’m sharing a room with Captain Rogers.”

“I trust Steve. He’ll make sure no one goes in or out of that room.”

Steve continues to silently laugh behind Sam, who’s trying hard not to break himself. “Have I done something to you? Am I finally being rightfully punished for stealing one of your friends?”

Your dad scoffs playfully, pulling you in for a side hug. You hang limp, a bodily protest. “No, but now that you mention it, the punishment fits the crime.”

Steve pulls you from your dad, side-hugging you as well. “Don’t worry, pal. I’ll make sure she gets her full eight hours of sleep.”

“Suck my tit, Steve.”

“I’d rather not.”

Bucky chooses that moment to join the squabble, Clint and Pietro following close behind. “What’s happening?”

Shoving Steve away, his waist hitting the corner of the kitchen countertop, you disregard his yelp for Bucky’s attention. “Oh, Bucky, it’s horrible! It’s Romeo and Juliet all over again!”

“I may have missed the first time we lived that story,” Bucky says, his head tilting.

“We’re being separated! You and I are no more! The house is split!”

Steve groans, clutching at his side. His voice comes out gravely. “If it’s any consolation, I’m on your side, man.”

“It was my idea,” Sam offers, raising a hand. Looking back at him, he shoots you a cocky smirk.

“Sam…You traitor.”

“You’ll see each other all day. The nights aren’t going to kill you—”

“Shut up, Tybalt.”

Bucky gives you an unimpressed look. He’ll hype your Romeo and Juliet character reference later, but for now he needs to diffuse the situation.

He heard the conversation. He knows what you’re complaining about. Hell, he wants to complain too. But there’s this nagging voice at the back of his head telling him, Hey Bud. Remember that time one of your good friends invited you over during the holidays and you proceeded to fuck his daughter in every depraved position, every single night, while he was sleeping two doors over?

So he surrenders. “How about we continue with the decorations, yeah?”

“Why is it that you never fight by my side when my dad is involved?” you whine.

He clears his throat, smiling that white-person smile at your dad. “Either I stay on his good side and continue being with his beautiful daughter, or we duel and he wins.”

Your dad accepts this. “You earn some points with me by saying I’d win.”

Beside you, you feel Bucky relax instantly. Giving him the side-eye, you notice Peter emerging from the bathroom over his shoulder.

“Dad! This is Peter, my assistant!” Dragging Peter by the shoulders and presenting him like one would their greatest achievement, Peter holds out a timid hand.

“Ah! This is the man who dodges my calls by saying you’re in a meeting,” your dad jokes, shaking his hand.

Something flashes in Peter’s eyes. Alarm, panic, dread. Who knows. “The meetings were real, sir.”

“Well, either way. The couch is all yours! The more the merrier.”

“Thank you for having me, sir.”

“Everyone is welcome in my house! I try to be a good host.”

With those words, Peter’s eyes immediately soften. “Well, I’ve no longer got family in the city so this is a real honor.”

You notice how the words affect everyone. This tradition has run in your family since you were born—since before. It was an unspoken thing that everyone would convene at your dad’s house. Even if it wasn’t the largest, and people had to share beds, and everyone had to chip in for beer. But there was something about the fireplace in the corner, showcasing nine stockings with everyone’s names on them. The Menorah that was missing its final candle. The smell of cookies and pie every single day of December.

To share this tradition with a new edition, even if Peter might decide not to return next holiday season, filled you with honor.

Your dad, the king of making others feel a part of the club, asks Peter, “What’s your menu like? I’ll send Bumblebee to the store later today.”

Can’t forget that tradition, either. It was always your job to get everyone’s groceries for the week.

“I’ll go with you,” Pietro volunteers. “We’ll pick up Wanda along the way.”

You hum in response. “Make a list. Oh, and Steve?”

Steve lifts an eyebrow.

“I like to fall asleep to whale sounds and the sounds of gorilla’s mating.”

Bucky quickly agrees, just to fuck with Steve. The man who’ll be sharing his girl’s room, it seemed. Something silent but feral was festering in the pit of his stomach, but Bucky chose to make a joke of it instead.

Maybe it won’t be so bad. You two have slept away from each other before. You don’t see each other everyday.

So Bucky won’t let it get to him.

He won’t.

Promise.

“You’re forced to share a room with another magnificent and stunning male?” Peggy laughs, clearly entertained by the news you’ve shared. Peggy follows you down the aisle with a basket in hand, waving off Pietro’s constant asks of carrying it for her. Wanda swipes the listed items off the shelves into the cart with impressive speed, only half-listening to the conversation. “I don’t see the problem!”

“I’m with Bucky.”

“So?”

“And it’s monogamous.”

Peggy huffs, “Then strike everything I would have said you do if you were me.”

“I personally don’t understand why Steve has to stay in your room anyway,” Pietro interjects. “Like, there are two couches in the living room.”

“Sam is taking one.”

“Then why not have Steve bunk with Bucky?”

Wanda twirls, a box of sugar cookies in her grip. “I can answer this one! Because even though Bucky slept with his daughter, our little Bumblebee is being scolded now. Your dad is getting revenge.”

So by having Steve bunk with you, it’s essentially torture…for you. Because you’ll have to be the one to sneak out if you dare; you’ll be the one dealing with Steve’s horrendous snoring; you’ll be the one who has to go down the stairs. It was brilliant. Evil and brilliant.

“Revenge? After two years?”

Peggy chuckles, moving her basket from Pietro’s reach again. “Fathers. Always such rascals. My father turned a blind eye and I loved him more for it.”

“My father isn’t turning a blind eye. He’s actively engaging in separating us.”

“I think it’s fucking funny,” Pietro admits, covering his mouth. “Sorry, Peggy.”

Peggy waves him off. “I think it’s fucking funny, too.”

“So, what?” Wanda scoffs, throwing a package of napkins in the cart. “So you’re separated for a week. You don’t have to fuck in the house. There are other places!”

“Wanda!”

“No, no, she’s right on that front!” Peggy admits. “Kate’s bar, the gym Clint attends, the motel!”

You groan, leaning down against the cart. Your chin rests on your folded arms and your back is at an awkward angle. “To stay at a motel like last summer? Then my father will know what we’re doing. And that makes my insides twist.”

“You’re young and you keep your man young. If fucking is the solution, then find a way to accomplish it.”

Pietro sends Peggy an incredulous look, frozen in place as the three of you pass him by. “Does she always speak like that?”

“Address me, dear. I can speak for myself.”

“Okay,” Pietro says, blinking a few times. “Do you always speak like that?”

“Only on Tuesdays.”

Pietro does the mental calendar-hopping in his head. Peggy Carter was the resident grocery store customer you formed an odd friendship with two Christmases ago. She had been outspoken then, and she’s definitely outspoken now. Just because she reigns supreme in age doesn’t mean that all she says and suggests is wise. Sometimes you wonder how she even got past her fifties with her mindset.

“Anyways, that’s my problem right now. Bucky and I will get through it and I will smother Captain Rogers in his sleep. Done!”

Wanda giggles, “He’s cute, though.”

Pietro rounds on her. “No, no! Stop talking.”

“He’s big and handsome and totally not off-limits for me.”

Pietro looks as if he’s just witnessed a mass murder. “I…He’s old enough to be our dad.” Then to you, “No offense.”

“If he had us in his teens.”

Pietro literally whines, “Wanda, I beg you. Do not fuck the Captain.”

“Are you going to let him order you, love?” Peggy asks Wanda, eyebrows high.

Wanda smiles, teeth and all. “Nope!”

Pietro whines again, watching his sister skip down the aisle. He calls after you, so you twist around slowly. “Talk her out of it.”

You shake your head. “You laughed at my predicament. Your sister can fuck who she wants.”

Pietro grumbles as you all pay for the groceries, as you say goodbye to Peggy, and on the drive home. Wanda seems to be two seconds away from cackling.

“This town is so tiny. It’s like a Hallmark movie.”

You give Peter a side-smirk while also holding the door open for him. He enters the bookstore like he’s on a mission, looking for everything and nothing at once. You figure he’s only accompanying you because he’s got nothing better to do in a strange town. And if he is planning on buying you a Christmas present—because he has literally no one else besides Bucky to buy one for—he probably wouldn’t buy it now while you’re with him.

“There’s talk about combining it with the town next over. But that never goes down well for us small town folk.”

Peter scrunches his nose, shaking his head. “Every place has a personality. Combining two doesn’t guarantee a functioning third.”

“You’ve got the right.”

Two Christmases ago you had found Bucky a perfect first-edition about rejected Christmas tales. This time, however, you’re thinking something different. Last summer you had edited a book and included one of Bucky’s major plot suggestions…which made it into the final draft. Bucky doesn’t know, and getting the book for him seemed like a proper gift with meaning attached to it.

Peter watches you drift into the fantasy section. He huffs a laugh, “Another book? What are you guys? Like, 50?”

“You followed my ass into a bookstore. What did you expect? Besides, we’re both avid readers.”

“So get the dude a bookmark.”

“I’m gonna get you a bookmark, you ungrateful son of a bitch.”

Peter laughs again. He grabs a random book and inspects the cover. “What else have you gotten him? I remember you getting him a book last Christmas, too. Actually, for the past two Christmases you’ve known each other.”

“The first Christmas doesn’t count. I had literally just met him.”

“And you got him a book. What did you get him for Hanukkah?”

Anal. But you’re not about to tell your assistant that little tid-bit.

So you answer, “An appropriate gift.”

Peter shakes his head. "A book is a gift that says ‘I love you’, sure. But you need a gift that says ‘I love you, and I want to screw you forever but as husband and wife.'"

Eyes widening, you practically sprint the short distance over to cover his mouth with your hand. “Shhh!”

“What—What?” he mumbles behind it.

“Don’t you dare mention marriage in this town. The gossip will spread, and next thing you know you’re pregnant with your ex-boyfriend’s child, who may or may not be the actual father because you were plastered when you slept with three different guys that same night.”

Peter blinks, waiting a few seconds after you remove your hand from his face to speak. “That’s too specific to be made-up.”

You shrug. “Happened to a cousin of mine.”

“Did she have the kid?”

“I think so. Haven’t seen her in years—”

The sound of your name cuts off your sentence. That voice distinct—unmistakable. Turning, you’re half-convinced you imagined it. But no—there he is. Beautiful as ever, and so much older than the last time you saw him. Like Bucky, you had missed seeing him every time you visited. Two people passing through and yet, never reconnecting. The voice of the only man you dated from this town.

“Peter,” you sigh, astonished by the chance meeting.

“Yeah?” Peter answers, confused.

“No—Peter,” you say, pointing at the man walking toward you, a bright smile on his face. “Peter Quill.”

“And he is?”

Quill extends his arms out in joyful greeting, surprise written across every feature of his fine face. “Well, I’ll be damned. I’ve heard you’ve been visiting every Christmas since you got that fancy New York job!”

You accept his quick hug. “Ever since! How are you?”

“Same old, same old. Dad retired, so I manage the business now.”

“Oh, that’s great! You always wanted to be the boss!”

He runs a hand down the back of his neck, blushing. “It is great. But I want to hear about you! I haven’t seen you since—”

“Since high school graduation.”

He nods, looking you up and down. Not in a sleazy way, but in a way that conveys pure wonder. Like you were a flower that had withered and magically revived. “You’ve…grown.”

You snort softly, pointing at his chest. “Obviously, both of us did.”

He blushes again. “Well, hey. How about we meet up sometime this week and have dinner or something?”

“I was actually planning on going to Kate’s tomorrow night for the fundraiser. You should come!”

His face brightens as he accepts. “You know, I just might. I don’t remember the last time I just sat down and had a beer in public.”

“Contracting that much of a hard job?”

“I am the boss.”

Peter clears his throat beside you, a half-smile plastered on his face. A somewhat incredulous smile.

Knocked from your one-on-one, you instantly start introducing them. “Oh shit. Peter, this is Peter. Peter Parker, my assistant.”

Quill adopts a proud look. “Assistant? Damn, Bumblebee, you’ve been climbing that ladder.”

Quill was the first one out of your friends who began calling you Bumblebee for shits and giggles. Then Wanda and Kate followed, then Clint, then the whole universe. Guess you have Quill to thank for it, but it still made you squeal as a teenager. Now it just functions as a term of endearment.

Peter waves a bored hand through the air. “I don’t get her coffee if that’s what you’re imagining. I google shit for her.”

Quill nods reassuringly. “A very important job indeed.”

Peter purses his lips. “So, Peter—”

“Oh, I go by Quill. It’s been my nickname since…forever, really.”

“Quill…High school friends, then?”

Your eyes settle into a I know what the fuck you’re doing glance. As if daring Peter to investigate further.

But Quill gives him the answer he’s looking for. “We used to date.”

Peter bends forward, over-exaggerated amusement spilling from his literal pores as he slaps his palms against his knees. “Really!”

“Yeah, like ten years ago,” you deadpan.

“Still interesting news!”

Pursing your lips, you turn back to Quill. “Don’t mind him. He’s this close to being fired.”

Peter puffs, “Who else will close the blinds and lock your office door for you whenever Buck—”

Quickly, you pat Quill’s shoulder. “I’m looking forward to seeing you tomorrow night, Quill. The festivities start at eight!”

He stares down at you, something raw flashing in his eyes. Something akin to eagerness. “Looking forward to it.” He takes whatever was in his hands and pays at the front counter, shooting you one final grin before exiting the store.

Peter steps in front of you, arms-crossed and expression smug. “You invited your ex-boyfriend to hang out with your friends and current boyfriend?”

“Hey, he’s Clint’s friend too! And Quill literally lives here.”

“Did Clint ever make out with him?”

You raise a hand to pinch your index and thumb together. “This close to being fired, Parker.”

He turns and skips down the aisle, ignoring your threat. “I feel like I’m in a movie! Small town, old boyfriend, current boyfriend, the holidays!”

Jogging to catch up to him, you basically abandon the thoughts of Christmas presents in order to convince the little shit he’s reading the situation wrong. “Nothing is going to happen with Quill ever again. Do you hear me?”

“Were you and I looking at the same man?”

Glaring, you promise, “Just because he bulked up doesn’t mean my panties are going to drop.”

“Ah, but you did notice he’s huge.”

You exit the store, leaving him a few feet back. “You’re fired.”

Dramatically, Peter presses, “But who will google the definitions of words that stump you when you’re editing?”

The air conditioner blasts around your hundredth sigh. And yet, it’s still not loud enough to mask the sound of Captain Steve fucking Rogers snoring on the floor at the foot of your bed.

What the fuck was your dad thinking? This was so fucking awkward for both you and Steve, obviously, but Steve was too good of a man to say anything. He was given the opportunity to play the protect our shared daughter from boys card, and he snatched that shit right up. Now you were cursed with his snoring practically in your ear, a personal assistant sleeping on the couch downstairs, and a boyfriend a whole staircase below you. A boyfriend that was probably wide awake and low key theorizing all the ways he’d kill Steve in the morning.

Because even though he trusts Steve, and Steve has obviously shared space with you before back in New York, the mere fact you’re alone with an attractive male who is not him must be eating at his self-control. Hell, it’s eating at you. It’s not fun when Steve plays the angel card. He’s much more fun when he fights back.

“Steve,” you whisper-yell, locking your muscles tight as you wait for a response. But the only verbal response you receive is another loud snore. “Steve.”

He doesn’t stir. Slowly, painstakingly slow—you slip from under the covers and tip-toe to the door. Looking back, you’re half convinced Steve will roll over and point with a loud declaration of, “Ha-ha! Got you!”

But the big lug snores and chokes, deep in whatever sedated dream he’s currently experiencing.

Rolling your eyes, you then step out into the hallway with the grace of a literal swan. Sidestepping the noisy wooden planks, avoiding breathing when you walk past your dad’s closed door, pausing between each stair on the way down. The second you touch the carpet, you silently cheer.

Now all you’ve got to do is pass Peter Parker and Sam Wilson. Which proves easy as well, considering Peter’s draped over one couch, on his stomach, with one leg out the blanket and a hand tangled in his hair. Out cold. Sam’s on his back, arm folded over his face, and snoring loudly.

Pulling your phone out of your pajama-shorts pocket, you send Bucky a text.

Open the door.

There’s no response, but there is the distinct sound of bedsheets ruffling and soft pads of feet across the floor.

Bucky opens the door, and the soft orange light shining behind him gives him such a lovely halo, such a gorgeous glow, that you’re tempered to fall to your knees and pray.

“I’m not dueling your dad,” he says, glaring and squinting at the same time.

“Then we’ll have to be quiet.”

He huffs, leaning his forehead against the doorframe. The door is only slightly cracked open, like he’s restraining himself. “Doll…”

“Please?” Because what else can you say?

“Fuck…We’ve gone a week celibate before. How is this any different?”

Biting your lip, you admit, “Everyone’s telling me that I can’t.”

Bucky smirks a little. “So, I’m forbidden fruit?”

Now you pull out the big guns. Still biting your lip, you tilt your head down—barely—and lift your right foot up—barely—so it looks like you’re faintly tempted to cross your legs. “Please.”

Bucky’s eyes slowly close, and his nostrils flare. He pulls you in, expertly shutting the door with a faint click. Immediately, you attack his lips, kissing him feverishly. Like you’ve forgotten his taste. Like you can’t get enough.

“Doll—“

“I want to fuck you.”

Sucking in a harsh breath, Bucky asks, “Yeah?”

You nod the best you’re able, your lips still pecking his. “Mm, I want to see if you can be quiet.”

Bucky detaches himself long enough to speak, his hands gripping your waist. “And here I was thinking you were a little cockslut for me today. But you actually want to make me beg for it.”

You whine softly in response.

“Torture, is what that is. Selfish, and evil.”

You didn’t even realize Bucky had been walking you toward the bed until he crashed into it, dragging your body onto his. With him splayed out underneath you, your fantasies grow supreme.

“It’s both. I want your cock inside me, but I want to see that look on your face you only get when I fuck you just right.”

Bucky’s hips hitch upward involuntarily. “God, I love you.”

With a small giggle, you lean down to nibble on his neck.

Was it dangerous to do this on the very first night? Not exactly. If you were caught, you would just be bullied to the ends of the earth because of it. You’ll be hearing this story even when you are old and in diapers. Your dad may have some choice words with you in the morning, and his gun would definitely make an appearance—aimed at Bucky, of course—but he’d get over it.

Yes, this whole exhibitionist thing you and Bucky have going on is the slightest bit rude. You’re a guest at your father’s house, not a resident. You don’t pay the mortgage. He asked this one simple thing of you for the duration of your stay: Do not share a room with your lover, one of my best friends, under my roof.

But are you respecting his wishes? No.

Does it feel naughty and so fucking nasty, though? Yes.

By the time you get to the, “Will I feel guilty in the morning?” internal bit, Bucky’s cock is deep inside your mouth, and you’ve been stripped of all of your clothes.

Bucky grips the bed sheets as hard as he can, his metal hand squeaking in the otherwise quiet room. His breathing is erratic, but not loud enough to warrant inspection.

Popping off him, you run your tongue from the base to the tip, swirling it around and sucking—one of Bucky’s favorite moves. His tip is the most sensitive part. And when you dip the tip of your tongue over his slit, Bucky nearly shouts. His flesh hand shoots down to grip your hair, half-trying to ball it into a ponytail and half-trying to move it out of the way in whatever direction he can.

“Fuck, look at those lips,” Bucky praises. His eyes meet yours when you look up at him, cock hard on your tongue, and his mouth drops from a sudden rush of tingling pleasure that hits the base of his stomach. “Fucking born to suck my cock, huh?”

With a few final long licks and deep sucks, you release his cock to stand from the bed. “Born to suck and fuck you, Barnes,” you giggle. “Did you bring the lube?”

Bucky rests his head against the pillow, chuckling softly toward the ceiling. “I brought it in case of a quickie and we wanted to skip your prep.”

Humming, you snap open the lid and walk back to the bed. You don’t miss the hungry look Bucky has as he visibly eats your figure up. Settling between his legs, you pat the outside of his right thigh. “Open up, sweetheart.”

“God,” Bucky quietly moans, and bends his knees. Spreading them farther apart, he presents himself to you. And fuck, is he a treat. Cock hard and red, dribbling against his lower abdomen. His balls locked tight, practically begging to be fondled. And his tight, puckered hole waiting for your fingers.

Spreading some lube onto your index finger, you look up at him. “Do you want to fuck me after this?”

“Sweetheart,” he mocks, sucking in one deep breath as he watches you warm the lube between your fingers. “I don’t come unless you come, too. Got that? Don’t you dare make me feel good and then leave yourself untouched.”

“I can always return to my room and take care of myself there. This is for you.”

You say the last sentence with the most teasing tone you can conjure. Bucky Barnes is wholly complete to you. Meaning, there isn’t a puzzle piece left unturned, a secret left untold, or a wish left unsaid. And even though people claim you never stop learning about a person no matter how long you’re with them, they’re wrong about that. Because even if you “learn” something new about Bucky, it’s a given. Something you may not have guessed entirely accurate, but something irrevocably him that it proves to be the most obvious thing in the world.

And as raunchy as this example was, you know Bucky would never let you leave this room without coming at least once, but you never thought he’d declare it so hot and angrily.

“Fuck yourself in front of my friends and see what happens.”

Smiling wide, you lay the pad of your index against his hole. Bucky tenses, gritting his teeth at the sudden touch. “You want to fuck me in front of Steve?”

Bucky growls, suddenly reaching forward to grip the back of your head to tug you down. With a tiny yelp, you fall forward onto his chest, your lips a centimeter away from each other.

“That’s already happened, and it was an accident.”

Slowly, you push your finger into him. Bucky swivels his hips, the movement itself an ask for you to do something else with the intrusion.

“Oh? I remember you admitting to me that it was one of the hottest things that’s ever happened to you, even if Captain Rogers, one of your best friends, saw my wet cunt stretched around your cock.”

Bucky slams his lips against yours, his mouth parting when your finger starts sliding in and out, in and out. He tightens around you, and his hips swivel again. You rise up so you can get a better view.

“You like when people know how well you fuck me.” Pulling out, you massage his hole before lining up your middle finger. You slide both fingers in as you say, “Especially when I have to look those people in the eye the next day.”

Pumping into his body, you marvel at the way his face scrunches in pleasure. How his mouth parts and his bottom lip shines. How his throat bobs and his skin turns a dark pink. How his chest heaves and his nipples harden. Nipples you find yourself leaning toward and biting softly, pulling the pebbled tip between your teeth. Bucky whines, his breathing quickening.

“Sometimes I just want you to rip my jeans off in front of everyone and fuck me right there. I want you to talk them through it—what it feels like, what you want to do to me. I want a fucking audience for when your cock finally leaves me and I’m dripping your—“

“Doll, I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up or else I’m exploding right here, right now.”

Bending your fingers, you rub against his prostate until he’s writhing. His cock gives a slight pulse, then another and another as you nearly rub him to completion. But you alternate between fucking him with your hand as fast and coordinated as you can, then stopping to stroke him from the inside. It’s a combination that always brings Bucky to fucked-out tears.

“Tell me when you want to switch,” you assure him. “Tell me and I’m all yours.”

“You little minx,” he grunts, hands sliding along your waist and up to your tits. He pinches a nipple with his metal hand, elated when your face slackens. “Now, sweetheart. Make yourself come now.”

With one final swipe at his prostate, you remove your fingers and wipe the excess lube off on the bed sheets. Then, in one of the most practiced moves you’ve come to achieve, swing your leg over until you’re hovering over his cock, and sink onto him.

“Fuck,” he moans, gripping your hips as he readies to bounce you. But he lets one hand travel, one hand rise and smack your mound. Quickly, you cover your mouth with your hand, clenching your eyes shut.

Pussy-slapping. Huh. Everyday you find out something new about yourself.

He does it again. And again, and again, until you get the message and begin lifting your hips. Bouncing up and down, clenching purposely just to teeter him over that sweet edge, pinching his nipples whenever he did yours.

It’s rough and wet and possibly a little too loud for your predicament, but it’s too good to stop. Every spring of your hips reminds you of that glorious fullness, how the girth of Bucky’s cock burns and shocks and blesses you all at once. Reminds you of his sculpted body beneath yours, a body that has lain there and took it, a body that has draped itself over you and encased you with loving warmth. And the whimpers he expels, the way he bites his lip, the way his fingers leave masculine imprints on your skin…it’s evident you’re the same way, that your face contorts the same way his does, that your nails are leaving light red marks on his chest.

A magnificent pair—two bodies, two people attempting to reach a new height hidden at the base of stomachs, at the edges of spines, in the melting slush behind ribs.

Fuck your exhibitionist kink. You can’t stay away from Bucky because you, simply put, can’t stay away. If you weren’t horny tonight, you’d bet millions that you still would have snuck in and simply held him goodnight.

Bucky tugs you forward until you’re chest to chest, practically hugging, and holds you there as he fucks up into you. Fast, deep, desperate.

“I fucking love you,” he whispers through a moan, his voice near your ear. “Love you with all my goddamn heart.”

“I—” He hits that spot inside of you, and continues to hit it once he realizes. “I love you.”

His arms unwrap from your waist so he can grip your ass, spreading you wider as he pumps. “C’mon, Doll. Come for me. Come all over my cock like the cockslut you are.”

Biting into his shoulder, you shatter completely. Black spots impair your vision, and your back practically bows. Bucky fucks you quicker, and with a low grunt, spills into you.

Sweaty and overheating, you lift yourself with weak elbows. His eyes are still closed as you comment, “For the record, the next time I fuck you in this house, it’ll be with a strap-on and you’ll be bent over this bed, do you hear me?”

Bucky smiles through his post-orgasm daze. “Fuck yes. Make me that promise, sweetheart. Make me your cockslut.”

You chuckle deeply. “It’s funny when you say it when you refer to yourself.”

He blinks an eye open. “Funny?”

“Cute,” you correct. “Because it’s you admitting you’re as much of a horny little bastard as I am.”

Bucky snorts softly, and helps lift you from on top of him. Reaching over the nightstand, he snatches a couple tissues. He cleans what he can, but a bathroom trip is required. “You better sneak back to your room before someone gets suspicious about my light being on.”

“Maybe Steve woke up.”

“Steve sleeps through those loud as fuck broadcasted alerts and earthquakes. I highly doubt the jerk woke up on a silent night like this one.”

“Not so silent anymore.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. You dress, plant a long kiss on Bucky’s bruised lips, and slip from the room undetected. Peter hadn’t moved from his spider position and Sam still snored loudly. Nothing in the kitchen has been disturbed.

You succeeded. You actually fucking succeeded. With a wonderful tenderness between your legs and a blush on your cheeks, you gently climb the stairs and open your bedroom door. Steve lies on his stomach now, sprawled out and practically dead.

You’ll have to sleep without Bucky’s arms around you tonight, but knowing he wanted you as badly as you wanted him? Bliss.

TAGLIST: [on masterlist]

#Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes/reader #bucky barnes smut #Bucky Barnes x female reader #holiday fanfic #marvel fanfiction #avengers au #warmth of winter sequel #warmth of the future #part one #captainsimagines #by Moni #dbf!bucky #dbf!buckybarnes

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aeor-is-for-reccing · 9 months

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Near Death Experiences: A Shadowgast Rec List

This week, we have fifteen fics that have to deal with Caleb and Essek nearly (or temporarily) dying under the cut! Lots of hurt/comfort in this one. As ever, if you like them, don't forget to Kudos or comment!

Of Broken Plans and Places to Be by ThreeGremlinsInATrenchcoat (8856, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek catches a fatal disease in Aeor designed to resist clerical healing. Caleb must take care of him while the rest of the Mighty Nein race to find a cure.

Reccer says: Another excellent sick fic, this time with Essek as the patient.

The Mind and the Malady by SaltCore (38941, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, some body horror in the form of coughing up bloody flowers

Hanahaki fic where Essek falls so hopelessly in love with Caleb post-97 that it's literally killing him. He could cure himself, but the price (reverting back to the man he was prior to meeting Caleb) is one that Essek would rather die than pay. That he could be cured by Caleb ever loving him back is, of course, a laughable notion.

Reccer says: A beautifully written example of not-actually-one-sided pining, with literal life or death stakes. I don't normally care for hanahaki fics, but I reread this one often.

Zedrinset by LuckyOwlsFoot (4599, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Essek is kidnapped by a monster that promises a fate worse than death. Caleb risks everything to save him, and Essek is powerless to do anything but watch

Reccer says: Another good execution of a relatively simple premise. Caleb goes absolutely feral in Essek's defense in a very sexy way

Tomb of Rust by LuckyOwlsFoot (23682, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Caleb and Essek go through the wringer in Aeor, stumbling from near-death-experience to near-death-experience

Reccer says: Caleb and Essek go through the *wringer* in this one, with lots of wonderful tender comfort at the end

A Fire Frozen in Ice by Professor_Rye (5755, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Caleb catches a deadly disease that's slowly freezing him to death, Essek struggles to keep him alive andfind a cure before it's too late

Reccer says: Very tasty sick fic with Essek as the caretaker

Contrapasso by SaltCore (4856, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Temporary character death and resurrection

Canon divergence AU where Essek is kidnapped and magically imprisoned by Ludinus as a hostage against the Mighty Nein. Essek has to let Caleb mercy kill him in order to escape

Reccer says: This fic was written for the Whumptober 2021 prompt "Trust Fall" which is a good description of what reading this fic feels like, emotionally.

bow shock by SaltCore (4613, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Caleb is very nearly murdered in his bed by a Trent loyalist, Essek saves him at the last moment.

Reccer says: A skillful execution (pun intended) of a very simple premise. Essek goes feral over Caleb's safety in the sexiest, sweetest way imaginable

heliopause by SaltCore (5035, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence

A direct sequel and companion piece to bow shock, with the same basic premise, only this time Essek is the one in mortal danger and Caleb is the one who comes to his rescue

Reccer says: This one is great for all the same reasons bow shock is, I highly recommend reading them together

A Very Silent Night by Professor_Rye (7324, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Modern AU, Caleb and Essek get into a car accident in the middle of the night on a lonely mountain road in the middle of winter. Essek is badly hurt, and Caleb has to cuddle with him for warmth to make sure he survives the night

Reccer says: A simple but very well done fic where the two pining idiots in love have to share body heat to survive, with a thoughtful examination of fantasy racism on the side.

the only way out is through the ditch by SaltCore (6971, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Temporary character death and resurrection

Essek is caught in a deadly trap in Aeor, and Caleb can do nothing except watch him die a slow and painful death, praying that he will be able to revive him later. (aka: Wrath of Khan, Shadowgast edition)

Reccer says: Absolutely agonizing to read in the best way possible, with a wonderful catharsis at the end. Also one of the most creative (if gruesome) depictions of a transmutation wizard's version of raise dead that I've ever seen

infinity in the palm of your hand by mousecookie (5752, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Major Character Death

Canon divergence for episode 116 where the M9 find Essek - seemingly dead - in an Aeorian corridor with the rest of the Kryn adventuring party. Tagged MCD because of how it's framed but also Temporary Character Death.

Reccer says: I liked it!

we never do go over (we always gotta go through) by Chrome (17169, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Five times Essek woke up with level(s) of exhaustion and one time he didn't.

Reccer says: It's a classic 'Essek sacrifices himself nearly to death, then the Nein comfort him back to health' fic. Wonderful hurt comfort.

Sending for aid by TormentaPrudii (1449, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Cad receives a frantic Sending from Caleb and has to walk him through first-aid to stabilize Essek long enough to rest and Teleport to the Grove.

Reccer says: The outsider POV and only getting twenty-five word glimpses into the wizards’ situation really hammered the tension home in the best way

rumors of my demise by words-writ-in-starlight (6184, Teen) Reccer's Content Notes: Choose Not to Warn

Essek is arrested by the Dynasty and sentenced to death. He doesn't want his friends risking their lives in a rescue, so pretends like nothing is wrong. His friends turn out to have opinions about that.

Reccer says: Another Whumptober inspired fic where Essek gets to learn just how far his friends are willing to go for him. Features temporary character death and resurrection of that's your jam

Hold Me Close, Cut Me Deep by CatgirlTheCrazy (14192, Mature) Reccer's Content Notes: No Content Notes

Essek falls victim to an incubus, and it turns him on Caleb

Reccer says: Pitch perfect angst and drama as the wizards fight, and then fight over who uses their limited healing options

Aeor is for Lovers is an 18+ Shadowgast Discord server. The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. All fics, unless otherwise specified, will primarily feature Shadowgast.

Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ! Next week, we’ll be back with hand kink!

#critical role #shadowgast #fic recs #cr fics #cr fic recs #essek thelyss #Caleb Widogast #whump #hurt/comfort #near death experience

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deadboyfriendd · 10 months

Text

Cochise Il: Mudsill

Summary: The morning after his first day reaps a certain morosity with it. After a gruesome shootout with a grisly outcome, he vows not only to protect this town, but you as well. In more ways than one. The second part of Cochise. Sequel to Nellie.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Outlaw/Doc Holliday!Eddie Munson x Reader, wild west/Tombstone AU!, Sherrif!Steve (he has a mustache), guns and gun violence, death of minor original characters, period-appropriate death, suggestions of lynching and public execution, drug use, angst, fluff, save a horse (the horse watches in this one), ride a cowboy, smut included, death of a spouse discussed in this, blood and wounds (gunshots), minor unintentional self-harm, unprotected p in v, creampie

My content is 18+ Minors DNI

Word Count: 6.1k

Author's Note: This is for Drac <3 thank you for beta reading! And also for dealing with me going, “now what?” every fifteen seconds, and also for being my nepo goth mommy and being the only reason I get reads on this godforsaken app and also for indulging me in this fantasy and also for ominously looming over my docs because the performance anxiety makes me write better and more consistently.

Find the series masterlist here!

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed

In one self place, for where we are is hell,

And where hell is must we ever be.

The morning is nonetheless blistering, no qualms of early warmth and birds singing. Here, the sun meant silence, this world turned itself over to the night and reaped rest by the break of dawn just to escape its harshness until winter. Not all would make it. By five the blossom of the night-blooming cereus will have shriveled away, and by six the earth would begin to heat.

The sun does not rest, only lies in wait. Remnants of it settling in the sand beneath him.

He awakes with a groan and a pulling sting that blossoms across his neck and face at the first stale movements of wake. He could hear the vacant crunch of footsteps against gravel, hollow and softened by the fine sand beneath them. A shadow overtook him, one that granted a relief like the sour sting of white chocolate against the prevalence of melting.

“Well, good morning, Edward.” His eyes nearly crossed to look up towards you, attempting to make out any of the features of your face. They were too backlit from the sun and his eyes were still too sensitive. A basket for laundry sat firm against your hip, emptied. Above you, there is a line strung from one ironwood to the next, a washbasin several feet away with suds still running down the sides.

He bears his senses, pulling his mind away from that celestial body it rested in the previous night. He tried not to think of your supple nature in front of him, the way your silken skin felt beneath his fingers or the way the ends of your hair tickled against his belly within his dream. It was up now, twisted into braids and tucked unto itself.

His face and neck are red, you aren't incredibly introspective, and you can’t tell if it is a blush or the beginnings of a sunburn. You waited to wake him, washing and hanging your laundry before the break of dawn. He seemed tired, but leaving him out in the sun seemed downright cruel. You ‘d think of him in the same respects as the rattlesnake– the one who cooks from the outside in when it sits in the sand too long.

You offer your hand to him, and he takes it. You are much stronger than your body implies, taking on the weight of him with a pull, hands calloused from housework and the general husbandry that comes from western living.

“Couldn’t sleep?” You asked behind a grin, by now his eyes had adjusted and settled on the whites of your teeth and the upturned fat of your face.

“Apparently I was the only one that wanted to.” He was sore from the ground, though he couldn’t quite tell if his tailbone hurt from the sand or the train to Tombstone. He watched you in stride, taking a few of your smaller ones ahead of him.

You giggled softly, and it sounded like church bells. You looked over your shoulder at him, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch your eyes, instead, settling on the way the flesh of your neck folded at the crease. He counted the moles to ground himself, “The west never rests, Edward.”

He followed your stride for a few steps, his long strides becoming staccatos in comparison to yours. He looked down at his feet, avoiding rocks beneath him in his still-weary state and watching the dust kick up from beneath your heels to collect on the front of his boots.

The gold of your earring refracted a light that brushed across your cheek, had Eddie not been staring so intently, he would have missed it. He’s glad he didn’t. “Steve already came ‘round this morning. Said a telegraph came in for you. Trains’ delayed ‘till ‘bout tomorrow.”

The confession hit him like a shot to the chest, and he could help the dramatization of the groan that escaped him, “Christ.”

“Got something important on that cargo train?” You raised a poignant eyebrow at him, more motherly in nature. It questioned the dramatics more than his personage.

He shook his head, unable to stop himself from chuckling at his own bad luck, “Only my horse… and everything else.”

“I see.” You nodded back in repose, turning your body back to face him. Your hands still clutching the laundry basket braced over your hip, “Well, let's see if we can’t scrape up some fresh clothes for you to wear then.”

You reach your hand out towards him in invitation, his own forbearance of politeness and handshakes prompts him to reach out, though, you don’t seem to let go. You don’t notice the rouge of his cheeks or along the tips of his ears in schoolboy embarrassment beneath his sunburn. Your hands aren’t soft, not like the other women he’s touched. Your hands have been kissed with the calluses of men’s work. Ropes on horses and hands on guns. His memories reel back to your husband, the slack you were forced to receive in his absence. You wouldn’t have to pick up any slack on Eddie, he didn’t plan on dying soon. Not if he could help it.

You use your hand like a reign, pulling him towards the wrought-iron staircase within the bar that led to your home. The staircase rocked with each footstep – a solid structure that seemed not-quite fixated to its endpoints.

He looked around at the corridor, modest, but nevertheless a home. The dark wood on the floors closely resembled the mahogany excessiveness of The Grand Hotel, though, the expanse of it was limited to the flooring. A pale Mexican plaster covered the vast expanse of the walls, rounding the corners and archways into a smooth texture.

He noticed the boots by the door, covered in dust and much too large to be your own. It filled in the gaps where the empty spots on the wall still lie bare, and where the second dining chair had remained tucked neatly beneath the table. Though this place resembled a home, it was not. Instead, it housed the ghost of your husband. He laid in bed at night next to the shell of grief that resembled you, the decanter on the table filled with tears of loneliness and guilt.

You opened the thin door in the corridor, and he realized that all of your husband’s clothes had been moved here. He tried not to picture you pulling them out of the dresser they resided in, tried not to imagine the tears streaming down your face as you buried it within the fabric just to smell him again. Just to feel like he was close enough to touch one more time.

The garments were well-starched. A white high-collar shirt, black vest, black pants, black cravat. He was a man after Eddie’s own heart, that was for sure. You excuse yourself towards the kitchen, allowing him open access to the dressing room to change.

When he slipped through the door, loose on its hinges, he met your eyes– pressing and cold in nature. It wasn’t intentional, at least, not in the sense that your coldness was directed towards him. At an instant, your hands had found his chest, and he peered downwards to watch them, intently. It was a force of habit, righting a missed button and an off-set pattern on the vest. Once you corrected it, you laid them flat against his sternum.

He thought back to last night, the pressing warmth of your hands against his chest and the soft brush of your hair that tickled against his belly. He thought back to the purely pornographic sounds that resounded off the walls of The Grand Hotel in his dream. Though, you’d felt more human now, with the hurt in your eyes that dragged like a trunk you couldn’t rid yourself of. Your eyes carried a grief like granite, pulled from the quarry chipped into the mountain of your life and heavy on your soul.

He thought back to what The Sheriff had said to him, about picking up the slack when your husband died. Who had been there when you were grieving? Surely the sheriff, but he had said it himself. You had your pick, but had never taken another lover. He wondered if it could be him.

There is an ex-cathedra bass crescendo that reverberates against the dainty backing of tenor melodies in the bar at night, long after the dust has settled beneath the feet of the common folk. You never understood why the people here still chose to do their bidding during the day, when the sun casted an itching burn across the delicate cutaneous layers of exposed skin like lye.

It was not Christmas, and yet you’d found pieces of words in fragments of memories beneath your breath as you hammered against the keys with clumsy fingers. You grazed your tongue against your bottom lip, still in search of the remnants of sugar from the dried Christmas fruits you’d been given as a child.

There is a sombering solidarity in this aloneness, and in the way you no longer search for the feeling of your husband’s fingers against the cold ivory. It was just that now: cold. That emptiness would always linger, but that coldness of keys was now not for the absence of his warmth. They just were.

Eddie watched you from the gap in the glass door to the parlor, smoothing the hairs on his arms down from where the low, deep notes rattled in his coccyx. He let the press of the mesquite against his back keep him tethered to the earth. He’d recognized the song like a ghost, Christmases past like bugs with needle-prick feet crawling up his back in repose. Where your fingers lay heavy against untuned, rattling keys, he found a softness. A delicacy in this world that was anything but. He saw tarantula legs in your spindles of fingers, light and silent as they crawled across ivory.

There was not an inherent evil to the tarantula. Only existence.

Your own existence was different here. You weren’t so on edge now that you figured you were alone. He felt guilty taking advantage of your comfort like this, but your softness radiated light out past the windows and into the sand outside in a warm, golden glow. Your lashes kissed in the corners of your eyes, nursing against the apples of your cheeks as you looked down in concentration. He wanted to smooth out the line forming between your brows. Your hair lay wild, splayed across your shoulders and roused from the removal of your hat.

He adjusted himself against the door frame, the creak against the flooring from behind you sent you reeling upwards, the scratch-key a heavy hand against incorrect and out-of-tune keys. The man in black looming behind you like a shroud. You’d gasped without realizing it. He took a step forward, hand out in gentle appeasement as you whipped around, more startled than afraid. He registered it as fear. Your hand came to your chest in repulse, laying flat and tight against your breastbone.

He takes a few steps forward, quickly closing the gap between you. The echo from the heel of his boot bounced off your body and you convinced yourself that the ringing in your ears was from that alone.

“Woah, Nellie.” He’d said to you, softly, a pressing grin upturning crookedly at the corners of his lips. This was not the first time he’d used the horse moniker, and you’d figured this was not going to be the last. You’d blamed your own spooked nature at the way your breath did not fill your lungs completely and not the way Eddie’s warm hands felt as it picked yours up off of your chest, holding it between his two like a vice in apologetics.

You squeezed his hand under your fingers, shaking it slightly in annoyance, “You scared me half to death, Edward.”

“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ma’am.” He’d said in apology, once again, yet the smile pulled across his face further, pretty teeth grazing against the suppleness of flesh.

You raised a brow at him, stern in nature, “When you smile something awful like that, it makes me think you did.”

His smile stretched wider in his face, a laugh coming to fruition in his chest and exhaling through his nose and over your face, “I didn’t. Honest.” Not that you really thought that he did in the first place.

His hand left yours and found itself around your waist, where the tautness of your dresses stretched over the softness of your hip. He grasped for skin beneath the ruching of the fabric over you, warm hand splayed across your back.

He was close — entirely too close to be considered professional or polite, but you welcomed it. You felt the breath from his nostrils, cooling against the bridge of your nose and dissipating across the crests of your cheeks. His lips parted, and the breath changed to warm. You could taste the tobacco that resided against his lips like the sugar you’d searched for on your own mere moments ago.

His weight against your chest is foreboding, and even the bracing from his wide palm cannot stop the soft step back you take. The heel of your own hand presses against a random selection of treble keys and creates an awful, off-putting sound that makes him jump.

You can’t stop the girlish giggle that slips past your lips at the momentary terror that registers in your eyes. You don’t know if it is because of the immediate karmic justice or the fact that he was so startled by the noise he just listened to from afar. He looks back down towards you with a look that mirrored your own previous one, trying to force the smile off of his face down into a scowl.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, honest.” You laughed between syllables, quickly pulling the key cover over the tops of the ivories and resting back against them.

“Well, you’re smiling something awful like you did.”

The air outside was still. Too still. Like it lies in wait of travesty that happened in a near-constant turnstile. There is no one in the streets tonight, the party crowd gathered before the stage of The Grand Hotel to watch tonight’s opening of Faustus.

However, Hell would not just be a frame of mind tonight.

Michael ‘Mudsill’ Doten leaks off the steps of The Grand Hotel in a clumsy choreography of laudanum and drink, pupils blown wide in an opiate tincture waltz. The peacemaker across his hip a metronome of depravity waiting for the subtle fingertip of quarter counts to off-beat.

He howls at the moon, firing one, two shots towards it into the open air. It both draws townspeople towards and away from the scenery. Marshall Milt Kilmer steps off the balcony of The Grand Hotel haughtily, fumbling with the weapon holstered against his side.

From behind the glass at the Whispering Sands, you stand at the sound of gunshots, hands finding your own weapon holstered beneath the folds of your dresses. Eddie’s large palm finds your shoulder, squeezing softly in a promise of not us. His other hand met the stock of his gun, tucked away in the shoulder holster against his waist.

“Michael! Come on now.” You heard Milt start, sound clear despite being muffled by glass. The commotion must have been right outside your window. Eddie and yourself listened from behind the front door, air between your bodies stagnant in wait.

Michael was slovenly, more so than usual, “Well, howdy Milt.” He stumbled, lame as a duck and ten times more disgusting. He wielded his pistol like a bomb with the pin pilled, a travesty in wait.

“Alright, hand those over, Michel.” Milt insists, gun wielded in defense against Michael. The commotion has attracted onlookers that seeped from ant pile buildings in uneasy swarms – the Doten family leaking out and congregating in their own slovenly hive like wasps, “Hand ‘em over!” Milt calls, more firm this time.

Micahel takes a look around, then back at the County Marshall before him. His pupils are blown wide like dinner plates, “Okay, Milt, I’ll hand ‘em over. It’s only fun. Here you go.”

But what are thou Faustus, but a man condemned to die?

There is a split second in which you can see the silver line between life and death, in which you can walk the plane between realms. There reaps a morosity heavy on your heart in the fractions of a second before a man’s life ends. It is entirely too familiar to you, and you crumble under the weight of it all. You don’t hear the crack of the gun, and you don’t see Milt’s body fall limp, but you see the breath that falls from his lips that keeps his soul on a lark. You try to catch it in your hands to force back into his lungs. Running towards his body felt like wading through sand, burning hot and suffocating around your waist. He was dead by the time your hands cupped around his shoulder, but the remnant of his essence felt like a sheet, drowning you in the great planes of the Gila.

“Milt? Come on now.” Michael said, the gun long dropped on the ground. He nudged Milt’s boot with his own, unable to process the velocity of the events that transpired just moments before.

The sheriff is fast to rush Michael, cracking the stock of his own peacemaker across the crown of the man before him, the body dropping heavy against the sand to your left. Heavy, but still alive.

Everything is heavy. The weight that you bear crouched beside Milt’s body, the way Michael slumped into the sand beside you, the crowd gathering around the sudden onslaught of commotion, and the hand against your back that undoubtedly belonged to Edward.

“Get him off the street.” Steve ordered, sweeping his peacemaker around in a circle to fend off the feigning crowd, “Alright, back off.” He said, stern and loud. You’d have half a mind to be afraid of him when he was like this, if you weren’t still in shock.

“Get a rope!” Someone from the town said, stepping down from a nearby patio.

“String him up!”

Edward could sense the rising tension, his other hand coming firmly around the taught expanse of your waist and pulling you back without giving you room to fight. You stumbled backwards in a stupor, hot tears streaming down your face emotionlessly. You were a stone. A puppet in his hands watching the scene before you unfold.

Steve’s face hardened, jaw clenched under cold eyes, “Nobody’s hanging anybody.”

“He just killed a man–”

“And he’ll stand trial for it. Now, get back! Move!” Steve made sure the hammer was pulled back on his gun, serious as sin. You don’t think you’d ever seen him this scary before. You didn’t think he could be this scary at all.

“Turn him loose.” One of the town patrons called from the building riot, stepping forward from the mass. He was a dirty cattle pusher that still carried the grime and anger of a juvenile foal. When Steve gave him a cold stare-down, he spoke up once more, “He said to turn loose of him.”

“I’m not, so go home.” Steve said again, face like a stone.

Another voice emerged from the crowd, “I swear to God, law dog, you step aside or we’ll tear you apart.” He was an older man with a scraggly beard, wiry hair to match his wiry nature, a dust-alden bandana hanging loosely off the skeleton-physique. He wielded his own weapon, pointing it at the Sheriff. He knew he was outnumbered, but wouldn’t back down. You wanted to cry out, to let them lynch Michael. Anything to avoid watching someone you care about die again. Anything to avoid feeling that.

Steve took a step forward, pressing the barrel directly to the forehead of the old man. Hard enough for it to leave an indentation on the skin.

“You die first, got it? Your friends might rush me later but not before I kill you first.” Steve’s eyes had hardened from something stone-cold to something ablaze. His eyes reaped the anger of the afternoon sun, alight with anger. Anger from defiance. Anger for Milt. “You understand me?”

“He’s bluffing, let’s rush him” The younger man spoke up, further trying to entice the crowd. Everyone else was at a standstill, tension so taught, that if that wire snapped, it could recoil and kill both Steve and the other man.

The old man’s eyes went wide, hands splayed out in a half surrender, half heeding motion, “No! He isn’t bluffing. Don’t rush him.” He pleaded, as if he were staring death in the face. By the look of rage and hunger alight behind Steve’s eyes, you were sure he was.

This time, the sheriff went quiet, talking only to the man in front of him, “You aren’t as stupid as you look. Now tell them to get back. “

“Go on, now, get back.” The old man said, hands still upward in surrender. The statement was shaking and quiet, unsure and teetering between tears. “Go on!” He said, louder this time, a plea for his life.

“He’ll kill me.” He whispered, a single salty tear streaking through the fine layer of sand on his face. The crowd dissipated back, the yelling and demands of public execution coming to a gelatinous quiet.

Edward removed his hand from your waist, putting the pistol from beneath his arm. He pulled the hammer back without question, pointing it at the young cattle-hand that started this all.

“And you, big boy, you’re next.” He spoke it like a promise. Like a prayer. If you hadn’t been magnified by everyone's slightest move, you would have missed the way Steve’s eyes met you before he nodded in Edward’s direction.

The train comes by way of Texas Pacific that next morning, long before the break of dawn, and Eddie’s steamer trunk and horse were brought by means of Butterfield’s Overland as the sun was breaking darkness over the horizon.

You don’t remember the sun turning over the next morning until you are blinded by the sudden onslaught of neon orange through the glass of the Whispering Sands. Your eyes feel dry, juxtaposed to the salty wetness of the rest of your face and the bottoms of your dresses, yet you kept scrubbing.

That wretched spot in the middle of the floor that was beginning to divot from where the wood had worn away, yet you swore you could still see the dark coagulants of blood pooling between the grain. Maybe it was your own.

There, where your husband lay dying, where his final breaths sputtered and choked from the blood that congealed within his lungs and escaped the gaping hole in his sternum. Where the unnamed bandolero lay already dead in your doorway, an iron barrel burning a vicious welt into your leg as your hands desperately plunged into the red pool forming within your husband’s chest. That night, the blood of two men covered your hands.

The only evidence that anything had ever happened here was the mild divot on the floor and the blood seeping from your skinless knuckles and you scrubbed salt over the ghosts that resided between these floorboards and in these stools. You haunted this place in search of your husband, who would no longer be found at the piano or behind the bar. You were a ghost in your own rights.

That holy shape becomes a devil, best.

The laundry outside needs tending, and you let the burn from your knuckles tether you to this mortal plane, the unpleasant stick of your wet overcoat sticking ad unsticking from your knees and making them raw as you mundanely schlop wet clothes from the washbasin and pin them to the wire.

You hear Edward round the corner, shrouded in the shadow from the smoky black quarter horse. Though quiet as they try, the equine presence is never quiet. He clears his throat haughtily, though you fail to recognize if it was him or the horse blowing a hefty breath through large nostrils.

“Ma’am.” He started. Your nose was still red and your under eyes were still swollen from the night before, though, he hadn’t originally meant to say anything. Watching a man die was hard, he knew that you would have understood that. You looked like you had died and been resurrected when you turned to face him, hair frizzy and half escaping the braid that hadn’t been touched since the days before tucked beneath your hat, clothes sopping wet and hands bleeding.

“What did you do to your hands?” He asked, suddenly softer now. He reached down to grab your hands, the sides of his calloused fingers scraping the undersides of your own calloused palms.

“Tending to the floors.” You said to him, barely above a whisper. You wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“You're soaked.” He observed, taking a step back to look down the front of your buckskin overskirts. Without a doubt, your underskirt and bloomers clung to your skin beneath as well, no longer dripping due to the warming sun.

He understood what was happening here, the frantic nature in the way you scrubbed the floors matched the way he scrubbed his own body raw from the blood that covered his skin. He knew your hurt all too well.

You mustered the courage to look him in the face as he inspected the outer edges of your knuckles with a tenderness that nearly brought the tears spilling back from your eyes. It was a tenderness that you hadn’t known in so long. It was like you were witnessing him from outside of your own body, through the eyes of a spider. You could count the smattering of freckles across his nose– those akin to a schoolboy, endearing in nature. A scar of what no longer remained. While he looked for signs of infection and wood shrapnel and remaining salt, you looked at the near perfection in which his thick lashes brushed from his lid to his cheek and you understood that God may not have been forgiving, but He certainly was real.

A fluttering, frantic desire builds in your core when you slot your lips against his. This feeling was not akin to butterflies and moths. It was frantic, more persistent. Like that of the hummingbirds that drank from the cactus blossoms in the cooler mornings. You watched them in silence, searching and flying entirely too close. Fast and sure. All you can feel is the dry cracking against softness as his startled breath dissipates across your own mouth.

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled to him, only pulling a mere few centimeters away. You were not sorry, but you were polite enough to fake it.

“Don’t.”

He drops your hands, fingers scrambling for purchase against the tautness where your vest is slotted tight over your waist, clutching at fabric in search of skin instead. You reel closer, your own hat bumping the brim of his and falling off your head. It is frantic and sloppy and full of an animalistic reproach. The heat of his skin and lips is no different from the staleness of the desert around you. Your hands find his neck beneath his hair, tacky and slick with the sweat of the already blistering morning. You wanted him to touch you with all of the resolve of your dead lover, you wanted him to take you here in the sand– to make you shake and shiver all of the worries that had plagued you to the bone. To feel close to someone was foreboding, if you wanted to feel close you would have taken another lover. To feel safe with someone was something you clung to like a vice, for you hadn’t been safe since you’d started out west. You buzz like the fat hummingbirds in the saguaro blossoms when he hikes you close against him, aggressive without malaise. Both of his arms entrap you tightly, almost too tightly to be comfortable, and keeps a crushing weight to keep your body taught against his. You whine, all woman and all desperation, as your back braces against the rough stone texture of the brick behind you, his leg slotting between your thighs and casting a desperate friction to fruition.

When you gyrate your hip against his thigh, unsparingly, the broad planes of his hands cling to the valley of your back between your shoulder blades relentlessly. It brings you up towards him instead of away against the wall. You can feel the harness of his braced between your bodies, and it sparks a churning feeling deep in the pit of your belly. You are whining, his tongue funding purchase within your mouth and making a home there. He does not expect you to initiate the act, but when your hands slide down the tautness of his abdomen, and pull his shirt out from his trousers, he is surprised.

There is no sense of familiarity to this. Sure, you had been married. Laying with a man was no unexplored land for you, but this franticness, this panic and desperation was all new. It was risky, and it felt dirty, though, not incorrect. Edward reaches up, pulling the hat off of his head, his fingers turning tender against your waist as he guides you off of the wall and downwards into the sand. It is firm against your back and pleasantly warm.

You are not soft like in his dream. You do not whine or beg for him when you see all of him for the first time. You are relentless in undoing your own buttons and pulling your own shirt off. When you see him, he is tall and lean, there is a scarecrow-like nature to him, the gangliness clinging to him like the naivety of youth, though, just as you were all woman, he was all man. Even in his softness. He is soft in the way he looks down at you, and allows your eyes to skim over him. His awestruck nature forces you to resist the urge to cover yourself.

You are not womanly in the way you disregard the messiness of your hair, the tear streaks that stick against your hot cheeks, or the sand that sticks to your back as he lays you down. When he reaches a hand up to cup the side of your neck, it feels like walking that tightrope again– the one that teeters between the plane of life and death. This was a part of you that you no longer had resolve in. You did not think you would ever feel something that resembled your husband again. Though, as you walked this tightrope, it felt like crossing the threshold of your upstairs quarters again. His hands around you like a foundation and his arms around you like walls.

There is a change of pace as he kisses you this time, unhurriedly and exploring. Your fingers grasp around the thick bone of his wrists, thumbs tethering you to the ligaments of his wrists beneath his alabaster skin. There remains a tackiness on the front of your body from where the lye water soaked through your clothes and stuck to your skin, though, he didn’t seem to mind.

Behind the fast-paced nature and desperation of it all, there lies a sticky sweetness. Dark and slow-moving like molasses against your skin. It finds a resemblance in his lips against your neck that trail your collarbones. If it were a different circumstance, perhaps, this would have been slower. He would have taken you like a lover, something that more closely resembled the way he wanted you in the hazy fog of The Grand Hotel. But you needed him here and now, and he would have to give you that.

He does not have to ease your legs open with reproach like he had to do with the other girls, the ones who hid themselves away in meek shyness. Even in the open expanse of the desert before you, where, on the opposite side of this building, the town was awake and beginning to stir, there was a profound lack of meekness to your demeanor. There would be no begging from your lips, though, you didn’t need to. You had him already. You had him as soon as you’d met him.

He found himself tepid, “Do you still want me to–”

“I want you to fuck me, Edward.” You’d insisted, and he was taken aback by it. Though, he was not going to deny you. Not with the sweat pooling between the valley on your breasts and your curls sticking to your forehead. He wouldn’t have denied you anyways.

“Okay.”

His voice was hoarse, moan rumbling low and deep from the confines of his lungs. He is rushed with feeling– taken aback by the crudeness of your language and comfort with your raw body. This was not what he had dreamed of, but rarely was it ever. The thrill changed quickly from an excited tingle to an aching need. His thumbs pull the hair from your face as he braces himself on his elbows, the soft smattering of hair on his stomach becoming flush with yours.

You didn’t understand before the softness that lay just beneath the layer of dust that settles over him, the roundness to the apples of his cheeks or the plush of his lips. Though, now that he was this close, it was hard not to miss. His eyes, though you had only ever seen them dark and angry, were now a golden honey against the tan backdrop of the desert. It resembled the waning orange of the sunrise you were too forlorn to watch this morning.

There was a resounding softness in his promises of, “I’ll take care of you” that reverberated with the building of tears that formed against his pretty lash line, though, not enough to break the surface tension and spill over his even prettier face.

There is a relentlessness in the way he rocks his hips against your core, desperate for the feeling of closeness. A single tear buds against the corner of his eye, dripping down his pretty red cheek and on to your chest. You had half a mind to swipe it away with your thumb. He fucks you languidly in the building spring heat. The tackiness of your skin turns to a slide as he works you.

His hips stutter in a pistoning motion, punching a moan out of your core that was not frilly or rehearsed. Please don’t stop’s resounding off of his chest like prayers. He is a little rougher than before, your back arching in pleasure. His voice is broken as he presses hot, open-mouthed kisses to the column of your throat.

There is a certain inevitability, like you both know that this will need to come to an abrupt end, and you whine with the filthiness of it all. There is a soft soreness that buds from within your core, and from the way he cries out, whiny and vulnerable, you know he feels it, too. There is a reciprocating cry that resounds from both your mouths, and you know he has reached his apex when he spills inside of you, moving slowly and then coming to a stop.

You do not stop him when he drops a heavy head against your sternum, instead resulting in pushing the hair away from his face. His head bobs up and down on your chest as you breathe, his own falling out of sync with yours. There is a resounding whisper that leaves his lips, and you are not sure if you are meant to hear. You reply anyways.

“Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris.” “It is a comfort to the wretched to have companions in misery.”

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evanesdust · 4 months

Text

The Great New Year's Eve Stand-off of 2023

written for- @sterekfests prompt: "Kiss me at midnight." @sterekweekly word: kiss @sterekmonthly word: new year @sterekbingo square: domestic @imagine-sterek's 24, the 2024 sterek event

Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale Additional Tags: POV Stiles Stilinski, Unofficial Sequel, Established Relationship, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, Fluff, Cute Kids

Summary:

As their kids built a fort and planned to stay up for New Year's Eve, Stiles and Derek bet on who would fall asleep first.

Stiles stood in the doorway, watching Derek clean up the mess from dinner. He noticed the way Derek's hands moved with efficient grace, wiping down the countertops and stacking the dishes neatly in the dishwasher. It was a simple task, yet there was something soothing about watching him work, finding a rhythm in the mundane. It was domestic, comforting, and a side of Derek that Stiles hadn't known he'd find so enthralling. Something about his big, bad alpha of a husband doing household chores just didn't fit the stereotype, and that contradiction only made Derek more appealing to Stiles. The room was filled with the clinking of dishes and the soft hum of the dishwasher as it started its cycle.

There was an intimacy in these quiet moments, a shared life that extended beyond the chaos of their daily lives with three rambunctious children. Werewolf children, no less.

"I can feel you staring at me," Derek said without turning around, a small smile playing on his lips. "Is there something you need, or are you just enjoying the view?"

Stiles chuckled, pushing off the doorframe to walk over and wrap his arms around Derek from behind. He rested his chin on Derek's shoulder, soaking in their closeness as he murmured, "Can't it be both?"

Derek let out a soft sigh as he leaned back into the embrace. "With you, it's always both." The warmth in his voice was enough to spark a flutter in Stiles's chest. "Is everything okay?"

"Do you think they'll actually stay up all night?" Stiles asked, his fingers playing with the hem of Derek's shirt.

The kids were building a fort in the living room, hopped up on sugar and excitement for counting down to the New Year. The sound of their laughter fluttered in from the other room like music, a symphony of high-pitched giggles and the occasional dramatic roar.

Derek chuckled, turning around to face him, a skeptical arch to his brow before brushing his lips against Stiles's temple. "Honestly, I'll give them until ten before they all crash, just like Christmas. There's only so much energy humanly possible, even with sugar as fuel."

Though ever since winter break started, the kids had proven themselves to be full of surprises, giving Stiles and Derek a run for their money with their seemingly boundless stamina.

"Well, they do have the advantage of being werewolves," Stiles pointed out, dancing his fingers across Derek's chest. "And you and I both know that means a whole different level of energy."

Derek laughed again, the sound warm and deep, echoing the love and joy that filled their home. "True. And I suppose they also have determination on their side."

Stiles chuckled, recalling all the hushed whispers and giggling conspiracies that had filled the house as the kids' plans to stay up late took shape. "Yeah, there's that."

"Still," Derek said, "I think our bets are safe. In the end, they're kids, and kids need sleep, werewolf or not."

And Stiles knew that after all the excitement wore off and the sugar rush faded, they'd succumb to sleep, tangled in a mess of blankets and pillows within their homemade fortress, dreaming of their next adventure.

Derek rubbed the small of Stiles's back, smiling softly at him—the kind of smile that made Stiles's heart flip in his chest. "We should get the camera ready, too. This will be one for the memory books."

"Definitely." Stiles grinned, imagining the sea of cushions and sheets taking over the living room. "It'll be the Great New Year's Eve Stand-off of 2023. I'll have to make sure the batteries are fully charged because I'm betting the aftermath will be even more entertaining than the build-up. They already have a pillow fort set up, too. So even if they don't stay up, I think they're planning to stage a sleep-in protest or something."

Derek's laughter rumbled through Stiles's body, a sound he found himself wanting to capture and keep for the quiet moments when the house would eventually be empty, and the chaos of pitter-pattering little werewolf feet had grown into the steady, calm strides of teenagers.

"Oh yeah? Pillows, blankets, the whole nine yards?" Derek asked, amusement lighting his eyes—probably picturing their children fortifying their New Year's Eve stronghold.

"It's pretty impressive, actually." Stiles's eyes lit up with a fondness that only their children's antics could invoke. "I can't wait to see who'll be the last one standing—or, well, awake." He glanced at the clock, noting the hands steadily creeping towards that hopeful midnight hour. "I'm putting my money on Caleb. He's got that stubborn streak."

Derek chuckled, nodding in agreement. "You might be right. But I wouldn't count Eli out. He snuck in a couple of naps today. The kid's got strategy on his side. And he stayed up the longest on Christmas Eve."

They shared a look, an unspoken agreement that they were in for quite the show. It was a fleeting moment of calm before the storm of laughter and playful shrieks returned, signaling that the kids were nowhere near ready to call it a night.

"They're going to see the ball drop if it's the last thing they do," Derek said with a grin. "Might as well make the most of it, help them build some memories."

Stiles nodded, his gaze softening at the thought of their children determined to usher in the new year with their eyes open and hearts full of joy.

"Yeah, these are the moments they'll remember." For Stiles and Derek, too, and Stiles wouldn't trade it for anything. "Maybe it'll be a new tradition—may the strongest eyelid win."

Derek laughed again, the sound warm and genuine. "I like that. Let's make it happen. But first, we have to survive the sugar high."

The two of them wandered back to the living room, ready to join the fray, to supervise, and to be present for every moment of joy the night would bring. After all, these were the moments that made everything worth it.

As the ball dropped, Stiles glanced down at the kids. They'd been asleep before the countdown had even started, their great stand-off ending anticlimactically in snores and quiet breaths about an hour ago. Each little werewolf curled up under a fortress of pillows, their faces peaceful in slumber—though, surprisingly, Clara had been the last holdout.

Stiles turned to Derek with a grin. "Looks like we were both wrong."

Derek shook his head, smiling as he reached for the camera on the side table, capturing the last few seconds of the old year with a click. With the kids sleeping, the silence of their home, save for the occasional pop and crackle of the fireplace, was a stark contrast to the boisterous noise from earlier in the evening.

"It's perfect," Stiles whispered, leaning into Derek. He smiled as the dim light of the television playing the New Year's Eve festivities cast a soft glow over them.

Derek placed the camera down, pulling Stiles closer to his side.

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, his voice barely above a whisper so he didn't disturb the tranquil scene before them.

The clock struck midnight, and as the world outside erupted in cheers and fireworks, Stiles's world was right here, within the walls of their home—in the quiet heartbeat of their family.

Derek tipped his chin up for a gentle kiss, a silent celebration of another year together. It was a simple, quiet moment that held the weight of all their shared years and love.

Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek, returning the kiss with equal tenderness. As they pulled apart, Stiles whispered against Derek's lips, "Happy New Year, Derek."

Derek's response was a soft smile and a tighter embrace. "Happy New Year, Stiles."

In the warmth of their hold, the soft crackle of the fireplace, and the gentle rhythm of their children's breathing, they welcomed the new year—a promise of more love, challenges, and memories to be made.

#sterek #sterekfests #sterekfestswinter2023 #sterekfestsmidnight #sterekweekly #sterekweeklykiss #sterekmonthly #sterekmonthlynewyear #sterekbingo #imagine sterek #holy shit i wrote something

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pumpkin-stars · 2 years

Text

Reunion

Geralt of Rivia/GN!Reader

AKA Cottagecore!Geralt 2: Springtime Boogaloo

This can be read as existing in the same universe as Delay if you want to, works as a prequel or a sequel :)

Reblogs are very much appreciated 💕

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings/Content: Beefy!Geralt, soft!Geralt, established relationship where they still pine for each other a lot.

You wait by the window, watching the pink cherry blossoms coat the branches at the edge of the treeline, speaking of spring, the welcomed thaw.

The snow had melted two weeks ago, much to your goat’s delight - he’d grown tired of hay in the winter months and could finally snack on grass whenever he was outside the little barn. Your bees are busy too, pollinating all the flowers on your small patch of land, and soon you’ll have enough honey to harvest and sell at the market in the nearby village.

Spring doesn’t always bring the Witcher to your door - sometimes his work keeps him busy well into June and you spend over half a year worrying for his health… or you would, had he not gifted you a magical stone connected to a charm he wears on the chain of his medallion that glows a deep blue when he’s well and turns puce if he’s injured badly.

You know, even if he doesn’t visit, that he’s in perfect health after the long winter, the stone in pride of place on your mantel, glowing blue. He may not come for a long while, but still you wait, kneading bread with practised technique that means you can keep your eyes on the gate at the end of your garden and a few feet beyond for the tell-tale ripple of a disrupted ward.

He may not come yet, the blossoms mean nothing more than the start of his journey to you, but you will watch by the window until he does.

~~~

Geralt navigates the path easily, his well-trodden route a second nature after so many journeys down it. He travels it easier than the path to Kaer Morhen, there’s less danger in this patch of wood than on snowy cliffs, and the faint blue glow beneath his shirt settles any nerves about what he may find on the other side of the gate. Unlike his journey at the start of winter, when he doesn’t know how many brothers will have perished in the months since their last meeting, he can be certain that you will be waiting.

He doesn’t always visit so soon, but he had missed you more this past season than he had thought he would. Bidding farewell to you in mid-September and working on the other side of the Continent for a month before returning to the Keep and a colder winter in the mountains than usual had left too long since he had last seen you, your smile, your eyes… since he had last smelt your scent and laid beside your warmth.

It didn’t help that Jaskier had pilfered the floral, honey, and goat’s milk soap from his pack without him noticing, taking the soothing reminder of you. His ability to smell like you all winter gone. Even Eskel’s soap, made from Lil Bleater’s milk, didn’t smell enough like you to calm him down - he’s sure his brothers will tease him for (at least) the next decade after he’d spent the winter grumpy, pouty (as Lambert had put it), and a little short tempered - not that anyone other than his brothers would’ve noticed much difference in the length of his fuse. Except for you.

He’s missed you - he always does - but this time more than ever, and while he’d usually take jobs on his way to you, this year he’s refused to be distracted - if the problem is large enough, another Witcher can deal with it. He has somewhere more important to be.

~~~

He hadn’t intended to arrive at night. He could’ve timed his journey better and emerged from the treeline mid-morning after spending a night at the village inn. But he was restless - to be so close - and he was sure that, even if he’d directed her toward the village, Roach would’ve continued on her path to you - to your warm and uncrowded barn with the best quality hay and oats - far better than a tiny, cramped stable that wouldn’t even offer her the faintest sniff at an apple.

He always arrives in the day so, when they pass through the wards blocking out the rest of the world, he’s not quite sure what to do with himself.

When the sun is out, you run to him, hug him tightly and urge him to get Roach settled while you draw a bath… but now, with the stars lighting his way, he knows you’re sleeping, that a bath isn’t on the cards until you wake - and he’s unwilling to draw you from slumber before you’re ready.

Roach huffs, nudging his shoulder impatiently.

He smiles, nodding, guiding her to the barn, removing his pack and her saddle before grabbing a bag of oats. The goat is sleeping, thankfully, the little creature is always at odds with him for stealing your attention away.

He gives his horse another once-over before heading to the cottage, being careful of your ever-growing herb garden as he walks.

You always look so peaceful when you sleep, he thinks, that small smile a semi-permanent fixture on his face - at least when he’s here.

He’s careful not to wake you as he strips down, sniffs himself quickly (a little stale from the road, a bit horsey, but not too bad - not as bad as the last few times he’s arrived anyway), and moves to your bed, climbing under the covers carefully, not wanting to disturb you.

He frowns when he realises there’s a pillow between you both, lifting the blankets to get a better look, judging how easy it will be to extract it. You’re spooning it, face nestled into one end, a leg thrown over the other… and… his shirt around it… the one he’d left here after a Kikimora had slashed at him and torn it.

You’ve mended it, shoved a pillow in it… missed him so much that you needed to hug it and soak up the remainder of his smell.

He suddenly cares less about letting you sleep, shifting closer to kiss your forehead and swap places with the pillow, to give you the real thing and not some poor substitute that no longer carries any whiff of him.

“Mm,” he breathes as your head settles on his chest, his arms coming up to hold you, about to get his best night’s sleep since the year began.

~~~

You’re warm. Incredibly warm. You haven’t been this toasty beneath your covers since before winter. Since…

Your pillow moves under your head, rumbles with a snore, faint hair tickles your nose.

You smile softly, nuzzling into Geralt’s chest, letting your eyes open slowly, savouring the last moments of sleep and the first (conscious) moments of his company.

“Mm.” He hums, the heavy arm around your back tightens its hold, keeping you pressed against him - as if you’d ever want to leave.

“When did you arrive?” You whisper.

“Only a few hours ago.” He admits, “Go back to sleep.”

“And waste more of our time together?” You hum, “I’m sure you’d agree there are better things to do than sleep if you don’t want to get up.”

“Haven’t bathed.” He denies you.

“And you slept in my bed!?” You feign offence.

“Mm.” He smiles, cracking an eye open to look down at you, “You don’t seem to mind.”

You settle back against him, kissing his chest, “I don’t.”

He’s put on weight over winter - like a hibernating bear, bulking up on months of regular meals, training with his brothers, keeping warm in the Great Hall and not having to worry for his life or anyone else’s. It looks good on him, the extra muscle, the slight softness around his middle - the signs of prolonged relaxation. Though, compared to most others, a Witcher’s relaxation isn’t… entirely relaxing - logging trees to fuel fires in the Keep would be most men’s idea of a hard day’s work.

But Witchers aren’t most men.

“I missed you.” He says quietly.

“I missed you too,” You kiss his chest again, marveling at the difference a few months can make. He’s never scrawny - not by any means - but you’ve not seen him this bulked up before. “Did you come straight here?”

“Mm.”

“You didn’t even stop on the way? There’s a Wyvern-”

“Eskel will take care of it. I told you: I missed you.”

You smile, “How long can you stay?”

He tightens his hold, “Not long. A week at most. But I’ll be back as soon as I can be.”

“I know. You always are.” You sit up a little, just enough that you can look down at him, “Always.”

“Mm.” He smiles, reaching a hand up to cup your cheek, “I would stay forever if I could.”

“I know,” you cover his hand with yours, squeezing gently as you look him over, “But we both know you can’t.”

“One day.” He promises.

“Once all the monsters in the world are taken care of,” you nod, “or once you grow too old and tired for the job. We can sit on the porch wrapped in blankets and watch the bees all day.”

“Mm.” He pulls your head down, kissing you sweetly, “I’ll make sure I’m not too broken and old to fuck.”

“Good.” You smile, “that is the only reason I keep you around.”

He laughs, kissing you again, “Then you’d best let me up to bathe, dearest, else I shall overstay my welcome.”

~~~

He bathes quickly and thoroughly, washing the journey from his body with pleasured groans, delighting in the warm water and the scent of your soap. He tells you how Jaskier had pilfered his, and you promise to give him several bars when he leaves, so he shall never run out, even if the troubadour steals some more.

You give him breakfast as he sits in the tub, bread baked yesterday, freshly churned butter, some salted meat. The two of you sharing the simple plateful to get your energy levels up before you undoubtedly exhaust each other.

He tells you of his life since he left you, the new scar from a Striga on his shoulder, some still-healing yellowed bruises on his torso from brawling with his brothers, the stiffness that still infects his knee in the cold. He speaks of his joy at seeing his fellow Wolves again - no new losses to report, though all of them are beginning to feel their age.

You tell him of your time - leaving out the last few weeks spent watching the path from the kitchen window - how there were some prematurely born lambs at market recently that you’d considered buying, but had settled on stocking up on oats for porridge (and for Roach), how the goat had chewed through his tether during a storm and you’d spent a week clearing up the mess he’d made…

You both make mention of how you’ve missed the other, and upon his rising from the cooling water, promptly fell back into your bed to truly demonstrate your backlog of affections.

#i wrote this a while back and found it in my drafts today lol #geralt of rivia/reader #geralt/reader #geralt/you #the witcher/reader #geralt of rivia/you #the witcher/you #geralt of rivia x you #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt x you #geralt x reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher x you #stuffiwrote

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