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babybatscreationsv2 · 1 year ago

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Krampus

Marvel | Starker

It's Christmas and Tony still likes his games. But things are different now. The two are closer. And just maybe Peter is getting a little more in the spirit of things.

Rating: Explicit

Third in the Holiday Horrors series

Forever for and inspired by my muse, H <3

Warnings and tags below

Warnings/tags: con-noncon, scary mask, primal play, fear kink, crying, begging, violent/gory thoughts, knotting, monster fucking, painful sex, spanking/caning, victim blaming

The cold air bit his cheeks. Peter huffed out a breath and watched the cloud drift away. He glanced at May waiting in the driveway and gave her a reassuring smile. Tony never made him wait like this. In fact, where was Jarvis? He wiggled his toes in his boots and wished for the millionth time that he had something warmer for his feet. Then the door opened.

"Finally," Peter huffed. "Where were you?"

Tony leaned out the door and gave May a wave. "I was just making sure everything was ready. I didn't realize how cold it was."

Peter came inside and kicked off his snow damp boots. Tony took his coat from his shoulders as he unzipped.

"You didn't have to get me anything," he said alluding to the little wrapped gift Peter set on the shoe bench.

"Of course I didn't have to." Peter rolled his eyes. He picked the box back up while Tony hung his coat on the hook. He melted when Tony turned and looked at him, eyes dark and hungry.

"You could just let me unwrap you." He moved in, hands going around Peter's waist.

"Let you?" Peter teased. Tony grinned as he leaned in for a kiss. It was surprisingly quick for Tony who usually indulged until Peter's brain melted into submissive sludge and ended up on his knees. Instead, Tony took him by the hand and pulled him into the living room.

They sat on the couch under the twinkling lights of the Stark's oversized Christmas tree. Tony had laid out the table with drinks and snacks. A single present sat under the tree. Tony leaned back against the couch with an arm draped lazily along the back.

"Aren't you gonna open up your present?" he asked.

Excitement rang in his chest and he couldn't help but smile. Peter set Tony's gift down and went to collect his own from the tree. It was surprisingly big. He'd half expected something horny like a pair of handcuffs. Or, he shivered, another creepy mask.

He brought the box back to the couch and set it on his lap. Tony picked up his present. Then they both tore into the paper together. Peter only grew more excited as he realized what he was holding.

"Tony! This is way too much," Peter gasped. He pushed away the rest of the paper to look at the Lego set in his hands. The AT-AT figure was almost seven thousand pieces and he knew it cost a small fortune. He'd never even considered asking May for it.

Tony was quiet. Peter looked away from the box. He blushed as he saw him holding the little ring box Peter had given him. The ring inside was a simple silver band with their names engraved on the inside.

"It's not much, but what do you get the guy who has everything?" Peter laughed.

Tony looked at him. His eyes were soft. "It's beautiful. Thank you."

"I thought it was subtle enough that your friends wouldn't see if you didn't want them too."

"Why wouldn't I want them to see?"

Peter swallowed. It wasn't like Tony was never nice to him, but he was almost uncomfortably sincere.

"Did you like your present?" Tony asked him.

"I did. Thank you!"

"Yeah, I'm pretty great at buying gifts." He smirked.

Peter rolled his eyes. He set the box aside and turned toward his boyfriend. "Maybe I should show you my gratitude." He gave him a sultry look, eyes running down to his lap.

Tony's hand caressed his face. His fingers tugged gently on his hair. "Actually, I thought we could play a game."

"A game?" Peter shivered. That only meant one thing to Tony.

"Yeah," he smirked. He leaned forward and gave him a quick kiss. "Close your eyes and wait right here."

"Okay..." Anxiety boiled in his belly, but he closed his eyes. Peter sat back against the couch as he felt Tony leave. He tried to follow his footsteps with his ears, but he quickly went silent. As if he was stalking him. As if he were stalking prey. Peter shivered. Then he gasped, jolting forward in his seat, as the power went out.

He heard the electric whir of power draining from the room around him. The lights on the Christmas tree were the only thing still running. They must have had some sort of battery backup.

"Tony?" Peter stood up from the couch and looked around. It was so dark. Everything around him was cast in shadow. The light coming from the windows was a soft, wintery blue. Evening had set in while they opened their gifts. Tony always had perfect timing. He wouldn't doubt he made him wait out in the cold on purpose just to make sure it was dark.

At least, he was pretty sure the breaker box was in the garage. That meant if he ran now, he could find somewhere to hide before Tony came back in. If he hadn't snuck in while Peter was processing that is.

So he ran.

He stuck to the carpet as much as he could to muffle his footsteps, then he took the stairs two at a time. At least he was more athletic than he looked. Tony made sure he got a lot of exercise. Peter wasn't sure he knew how to have sex without having a wrestling match first.

He didn't know the upstairs that well, but he was pretty sure Tony's bedroom was not the place to go. So he went the opposite way. He ducked in the second door off the hall and found a guest bedroom. He opened up the closet door, but it was too empty. Instead he tucked himself under the bed.

His heart was loud in his ears. His neck was throbbing as his pulse raged. A guilty twinge bothered his stomach as he realized the throbbing wasn't just in his neck.

It was silent for a long time. Then he heard soft footsteps in the hall and a sound like something being dragged. A door opened, then it was quiet. A few minutes later, the door opened to the room he was hiding in.

"Peter," Tony purred. He shivered as he realized his voice was muffled. Was he wearing the mask? His shadow moved from the doorway to the closet first. Peter couldn't tell what he was dragging, but it was definitely something.

"You've been awfully naughty this year," Tony teased. "Getting off on being scared. Letting boys chase you through the woods and fuck you in public." He came to a stop at the end of the bed. Peter stared at his feet, praying for him not to look down.

"I think you're due for a punishment like all naughty little boys."

He walked away from the bed. Peter almost let out a breath. Then Tony leaned down and looked under the bed.

Peter screamed.

The mask on his face was hairy like an animal. The eyes were blood red. The teeth were big and sharp. On either side of his head were horns like a goat. Peter scrambled out from under the bed, hitting his head in the process. He looked around, but the only place to go was into the en suite.

Tony was right behind him. He was grabbed before he could get his barring. Tony grabbed him by the back of his neck and pushed him forward forcing him down against the counter top. Peter reached for anything he could grab, but there was nothing but the sink.

Tony grabbed his jeans and yanked them down along with his underwear. He kicked at him and Tony grabbed his balls, not painfully but enough that he froze. Once he was still, Tony started to message them between his fingers. Peter moaned, legs spreading apart.

"Don't get too excited," Tony chuckled. "Being a whore is what got you into this mess."

"Let me go," Peter tried. He pushed against the counter.

Tony grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face up to look in the mirror. He shivered at the creepy mask. "You have to be punished first, Petey. Where's your Christmas spirit?"

Tony lifted his arm. Peter barely had time to see the thin stick in his hand before he swung it down. He gasped, pain barely registering before he struck him again. On the second hit he screamed.

"Don't be a baby," Tony mocked. "It could be so much worse."

Despite his teasing, tears formed in his eyes as Tony spanked him. He whimpered with each strike. Peter kicked his feet as it became too much. Tony forced him down with all his weight and kept going until his ass felt raw and he was gasping for breath. Then he let him go.

He realized when his pants caught on his ankles and he fell face first onto the floor. Still he kept moving, crawling away from the creature and his horrible red eyes.

"Where ya going, Pete?" Tony's voice was mocking as he followed him. They both knew he wasn't going to get far. He let him crawl all the way to the bedroom door before he pounced on him. Then Tony flipped him over and showed him what he had in his hand.

The thing he'd been dragging around was a big sack, like one Santa Claus would carry. He forced it over his head and stuffed him inside. That awful sharp toothed grin was the last thing he saw. Peter struggled, but Tony pulled the sack down to his waist and pulled the cord tight until it dug into his skin. He tied it there, trapping him. All he could do was shove uselessly against the fabric. The cord dug into his skin, not painful but tight enough to feel claustrophobic. It didn't loosen as he pushed and pulled. The best he could do was slide it down his waist and crawl further into the sack.

"You'd better calm down, sweetheart. You only have so much air in there and I still haven't finished your punishment."

Peter whimpered. "Please! Let me out!"

Tony finished stripped his lower half bare. Now that he was trapped, he took his time with him. He slapped his already raw ass, making him sob. Then he forced his legs apart. Peter gasped as he touched his cock.

"You might want me to let you out, but this little thing doesn't," Tony teased. Peter moaned as he stroked him slowly. "I think you like being kidnapped and raped by monsters."

"No please," Peter sobbed. He struggled some more and he didn't stop until something pushed against his hole.

Tony chuckled. "Such a fucking slut. Is that all it takes? I'm not even inside you yet."

Peter tried to fight again out of sheer pride, but Tony's cock pushed inside and the pleasure that coursed through him had him paralyzed. He moaned as he filled him up. He laid his head down, drooling into the fabric as Tony slowly, deliciously, pushed all the way in then all the way bad out. Then something touched his ass in a way that startled him.

"Tony?"

"Shh, just take it," he coaxed. Something much wider than Tony's cock was forcing its way inside, but that didn't make any sense because Tony was still inside him.

"Wh- what is- that," Peter choked on his own words as Tony pushed against his hole, stretching him open.

"It's a knot," Tony said. He sounded amused by his cries. "Crazy what you can find on the internet. Wanted to make sure you got the full monster fucking experience."

Finally the widest part was in and the rest followed. Peter moaned, brain completely shut down by sensation. Tony's cock was too deep, the knot was too wide, his tender ass was pressed against the floor, and a firm hand was pinning him down. He hadn't even realized he'd been struggling.

Tony moved his hips and the knot seemed stuck fast as if he might never get it back out. Tony chuckled. "Since you're trapped on my dick, might as well see that pretty face of yours." The cord loosened. Peter lifted himself up so Tony could pull the sack off.

"There are those pretty tears." Peter shivered as Tony stared down at him through the mask. He grabbed both of his wrists and pinned them over his head, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart.

The knot pushed at his hole. Peter whined, more tears coming to eyes. "Please," he sobbed.

Tony moaned, pushing the knot back in. "You're always such a perfect victim."

"It's too big," Peter gasped. Tony moved his hips and the knot pushed against his hole again. It felt way too big to come out. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten the damn thing inside him.

"Poor Petey," Tony teased. "It's not cumming out until you cum on it."

"I can't," he whined. "That mask..."

"You want me to take it off?"

"Please, Tony."

"Give it a kiss."

"What? No!" Peter gasped. Just looking at those bloody teeth made his stomach hurt.

"Kiss it," Tony said more firmly.

"No..."

"Go on. Give Krampus a kiss and I'll let you go."

Peter whined, but he lifted his head up. His whole body shuddered. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his lips against the rubber mouth. Tony laughed.

"That's my boy." He pulled the mask off his head and fixed his flatted hair. Tony's eyes were glittering. His smile was fiendish. "Now, where were we?"

Tony rolled his hips, fucking him deep, knot pushing at his entrance while the tip of his cock pushed into his guts. Peter moaned, eyes rolling in his head. He was lost in sensation, mouth hanging open, drool on his face, Tony cruel grin staring down at him.

"I'm gonna cum," Peter whined.

"You're such a slut," Tony chuckled. "You love being scared don't you?"

"No..."

"If you don't like it then why are you about to cum on my knot, Pete? You know Krampus eats little liars like you. Maybe I should take a bite."

Peter gasped. He could just imagine the gore of Tony tearing into him with those awful teeth. He shivered down to his toes. Then he came, straining against Tony's grip, hips bucking but the pain of Tony's knot was gone for the moment.

Tony kissed his sweaty forehead. "That's my good little victim," he purred.

Peter almost screamed as Tony forced the knot from his ass. Tears ran down his cheeks. Tony swiped his tongue over his face, licking them away. His eyes were so wild, so excited. It made his skin burn with terror because he knew Tony and he knew that look meant he wasn't getting out of this easily.

He sobbed, whimpering as Tony pushed it back in. He shivered at the sound of Tony's moan. There was one way out of the pain and overstimulation.

"Please, Tony," he begged, eyes wide and wet. "Please, it hurts..." Tony groaned and Peter bit back a smile. "Please stop, please! It's too much. You're hurting me!"

"Fuck," Tony groaned in answer. Peter only cried more as he fucked him faster. When he squeezed around him it made the pain worse but it was worth it as he watched Tony lose control, spurred on by his whimpering, by the way he struggled beneath him as if he might try to crawl away. Then he slammed his hips against him, cumming hard, leaning down to kiss Peter's lips, his jaw, his neck, frantic with pleasure.

He let go of Peter's wrists and Peter wrapped his arms around him. "I liked that game." He kissed Tony's cheek as his weight settled against him. Peter laughed. "I think you did, too."

After a moment of rest, Tony lifted his head and grinned at him. "Maybe we should go another round then."

"No, I'm so sore," Peter pouted.

"Are you trying to tempt me?" Tony nipped the side of his neck.

"No, I'm serious. You really hurt me." He stuck his lip out further to really emphasize his pout.

Tony kissed him. "You really are a perfect little fear slut." Then he laughed. "The knot still has to come out, you know."

Peter whimpered. "You're gonna be the one to call May and tell her I can't make it home tonight. Because I'm not gonna be able to walk tomorrow."

Tony was all smiles. "I fail to see the problem there, sweetheart.”

#marvel #starker #christmas #holiday fic

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sherlock2302 · 1 year ago

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Christmas starker

#starker #marvel #the avengers #peter parker #tom holland #tony stark #wallpaper #christmas #new year #christmas wallpaper

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pretty-bratty · 1 month ago

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TIFB Peter when being left unsupervised for five minutes in the hassle of Christmas preparation

@definitelynottony @starkerkitty @professional-benaddict @alice-is-sleepwalking (tagging you guys cuz I know you love this story🥹💜)

Home Alone (1990) dir. Chris Columbus

#starker #starker fic #this is family business #TIFB #peter parker #home alone #christmas #christmas movies

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sodamnradd · 8 months ago

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“I dare you to kiss Hermione,” said Ginny, grinning conspiratorially in her friend’s direction.

Hermione turned her attention to Malfoy, her stomach fluttering in anxious anticipation. But then she noticed the obvious discomfort on his face and her excitement fizzled. Weeks of studying together, late-night lab sessions—their prize-winning Potions project!—and he couldn’t even stomach the thought of one measly little kiss?

The common room fell silent when Malfoy didn’t budge. A dozen seventh and eighth-years sat around an empty Firewhisky bottle, its neck pointed in Malfoy’s direction like an accusation.

She wished the ground would swallow her whole.

Seconds later, Theo re-entered the room, donning a Slytherin jumper and a lumpy knit scarf, cheeks red after flying a lap around the castle starkers to fulfill his dare.

He looked around, confused. “What’s up?”

Hermione felt a sharp stab of betrayal seeing Theo in the scarf she’d knit Malfoy for Christmas. It wasn’t the cashmere or spider silk fabric he was used to, but Malfoy had seemed genuinely touched by the gesture, immediately replacing his Slytherin scarf with the one Hermione had made for him. In turn, Malfoy had tied his Slytherin scarf around her neck, stepping back to admire her with an affectionate look. The scarf had smelled like him, so naturally Hermione had kept it on all day. Even inside.

And now here was her gift, draped haphazardly around Theo’s neck like he’d grabbed the first thing he’d found on the floor to warm himself up. Message received.

Glaring daggers in Malfoy’s direction, Ginny replied coldly, “Nothing. Malfoy just thinks he’s too good to kiss Hermione on a dare.”

“Oh?” Theo eyed his best mate curiously.

Malfoy opened his mouth to reply, but then his gaze flicked down to Theo’s neck and whatever he’d wanted to say died on his lips as his eyes narrowed.

“I’ll kiss her.” Theo walked up to Hermione and cupped her cheeks. His hands were like slabs of ice, and she shivered, but then his lips, cold and hard, met hers and approximately five seconds later it was over and Hermione felt like crying.

The room seemed to heave a sigh of relief as Theo settled at the foot of Hermione’s armchair and spun the bottle again.

Hermione jumped off her seat and bolted for the dorms, not slowing even as footsteps followed her up the stairs.

“Granger, wait!”

“I just want to be alone right now,” she cried, nearly at her bedroom door.

A hand grabbed her arm.

She glanced down at his pale knuckles and the expanse of blond hair that disappeared beneath a bunched-up sleeve. She recalled the way he'd trembled when she’d traced the protruding veins of his forearm last week, waiting for their potion to boil. His gaze following her touch intricately.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked quickly.

She yanked her arm back, refusing to meet his eyes. “I’m humiliated. You made it seem like I was diseased!”

He made a painstaking groan. “I just didn’t want to kiss you like that. In front of everyone.”

“Right. Heavens forbid they catch you snogging a Mudblood.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It’s not that. Not at all.”

“What is it then?” She looked up, catching the familiar warmth in his eyes when he looked at her. Even mid-argument they held that affectionate sparkle. Seeing her.

He stepped back, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just that—when I kiss you, I want you to know it’s because I’ve thought of nothing else for weeks.”

Her mind snagged on how he’d said ‘when’ and not ‘if’.

Smiling nervously, he touched her hand, stroking his thumb over the swell of her palm. Because of course, on top of his boyish good looks, astute ambition, and effortless sense of humour, the boy had to be sentimental, too. Gods.

He tugged her forward until their legs touched, eyes never leaving her face.

Heart hammering against her ribcage, Hermione lifted her head as Draco descended.

The next morning, he was waiting for her at the foot of the dormitory stairs. His scarf twisted delicately around his neck and tucked into his coat. When she reached the last step, he captured her chin between his fingers and kissed her with breathtaking confidence.

A stunned silence filled the common room as everyone watched Hermione and Draco leave together, their hands firmly intertwined.

(736 words, loosely inspired by a scene from 'Every Summer After' by Carley Fortune)

p.s. hi i missed writing dramione ficlets so here we are.

#dramione drabble #dramione #draco malfoy #hermione granger #draco x hermione #hermione x draco #sodamnrad #sodamnraddrabbles #dhr

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spideyslag · 1 month ago

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Around the, say, 43rd or so time I heard Merry Christmas, Please Dont Call I got the the idea in my head for this complicated starker exes AU (because as we all know by now I love a past starker fic) which involved (this is so complex I saw it in my mind im so sorry) Tony and Peter having been on the same incredibly popular TV show in Peters youth/adolescence (some kind of syndicated family sitcom type, think Sarah Lynn and Bojack) and with a lot of ambiguity of the early, very young years, in Peters teen years its pretty obvious there's an element of inappropriateness and likely/implied/maybe explicit grooming there. (I never sorted out the relationship between their characters, but father-son is a possibility) As Peter reaches adulthood this reaches the precipice of Tony leaving his wife to be with and eventually marry Peter in his early 20s. (And of corse the media doesn't see it as concerning as it is)

Of corse, the marriage was built on the rocks and was never going to last, and ends pretty fast and hard. Which was the vibe I got from Merry Christmas, Please Dont Call. Peter, the first Christmas after the divorce, angry, rightfully bitter, but most of all plain old tired.

I saw this fic as a kinda artsy, creative project which kinda weaved three storylines; the grooming (them on the TV show, the behind the scenes interactions, other peoples thoughts and feelings), the troubled relationship, and the aftermath. the aftermath I even though about constructing as a kinda tell all documentary type thing.

I considered the idea of Peter being in a new, much more peaceful relationship. it's clear Peter is not who he once was, but he is trying to have a peaceful, safe life now and heal. I really considered this new relationship being A) co star from a project he was In during the marriage who Tony hated at first sight for being handsome and kind to Peter (who hated Tony, too, but hid it better), or, even being a costar from their show way back when who always felt uncomfortable with Tony and Peters relationship, but kept contact with Peter over the hears (sure, half the cast did too) to keep an eye on him. Him not loving how him and Peter fell into something together once they were both adults but still struggling to see himself as better than Tony. I was thinking either Stephen or Bucky if I went with the second, Steve or Bucky for the first.

Anyway, I say all this because there is no chance I will write all that before Christmas and I wanted to get the idea out into the world.

#starker #ex starker #winterspider #spidershield #spiderstrange

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mariacallous · 5 months ago

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One of the Western populist right’s enduring myths about President Vladimir Putin’s Russia is that it is steeped in traditional values, a bastion of virtue standing in opposition to an increasingly godless West. In the United States, the fascination with Russia as a supposed global center of conservative virtue has especially gained currency in MAGA world.

This image of Russia as a traditionalist’s paradise led former Fox News commentator Tucker Carlson to offer both Putin and Russian far-right philosopher Alexander Dugin, one of Putin’s most vicious cheerleaders for genocide in Ukraine, the opportunity to expound their views to millions of Americans in a comfortable, uncritical setting. It is the reason that MAGA-aligned U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor Greene talks about Russia as a strong protector of Christianity. And it’s why former Trump administration National Security Advisor Michael Flynn has framed Putin as a defender of “family and God.”

The contrast between myth and reality couldn’t be starker. The truth is that Russia is one of the world’s least religious societies, with only 9 percent of Russians attending religious services at least somewhat regularly, according to a poll conducted in 2022 by the Moscow-based Levada Center. By contrast, nearly one-third of Americans are frequent churchgoers. Just 1.4 million Russians—a mere 1 percent of the population—attended the most recent Christmas services. The Russian state also persecutes Christians who do not adhere to Russian Orthodoxy, including Baptists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, and, of course, anyone connected to the Orthodox Church of Ukraine.

Nor is Russia a bastion of what true conservatives would consider traditional values. Based on data calculated by the Guttmacher Institute, the Russian abortion rate from 2015 to 2019 was nearly four times higher than that of the United States and more than twice as high as that of Ukraine. Russia also has the fourth-highest divorce rate in the world—60 percent higher than in the United States and more than 50 percent higher than in Ukraine. Those among the U.S. and European far right who project their own ideals onto Russian society ignore the obvious and copious evidence.

The false image of a god-fearing Russia is hardly accidental. It is the consequence of systematic efforts by Putin and his propagandists to craft talking points for the global right—an effort that has accelerated since Russia launched its all-out war on Ukraine in 2022.

It wasn’t always so. After the Soviet collapse in 1991, a Russia shorn of most of its empire struggled with its post-communist identity. Under its first president, Boris Yeltsin, the country waded into the waters of a Russo-centric patriotism. But his chosen successor, Putin, supplanted this worldview by nostalgia for the former Soviet and Russian empires, as well as adulation of brutal autocrats such as Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin and Tsar Peter the Great.

Today, to both mobilize Russians for a bloody war and undermine support for Ukraine by appealing to the political extremes in the West, Putin and his ideologues have crafted a new mythology that depicts Russia as a bastion of traditional values rooted in religious faith.

This theme was front and center at Putin’s fifth inauguration as Russian president on May 7. In his address, he declared that “support for centuries-old family values and traditions will continue to unite public and religious associations, political parties, and all levels of government.”

From their putative moral high ground, Putin and his propagandists in the Kremlin-controlled media have used the bully pulpit to rail against Western “woke-ism,” political correctness, and secularism, earning admiration among right-wing populists in the West. By projecting Russians and the Russian state as deeply religious and steeped in tradition—and by denouncing the Western establishment for its supposed attacks on traditional values—Kremlin propaganda has made serious inroads among cultural and religious conservatives in the United States and elsewhere.

This has helped create some measure of sympathy for Russia’s war against Ukraine among certain segments of the far right, which see Putin as a powerful voice on their side of the culture wars.

Margarita Simonyan, the head of Russia Today, the state media conglomerate responsible for most of Moscow’s global propaganda, crystallized the postulates and far-reaching ambitions of Russia’s traditionalist propaganda during a television appearance in February.

Speaking on the heels of Carlson’s fawning chat with Putin, Simonyan saw a major opportunity for Russia to find fellow travelers and new allies among those disgruntled by secularization in the West. Unlike Ukraine and its Western backers, which she called adepts of “satanism,” she described Russia as “the city on a hill” to which the world’s traditionalists can now flock to escape their stifling secular societies. She declared that traditionalist messaging is the “beacon of a wonderful idea” whose appeal can be likened to that of communism during the Soviet era. Russia, she continued, might even counter its severely shrinking population by attracting disgruntled traditionalists from around the world as immigrants to a new promised land of traditionalism.

To this end, the Kremlin announced a new decree on Aug. 19 that eases residency rules for refugees from countries where “traditional values” are under attack from “neoliberalism” and other supposed secular ills.

Aging Russian kleptocrats such as Putin, who formerly served in the security services of the atheist Soviet state, engage in performative religion at most. As the investigations conducted by the late Russian opposition activist Alexei Navalny documented, the Russian ruling elite, including Putin himself, is obscenely wealthy and deeply corrupt. But state media outlets diligently portray them as god-fearing believers, generous patrons of monasteries, supporters of religious media, and sponsors of newly built churches—all paid for with money they have stolen from the Russian people.

These performative good works are applauded by the security service operatives who control the upper reaches of the Russian Orthodox Church. Purged and brought under complete state control under Stalin, the church has consistently promoted the aims of Soviet and now Russian policies. It is a vocal supporter of Putin’s war against Ukraine.

At the apex of performative piety stands Putin. Russian Orthodox Patriarch Kirill, born Vladimir Gundyayev and believed to be a former security services operative, has lavished praise on Putin for being “truly the first Orthodox president” of Russia. The link between Putin’s proclaimed religiosity and something approaching a divine right to rule Russia has also become part of the new ideological canon—back to the roots, if you will, of Russian Orthodoxy as an imperial church.

“May God help you to continue to carry out the ministry that God himself has entrusted to you,” Kirill said during Putin’s inauguration in May. Given the long-standing collusion between the Kremlin and a compliant church, it is little wonder that religious leaders actively support Putin’s war and encourage Russia’s young to lay down their lives.

To mask the degradation of spiritual and religious life, Russia has built a vast Potemkin village of new churches. Around 30,000 new parishes have been added in the post-Soviet era, averaging nearly three every day since 1991. Given Russians’ negligible interest in religion, they stand largely empty.

Simonyan’s comparison of Putin’s traditionalist, pseudo-Christian posturing with the global appeal of communism is apt in ways that she did not intend. Like communism, whose façade of equality and social justice masked mass repression and the emergence of privileged, all-powerful elite, today’s Russia has little patience for moral and ethical principles. Instead, the Russian state and the Russian Orthodox Church serve the exigencies of a kleptocratic mafia that rules over a deeply damaged, militaristic, and highly unequal society.

Indeed, in time, Russia’s newest state ideology is very likely to become another God That Failed—the title of a landmark 1949 book in which six Western intellectuals broke with communism, declaring that it was just a cover for a new form of dictatorship.

For the moment, none of this matters to the Western populist right, which has blithely ignored the carnage that Putin has inflicted on Ukraine. Nor will Russia’s performative religiosity put those Westerners off; their projection of virtue onto Putin’s Russia has become too important a part of their cynical politics. If your enemy is the West’s liberal and tolerant society, then the enemy of your enemy is your friend.

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anachilles · 10 months ago

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drive the dark clouds far away ☁

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. Throughout the years they’d known each other, he had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was. Or: Winter falls in Stalag Luft III, Gale's sick, and John has feelings about it all. -> read here on AO3 <-

A Nazi prisoner of war camp was hardly a place one would ever want to be, at any time or for any reason.

If Bucky had the choice, however, he sure as hell wouldn’t particularly choose to be in a Nazi prisoner of war camp in the middle of what was turning out to be a brutal Germanic winter.

It came on so suddenly, too, or at least that’s what it felt like. One day, the entire camp had been bathed in incandescent autumn sunshine. The kind that illuminated every leaf on every tree, lit the sky up so bright you could barely look at it, and sparkled off the surface of the puddles left behind from the early morning rain. The next day, and the next, and the next after that, it was like someone had gone and thrown a blanket over the sun itself. Everything was grey. Everything was dark. Everything around them started to wilt, to shed, to die.

For every degree the temperature dropped, for every shiver that raced up their spines in the dead of night, and for every dull, drizzly day that inched them through November and closer to Christmas, morale had started to plummet. It crept up on them and burrowed in like a degenerative disease, infiltrating their ranks one by one and slowly, gradually, started to break them down. Tired minds began to conjure bittersweet memories of good food, good music and the encompassing warmth of their families thousands of miles away, such imaginings only making their reality even starker. Anywhere at all outside the perimeter of the compound was beginning to feel like a whole other plane of existence.

At this point in the season, even the hours of daylight they were afforded were seemingly war-rationed. Dark moods, irritability and the icy tendrils of hopelessness had started to permeate the stalag as the sunsets came altogether too quick, and the daytimes were overwhelmingly bleak.

That night, Bucky shifted awkwardly in his bunk, trying to get comfortable in spite of the threadbare cushioning underneath him. It would have been pitch dark save for the slightest crack someone had left in the black-out curtains, letting moonlight spill in and make vague silhouettes out of the sleeping men around him. Several of them were snoring to various degrees of severity (God help them when Demarco properly got going), bed frames periodically creaking, someone even seemed to be humming slightly in their sleep.

The incessant background noise wasn’t the problem, though; the opposite, actually. From basic training, through flight school, then all the way to the war, Bucky had spent far too long now in shared quarters through every point in his military career to be able to sleep surrounded by absolute silence. In fact, if he closed his eyes and concentrated real hard he could probably have imagined himself being back in the barracks at Thorpe Abbotts right then, far, far away from this Kraut hell hole. Okay, the food wasn’t much better there, he’ll admit, but at least there was a stocked bar, actual showers, and no Nazi goons on a hairpin trigger when it came to pointing rifles at them for doing the sum total of jack shit too hard for their liking.

Bucky’s foot bounced in place as he stared a hole into the wooden slats of the bunk above him. Tension pulsed behind his eyes. When he exhaled, his breath materialised as a humid cloud, before dissipating again into the dark. Rain hammered against the window that was definitely draughty. His fingers were so cold they were starting to go white at the tips.

A sharp gasp suddenly pierced through the din, and in the same beat Bucky instinctively snapped towards it, the whirlpool in his brain suddenly stilling, sharpening down to a single point; like someone had ripped the plughole out of a bathtub. In the middle bunk directly across the way, in the shadows of the darkened cabin, the outline of Buck’s body jerked forward with a strangled little click… a pause… and then another. It was an oddly vulnerable sound, the action was chased by a heavy sniffle, and Bucky let out another long, visible breath.

With the insidious chill of deep winter now catching at their heels, illness was quickly becoming another looming problem with their fucked up sleep-away camp experience in the Glorious Third Reich. The often sub-zero temperatures, paired with a widespread lack of proper food, sleep, and provisions, as well as with them living on top of each other in such poorly built cabins (Bucky’d seen more insulation built into the damn backyard chicken coops he’d been roped into helping his neighbours build back home as a kid), meant that it was rife. Take a walk from one side of the camp to the other, and every third guy was coughing and spluttering with something.

It wasn’t even stuff that would necessarily be anything to worry about in any other time or place. Anywhere else in the modern age they lived in, it would be the usual winter crud that went around every year. Stuff that’d have them downing cough syrup, maybe a bit of hot whiskey, and being fussed over a bit by wives, girlfriends, or moms. Here, though? Despite how the men may joke about it to try and outrun the worry, lurking in a darkened corner of the room was an unavoidable reality that if the cold managed to sneak down into your chest and take root, lay you up with a fever you just can’t shake, in these conditions… well. Who knew what could happen?

There were some guys with a decent amount of medical training who acted as makeshift ‘doctors’ in a makeshift ‘hospital’ on site. Although, naturally as airmen, that leant more towards snapping back in dislocated shoulders, setting broken bones, and patching up bullet and/or shrapnel wounds well enough to get the victim to solid ground alive. There was little, if any, actual medicine to go around.

Before, it had been an abstract, underlying kind of concern, one he’d glance at every now and again before turning away, putting it out of his head again. Let himself be distracted by something else, not that there was much else to distract yourself with in here.

But then it was Buck.

Now, John’s body thrummed with a twitchy, nervous beat underneath his skin, some sort of momentum growing within him as his heart rate picked up and an internal debate played out in his head; one he’d been having with himself for several nights now. After only a handful of seconds from when he’d turned around in the first place though, there was another noise, something delicate and unplaceable. Whether it was the sound of teeth chattering or a stone rattling against the wall of the cabin, or whatever else it could be, it had John dropping down on his feet and gathering up his blanket, wincing as the chill of the room enveloped him all at once.

Crossing to Gale’s bedside, John wordlessly and unceremoniously chucked the blanket over the other man’s body, before leaning a hand against the wooden frame of the upper bunk above Gale’s own. He was curled up tight in on himself, arms stiff as they crossed over his chest, as if he was trying to gather any heat to be had around himself and keep it there by force.

John watched, and waited, as Gale sluggishly unfurled himself a little and turned around to face him, expression sleepy. His face caught the moonlight, something jarring in John’s chest at how pale he looked.

“Bucky?” he asked softly, his already rumbling voice now gravelly and shot to pieces. “Did I wake you?”

Unable to help himself, John heaved out a disbelieving huff of laughter, his voice dropping into a murmur “What, with your bizarre, near-perfectly silent sneezing? Yeah, you did, actually.” Gale rolled his eyes.

“Please, just try to be a bit more considerate to the other guests at this fine establishment.” Success curled fleeting warmth within John when he got a hint of a smile out of the other man. It was the first he’d seen from him in nearly two days, and the twitch of his mouth alleviated an increment of pressure in John’s chest he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding. “God bless you, by the way.”

It would’ve sounded like a taunt if it wasn’t so fond.

“What do you want then, Bucky?”

In pursuit of cutting to the damn chase, because this was all fun and games but now John really was freezing his balls off, he replied “It’s too cold now for any of us to be sleeping by ourselves.”

At that, Gale’s rheumy gaze sharpened, his eyes scanning the room. John briefly followed them as they took in nearly every other man in the cabin having broken off into a pair to bunk down with for the winter.

“It’s okay, Buck,” John supplied, loosening the valve and letting sincerity bleed into his tone even as he lowered it. This is probably the most ‘okay’ we’ve ever been or ever will be to do this where people can see it.

Memories rise unbidden then; awkward, inexperienced fumbles and a hurried kiss in the barely-lit supply closet off an aircraft hangar in Texas while all the other cadets were asleep. Hidden away in Bucky’s short-lived Air Exec office while he still had it, a rare moment of stolen solitude behind a blessedly locked door with frosted windows. The one time they’d dared risk venturing into the woods at Thorpe Abbotts in the dead of night. They were more experienced by then, but somehow only more repressed and desperate for having now known the other’s touch, but having had to go without it for so long.

“Those RAF pricks were right about one thing for certain.”

“What’s that?”

“You were getting too handsy” Gale had said, voice edged in grit, grabbing John’s wrists and yanking them away behind his back.

In the next breath however, John shrugged, adding “And, well, you have my blanket now. So you either scoot over, or I go back to my bunk and freeze to death. Your choice.”

Gale levelled him with a withering look that only made John want to smile in return, but after a brief contemplative moment, a pregnant pause and a steely gaze edged in wary scrutiny, the caginess seemed to melt out of him, like he physically couldn’t hold onto it any longer. He acquiesced with no more fuss about it, shifting closer towards the wall and pulling up the blankets to invite John in. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, these bunks barely made to fit one fully grown man, never mind two, but suppose that was kind of the point of this, wasn’t it?

John hopped up onto the bunk, the wood groaning slightly under their combined weight, and took the liberty of adjusting Gale a little further onto his side so that he could bracket right in tightly to his back. The length of Gale’s body seemed to slot perfectly against the curve of his own. Back to chest, thigh to thigh, shin to calf. As if by muscle memory, underneath the blankets John’s hand traced a reverent trail down the length of his side, the feeling warm and honey-sweet with familiarity. As was the way he felt Gale relax into his touch, his head turning a tantalising fraction of an inch back towards his face. John’s next exhale came more comfortably than any had in weeks, despite how his heartbeat kicked a little bit harder against his ribcage. Tracing upwards from where his hand had wandered to Gale’s thigh, because he’s nothing if not a goddamn hedonist, John indulged himself with another handful of stolen seconds to touch, to rub and knead affectionately at the curve of Gale’s waist.

This place was hell. A labyrinth of endless days filled with grey, bleak, monotonous nothingness on top of a vague, torturous hope that one day will be the right one; that that day they’ll escape. Or be liberated. They’d been keeping up to date with the state of the war on their homemade contraband radio, listened to and dutifully recited by Gale every night as they forced down boiled garden scraps swimming in dishwater broth. They couldn’t be long now from the invasion of Europe, they tried to reassure each other. It proved enough to get the men out of bed every day and keep them going through the drudgery.

John, though; if he had this. If he had Buck solid and tangible and living and breathing before his eyes and underneath his fingertips, he’d find his way out. The embers that sparked to life in his chest with the feeling of just being near him would light his way out.

A shallow cough sounded from somewhere across the room, and John’s hand froze, even under the shroud of the blankets. Despite arguing the logic of this himself only minutes ago, of why it was ‘okay’, the sudden reminder of the ambient presence of the other men in the room amplified then. John couldn’t help but be aware of it, a shred of unease fluttering to life in his chest.

Swallowing it down, and simply unable to truly pull himself away anyway, he retired his wandering touch and looped his arm around Gale’s middle. His broad hand splayed wide across his chest as he brought the other man impossibly closer. John could feel just how cold he was, even through the fabric of his clothes. That was worrying enough in and of itself, but shock jolted through him like lightning as Gale’s hand brushed his own.

“Jesus, Buck! You’re like ice,” John ground out, reaching to grab it before Gale could move it away again. He knew he likely wasn’t much better, all-too-aware of the pervasive and unshakable chill infecting his own fingers. Whatever last vestiges of warmth he may have had remaining within himself though, hidden away in some forgotten or unreachable nook or cranny, he’d give to Gale in a heartbeat if he could. Even if he couldn’t, he’d try regardless.

Gale’s fingers flexed around his own, joining them, before bringing them up to his mouth and huffing a breath of hot air over John’s hand. The breath caught a little in his throat though, triggering a bubbling of thick, stilted coughs. “You are too.”

John laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Yeah, no shit. We all are…” he said, his tone softening then, even as he prodded the back of Gale’s knee with his own “...but you’re sick. So I’d argue it’s definitely more important to make you not so.”

He felt Gale’s body squirm a little uncomfortably in place against him, shaking his head a little, tilting it down. “It’s just a cold, John.”

“Yeah, for now. But you don’t…” The whispered words fall between them with a heavy clang, echoes of meaning slipping through where maybe they hadn’t been intended. John’s eyes were trained on the back of Gale’s head in the dark, his forehead resting on the other man’s golden crown. Even then, John felt more than saw him stiffen, then pull away as much as he physically could from John’s vice-like hold. He pitched forward with two more clumsily pinched back sneezes, grumbling in annoyance as he then groped underneath the pillow, eyes teary and nose dripping, for the now-worn handkerchief he’d been holding there.

Yeah, it wasn’t exactly convenient, particularly at a time such as this, that they all tended to only have the one on them that they’d had when they went down.

Oh, it was so uncharacteristically inelegant it was actually endearing. A peek behind the curtain at Gale Cleven, the mere mortal. Happy to let himself be sidetracked from his worry for a moment, John dipped into one of the inner pockets of his long coat and pulled out his own handkerchief, gallantly offering it over.

Gale’s head swivelled back, his gaze questioning, and John shrugged. “It’s clean, I promise,” he said, though his eyebrows drew together in sudden contemplation. “Well… mostly. I might’ve washed up with it earlier today…” He made a show of trailing off, pulling the collar of his sweater up over his face and taking an experimental sniff down into it. “Ah, no, definitely not, actually. You’re all good.”

Thoroughly used to his antics, Gale didn’t even blink, though his chapped lips did pull up into a fleetingly small, slow, reluctant sort of smile, before eventually taking it from him. He let the fabric linger in his fingers for a mysterious extra beat, his thumb swiping once over it, before putting it to use. When he did speak, his voice was completely mangled with congestion. “Well, beggars can’t be choosers. Probably would have taken it anyway.”

John winced, the levity leaking back out of his countenance like a faulty fuel line. “You sound awful, Buck,” he mumbled seriously, “C’mon, lie back down.”

Though he dismissed the concern with a telling look, Gale complied and they fell into an easy sort of silence. Their breaths, underlined by the tangible rise and fall of John’s chest against the other man’s back, fell into the slow, steady rhythm held by the rest of the room. Even after a handful of minutes he could tell Gale wasn’t sleeping, though. Neither was he, evidently, feeling like a live wire despite how exhausted and perpetually bone-weary his body had become. He was tired, probably needed to sleep, but at the same time didn’t want to miss a second of their contact now that they had established it. He didn’t want to close his eyes, open them again, and it be morning time again so damn soon, that chasm of emptiness in the space between them returning all too quickly.

If only to give himself something to do, have somewhere to put that gnawing awareness, John gave into temptation. Ducking his head, he pressed his lips to the nape of Gale’s neck. Just once, at first. Experimental; his eyes flitting up briefly to catch Gale’s reaction. With the sight of his lips dropping further open around a sudden inhale he tried to conceal, John took the silent approval and continued in his work. One kiss here, another one there, he marked a languid trail down the column of Gale’s neck and back up again, an answering shiver racing up the length of his spine when John’s mouth teased that one little spot under the hinge of his jaw. It was addictive; and what was Bucky Egan if not an addict?

Having thoroughly surveyed all that he could reach, John’s hand slipped down and palmed at Gale’s hip, urging him to turn back over and face him. When he did, his cheeks were flushed. His eyes still heavy, but now with pupils blown and trained right on him. They pinned John in place, made the cabin, and the camp, and all of Germany, all of Europe itself disappear around him. As if pulled by magnets and with the weight of the last couple of months bearing down on him, John moved to kiss him properly. His eyes snapped open when his mouth met the soft pressure of cold, unyielding fingertips, mere centimetres from the IP.

There was something brittle now in Gale’s gaze when John looked again, that feeling scooped back up and the lid put back on the jar. It still shone through though, muted but simmering away under the surface. Behind the shield of darkness and John’s broad body, Gale’s hand twisted, cupping John’s jaw as his thumb delicately swiped across the seam of his lips. “You’re gonna end up getting sick with me lying here breathing in your face all night.”

John let out a huff of annoyance, exaggerated maybe just a little bit in the hopes of making Gale smile again. “No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

Despite his amusement at the childish back and forth, John relented, changing course. “Okay, well, if it’s doomed to happen anyway I’d rather it was from you than any of the rest of these clowns, so…” He peeled Gale’s hand from his jaw, his phantom touch lingering in a way he hoped remained corporeal right through until the morning at the very least. In the same fluid movement he turned it around and mouthed his knuckles, then with a heart so full it could’ve burst right out of him, leaned in, slowly, carefully, kissed him anyway.

Oh, he could feign all the long-suffering exasperation he wanted to, but John knew the truth of the matter in how the tense lines of the other man’s body loosened under his hold then, how he nudged himself closer in the new position to close out any hint of a gap and the biting chill that could and would find its way through.

God knew he needed it, too. John wasn’t sure if it was just him that noticed the trail of signs left in Gale’s wake wherever he went throughout the day, subtle or not, that gave away just how crappy he was feeling. Sitting in the same room as the rest of them but far enough away at any given point. The way he’d pinch the bridge of his nose, presumably against the pressure there and the ache behind his eyes. How his chest sometimes seized with the need to cough that had been swallowed back. How he’d been keeping it all held back behind a tight jaw and clenched teeth, a brave face on for the sake of their men and the general morale. Whether he’d choose it or not, Gale knew he was a symbol, much like John, much like any other group’s commanding officers. He had a responsibility.

Now, though, in whatever new strange semi-privacy they’d stumbled upon and could seemingly kid themselves for a few hours they were alone within, it started to crumble.

In the extended silence, with sleep still out of reach, John couldn’t help but reflect on all of that. Right down to the very position he’d found him in when he gathered the nerve to approach his bunk, Gale was so damn protective of himself. Fiercely so, at times, that stoic, guarded veneer serving as a concrete wall between himself and the sometimes inexplicable chaos of the world. When they first met, oh so many moons ago now, John had been tempted to simply assume he lived with a stick up his ass and leave it at that.

Maybe it was because he was pretty in a way that his teenage self didn’t quite have the vernacular to understand yet, maybe it was the quiet echo of his mom’s voice in the back of his head scolding him about not judging a book by its cover, maybe it was divine intuition. But whatever it was, Bucky would thank whatever may have been out there in the sky looking down on them that, for whatever reason, he’d chosen instead to throw all of his chips in on Gale Cleven and insist on knowing him anyway. To push and prod and tease and question and irritate and somehow charm his way into the other boy’s life, into the most genuine, heartfelt friendship he’d ever had, and then further into, well, this. One that allowed him to pull on the thread of the image of himself that Gale presented to the world, bit by bit, without reprisal.

Throughout the years they’d known each other, Gale had dropped little morsels of his history into John’s lap, one piece at a time. It was almost off-hand, how he’d do it. Like he somehow hadn’t expected John to capture every one, savour them, commit them to memory and file them away in a special box in the back of his mind. To take them out as he did every so often and piece them together again, wondering about what young Gale had been before he was John’s ‘Buck’ and how he wished he could’ve been there for him, so he had an entire landscape laid before him of what made Gale Cleven who he was.

If he was stubborn and headstrong and fiercely protective of himself, fine. He had every right to be; had made himself that way out of necessity. Thinking about the circumstances of how and why made John’s heart ache something stupid just to think about, so he made a point to try not to.

If anyone on Earth deserved tenderness, it was Gale Cleven. For having taken the shitty hand life had dealt him and still come out the other side so kind and compassionate, to have taken all the hurt and the loneliness, bottled it up, and somehow turned it into white-knuckled determination to do better with himself. For having made his life something, even if his ambition was originally rooted in defiance against what had been laid out for him. For having the hordes of men in the squadron he presides over look upon him with deferential reverence, for giving them hope by making himself look invincible. Truly uncatchable, even despite having been caught.

If it ever got to be too much, though, especially in here, where home seemed so far away, and the idea of safety such an abstract, unreachable concept, Bucky would shoulder it. Without a second thought, every time. Gale Cleven deserved tenderness, and by hell was John Egan going to do everything he could to give it to him.

John had his moments when he let the darkness in; indulged in thoughts of disillusionment, found himself questioning any number of aspects of what they were doing, how they were doing it, and for what. One thought always ended up shing through the murky din though, a guiding light that pretty much always managed to pull John back in its direction. Back on path.

So long as he and Gale Cleven were on the same side, he knew he was in the right spot.

“Bucky?” His voice reached out, barely there and so soft John could’ve denied even hearing it at all. “You still awake?”

John’s eyes fluttered open, readjusting to the dark again as he blinked away the cobwebs from the sort of half-sleep he’d drifted off into. He hummed in affirmation. “What d’ya want then, Buck?” he echoed from earlier, chucking the other man’s own words back at him with a teasing, heavy-lidded smirk.

The question hung still and charged in the air between them as Gale hesitated, teetering on the brink of losing the nerve to ask whatever it was he wanted. Surely he should know by now, with John being the blatant and irredeemable sucker that he is, could ask quite literally anything of him and he’d find a way to grant him it?

Gale looked like his mind was half somewhere else, eyes unable to fully meet John’s own, and still seemingly debating whether to continue or not right up until the moment the words left his lips. “Y’know what, um… what this needs right now?”

John’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

When it came, it came small and vulnerable. “...vocals,” he said, before catching himself, the word ghosting across John’s chin. “Very, very quiet vocals.” Gale’s hand wound around John’s back, before slipping up the back of his shirt to flatten against John’s freckled back.

John couldn’t help the smile unwinding across his face, eyes sparkling in the dark with sudden mirth. “From me?” he questioned, infused with faux-disbelief. He made a show of pressing the back of his hand up under his dirty blond bangs to Gale’s forehead, half-teasing about checking for fever, but breathing a very real sigh of relief when he found little evidence of one yet.

“I mean, I did always say you would all eventually come around and see me for the true musical talent that I am. I’m just glad it’s finally being acknowledged, so I won’t hold the delay against you.”

Gale rolled his eyes, though it drew a smile out of him at the same time, even so.

He may have had no hope of being privy to all that went on inside Gale’s head, despite knowing all the important coordinates and the routes to get there. But he could see the sickbed request for what it was, the reminder of where they’d come from. A tether to an old life that felt sickeningly distant now, lost in the soupy abyss of the camp. A yearning for something familiar; anything. He sees just a hint of Gale’s impatience, his growing frustration at their situation and the longing for home, and it fractionally lightens the loads bearing down on John’s own chest. That for all his calm, careful control on the surface, it was confirmation that he felt it too.

Catching them both by surprise, and with grumbled curse, Gale twisted away with another desperate sneeze, newly acquired handkerchief hastily raised. Newly, and sort of relievingly, unrestrained, the harsh sound echoing off the walls of the small cabin.

Uncharacteristically flustered and with an apology quick on his tongue, Gale immediately moved his entire body so they were chest to back again, and he was facing the wall. “Right, that’s it. I’m turning back around.”

“You do whatever you need to get comfortable, and I’ll ahem, warm up,” he replied through a smile, the dismissal of the apology silent but palpable.

Gale fell asleep that night to the soft, dulcet tones of Blue Skies butchered in his ear. Despite the cold, despite the illness, it was the easiest sleep since he’d arrived.

The next morning, Douglass and Hambone were the first to reluctantly extricate themselves out of bed, it being their turn to do the first water run of the day and collect the cabin’s assigned jugs. Once they were outside, confident in being completely out of earshot, the gossip flowed freely.

“Jesus, you’d think Cleven and Egan gab enough to each other during the day, now they’re going to be at it at night too?!”

#masters of the air #clegan #buck x bucky #gale buck cleven #john bucky egan #HOOOOO BOY #first fic for this fandom/pairing #we're really in it now boys x #my writing

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starker-sorbet · 1 year ago

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Peter and Tony hosting the annual Avengers Christmas party

#starker #married starker #christmas #party #moodboard #my moodboard

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shivanessa · 1 year ago

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Merry Christmas everyone! I hope you have a great time, if you celebrate or not! Love to all the Starkers out there!

#starker #tony stark #peter parker

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horny4hetfield · 1 month ago

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Rockies Christmas - Day 15

Warnings: Snow Day, Wind event,

Guide: CBF = Cali’s Boyfriend / CGF = Castor’s Girlfriend / MBF = Marcella’s Boyfriend {I didn’t want to give them names}

I slowly rotate in bed. My legs a little achy from being pinned by James earlier this morning makes me smile. I can hear that the winds have picked up outside. Reaching out I find his side of the bed empty. The smell of onions being grilled floats into the room. Sitting up, stretching, I make my way into the bathroom. When done and cleaned up, I dig out a pair of stretchy pants. I’m down to the bottom of the stack which means that I need to do laundry. Pulling open the drawer that should have my tank tops in it, it’s empty. Yup. Need to get the laundry done. I find a bra and taking one of James’ t-shirts – Bastardane – I finish getting dressed and head into the kitchen finding James at the stove with a huge skillet grilling onions. I hug him from behind, “Morning.”

Twisting slightly and wrapping an arm around me, he kisses me, “Morning.” He smiles at me and wiggles his eyebrows, “Feeling ok?”

I stand on tiptoe and kiss him, “I feel beautiful.”

Gently patting my ass, “Good.” Then, “Hey, that’s my shirt.”

“Well, if the kiddos weren’t here, I’d be starkers” as I flash him my lacy bra. I get a grin in response.

“Need to do laundry?” he smiles turning back to the skillet.

“Should probably change our sheets too” I purr at him as I head towards the coffee maker running my hand over his ass.

He nods in agreement, “Yeah, that’s probably a really good idea!”

Almost as if by magic, all the kids turn into the kitchen together. “Damn, Dad. You use a lot of onions” Cali declares sitting at the bar.

Looking at his oldest, “You have a problem with that?” he grins.

CGF sits next to Cali, “I don’t, except that they give Castor gas.”

“Tell us something we don’t already know” Marcella snarks at her brother. He gives her a snarky smile back.

Marcella pulls out her phone as it buzzes. James looks at her. “Reminder that we need to check in to our flights.”

All the kids pull out their phones and check into their flights. “Hey Marcella” Castor says putting his phone away, “Thanks for the reminder.”

“You’re welcome” she grins at her brother.

“Hey Kira! Nice choice in shirts!” Castor grins. I give him a pair of horns.

James finishes the onions and starts the eggs. I see that he’s already put out the stuff to make burritos. “Kira, will you please start the microwave? I already have the roast beef in there.”

He’s even set the time needed. I push the start button smiling at him. Then grab our mugs and make our coffees. A few minutes later, we are all sitting at the kitchen table enjoying our breakfast burritos.

I watch as Cali and CBF keep giggling with their hands interlaced over Cali’s belly.

James smiles at them, “Moving more in the morning or evening?”

“A little in the morning. More in the evening.” Cali smiles.

Nodding, “I’ll bet on an evening birth” James grins.

“Morning” Marcella speaks up.

“Midday” is CGF addition.

“Someone write these down!” Marcella giggles.

CGF finds a notepad and pen. We all make our guesses.

“What does the winner get?” Castor asks.

“To change the first diaper” CBF suggests and there’s laughter all around.

A strong gust of wind hits the house. “Picking up out there” James says looking out the window. The wind picks up the loose snow and is blowing it all around. The clouds in the sky are being torn apart and then put back together. I shiver some as another gust lifts more snow from the patio. “How many episodes to we have to finish Stranger Things?” James looks at Castor.

Thinking, “There’s all of season 4 – which is 9 shows, and I think we have 3 left on season 3.”

“Shall we do the long haul and finish this?” James looks around the table. Another gust of wind hits the house.

“Sure.” “Not going out in this.” “Might as well.” “Yes!” are the mixed responses.

Everyone helps get the kitchen and dishes sorted. Carrying my coffee mug as I’d not yet finished it, we all make our way to the media room. Marcella and Castor pull out some extra blankets as the room is little chilled today. Sinking into our positions on the sofa structure, Castor fires up the system and starts the next episode.

Between every other episode, there’s a bathroom break. Someone gets something from the kitchen. Someone takes all the dirty dishes from the previous kitchen run to the dishwasher. As the second episode of the fourth season starts, there’s a very harsh gust of wind. I wince and lean into James. The power flickers. “Hold on Castor. Let’s see if the genny is going to kick in.” The lights flicker again - then go out. About 45 seconds later, they all come back on. There’s a dull roar from outside. “Ok. The genny is on. Go ahead.”

Restarting the TV, Castor starts the next episode. James pulls me into a tight hug, “I got you” he whispers to me. Smiling, breathing a little fast, I lean into his chest.

Pausing before the fifth episode, it’s the usual bathroom and kitchen runs. I lean back and look up at James, “How long will the generator run?”

Frowning slightly, “36 to 48 hours. Depending on how many devices we have running. The furnace is gas, but the fan is electric. The biggest draw will be the TV, chest freezer and the fridge.” He kisses my forehead, “I doubt the power will be out that long.”

Before the sixth episode, it’s a unanimous decision to have more Jambalaya. CBF pulls the leftovers out and in short order, we are all seated at the kitchen table. A couple more heavy gusts hit the house. One of them followed by a loud thud. I jump. James kisses my hair, “I should check on that.”

MBF stands, “I’ll go with you.”

The rest of us clean up the lunch dishes.

James comes back in the house after being outside for a time, “Hey Castor, where are the keys for the rental van?”

“Uhm, by the front door.” Castor follows his Dad and I follow Castor. “Everything ok Dad?”

Nodding, “The van is fine, but that old oak dropped a branch. I’m going to move the van just to be on the safe side.”

“Is that side drive slick?” Castor asks.

“A little.”

“Let me grab my coat. It might need a shove.”

James back tracks into the kitchen, stopping to give me a reassuring kiss. He smells of fuel. Then he, MBF and Castor go out the side door by the kitchen. I see the two younger men walking beside the van, hands on it, with James in the driver’s seat. He slowly moves it up into the small, protected area in front of the side door. The three stomp the snow off their boots before coming in the door.

“Thought we couldn’t park there, Dad” Cali teases.

“Hey, my house, my credit card on the rental van” James grins at his daughter.

Holding her hands up, “I concede the point!” she laughs.

The two boys put their coats on the coat rack by that door. James takes his into the garage. I stand at the end of the hallway waiting for him. “I topped off the fuel in the genny” he smiles at me. “Diesel fuel stinks” he grins at me before kissing me gently. He stops in the kitchen to wash his hands. Several times. He just grins at me. Another powerful gust hits the house. I shiver. James pulls me into a hug, one arm around my waist, the other tenderly cupping my head. I wrap both my arms around his waist. Gently easing his hold on me, “You ok?” I heave a sigh and smile at him, nodding. We all make our way back to the media room.

Castor stands and stretches before the last episode. “Who’s up for some snacks?” he grins. Again, we all head into the kitchen. Some popcorn is made. James, MBF and I make sandwiches from the last of the roast beef. Cali heats up some rice and tops it with butter and salt. Grabbing a couple bags of chips and everyone grabs a Liquid Death can from the fridge, there’s a parade back to the Media Room. Castor is the last one to enter the media room, carrying one of James’ guitars. Grinning, “Here Dad, in case you want to play along!”

Laughing with his son, “Thanks, but that’s not my line. That’s Kirk.”

“No, it’s yours.”

“I do a short solo in the middle. The lead is all Kirk” James smiles at his boy, taking a bite from his sandwich.

“I thought this was all you.”

“Sorry Castor” James smiles. “They even cut my solo from the show. This rendition is all Kirk.” Seeing the look on his boy’s face, “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

Castor, setting the guitar on the counter, “I honestly thought this was all you” he grins at his Dad.

“It’s me in Jungle Cruise” James offers.

“We should watch that next” MBF offers.

“How about we finish this show. Next time we’ll do a movie marathon” James counters.

“Deal!”

Castor starts the last episode. Everyone sits up to headbang when Eddie starts playing. When the lines comes, we all shout “Most Metal ever!” laughing. I smile at James. He pulls me into a kiss. When the episodes ends, Castor flops back on the sofa, arms raised, “We did it!” There’s general laughter.

“You guys should pack up tonight” I offer.

James nods in agreement, “Excellent idea. With the winds, you’ll want to leave a little early in case there’s trees on the freeway.”

Looking up at his Dad, “That corner there at Wolcott can be tricky.” James just nods.

“Ok dorks” Marcella turns to her counterparts, “Let’s bag up.”

Castor powers down the system. The kids all depart to their rooms. I gather up the blankets. James helps me, grabbing his guitar before turning off the lights in the room. Leaning his guitar against the wall, the blankets get dumped on the floor in front of the washer. “I’ll get to these when the power’s back” I tell him as he pulls me into a hug, my hands rest on his chest.

He kisses my forehead. “What about the wind here has you jittery?” his eyes search my face.

“The winds here just sound … savage.” I pat his chest, “The winds in the city just don’t sound like the winds here.”

Cupping my head into his chest, “I can understand that” as he pulls me in tighter. I lean my head back looking into his face. “From the sounds, I think the worst is over” he looks at me a gentle smile on his lips. Leaving the laundry room and taking my hand, James reaches for his guitar and is almost bowled over by Castor.

“Yikes!” Castor grabs his Dad. “You ok?”

“I have enough bruises, thanks son” James teases Castor.

“I was just coming back. I forgot to put your guitar away.”

James hands the axe to his boy, “Here ya go” he smiles.

Smiling, “Thanks. I’ll put it back.” Castor heads up the hallway, “Night Dad.”

“Night Castor” he watches the young man retreating up the hallway.

I rest my hand on his forearm and let it slide into his hand, smiling gently at the megarocksuperstargod dad at my side. Sighing, he gently squeezes my hand. Then turning to me with a gentle smile, we walk into the living room. I see that there are some things the kids have left in the room and start collecting them. James stops me, makes me set the things down and smiles, “Hey dorks! Y’all left things in the living room!” I raise my eyebrows at him. “What?” he grins.

“So you started the dorks thing?”

“No. That was actually Lars” he smiles.

Soon all six young people are in the living room collecting their items. CGF and Marcella do a thorough search of the room as well as the kitchen. With a “Good night!” they return to their rooms.

James turns off the lights in the living room. With a sigh, he turns off the tree lights. The room is very dark indeed. Draping an arm over my shoulders to my other hip, he leads us to our bedroom – making sure to close the door behind us. After climbing into bed, he’s fidgety. I roll over, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like sleeping with the genny running.” Reaching to my bed side table, I hand him the TV remote. With concern etched on his face, “Are you sure?”

“Positive” I caress his face.

He sits up against the headboard and turns on the TV. I completely roll over, putting my head into his lap. His fingers play with my hair. I drift to sleep.

I feel him shift me gently off his lap. That’s when I realize that the faded roar of the generator is silenced. James is cold when he curls up against my back. “All good?” I whisper.

“Yes, other than I’m cold” he snugs up closer. I pull his arms tighter around me.

Sleep grabs us both.

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