#mmm paper texture my beloved

[arttsuka]

Spock my beloved ♥︎

[silksaddle]

The Traveler 2

Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x f!reader Western AU

Chapter summary: 1907, Old West. Talk of the Statesman gang is slowly on the rise while Jack continues to distract you from your chores, taking you on another but entirely different night-time outing. 

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, language, guns, mentions of alcohol and gangs, copious flirting, SMUT, oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex/piv sex, outdoor sex, thigh spanking, please pardon me for the amount of smut content in this chapter, a crumb of plot development, Jack Daniels again...

Word count: 14k (leave me alone)

A/N: gif credit to @javier-pena once again! thank you my beloved astrid! and as always, much love to my amazing friends who sent me inspo posts and listened to my anxious ramblings about god-knows-what. you are all the best and you have my heart.

Read Chapter One ~ Series Masterlist

Chapter Two: Six Shooter

Jack is spreading his half-naked body over the mattress in a contented stretch when you return to the bedroom, flustered and hot-cheeked.

“You here to take my sheets, darlin’? I must insist I keep ‘em,” he chortles, turning his bright face over the soft pillow as you attempt stripping the sheets from under him, your lungs emptying in a huff when he catches your wrist and draws you to him instead. Your body lands perfectly on top of his with your weak protest, a poor match for his irresistibly gravel-like voice and his buzzing snugness.

“You’re making my job quite difficult,” you mumble into his neck, kissing the smooth skin there although your words are much more harsh. His chest rumbles, fingers running the length of your clothed back from when he’d hurriedly laced you back into your dress, lips skimming graceful but mindless lines on your temple.

“Mrs. Adler thinks you’re doing your chores.” Jack’s palms are now ghosting over your shoulders as you prop yourself up on your elbows, taking his gaze with you as you move, and you can tell your dilating pupils are betraying the falseness of your annoyed tone when you look at his expanding chest. He takes a deep breath in, the angle of morning light catching his eyes just right to melt them into golden flecks, his dishevelled hair incurable without a bath. 

You card your fingers through, and though it’s slightly tangled, the texture is silky enough to brush through the messy state and straighten it out, just a smidge. The touch causes his eyes to flutter closed, and shimmying up his body, he leans his head back to expose his neck further, the long lines and tone popping against each other. His breath hitches when he feels your own puffing across it, his chest immobile while he waits to feel something more from you, but you don’t kiss him, don’t nip him, don’t caress him there.

“I’ve only come to take your sheets to wash them— I should already be downstairs,” you insist and he mopes, your voice softly carrying throughout the bright bedroom, limbs absent-mindedly wrapping around his firm ones until he clings to you.

“Oh,” he hums, tipping his body until you roll under him onto the no-longer-fresh sheets, landing on your back with his hands cradling your head. His handsome smile makes you forget you ever needed to take his sheets in the first place, and when he kisses you deeply, moaning low when you open up for him and his bare skin slides over you, you don’t even remember where you are. “Thought you’d wanted some more of me…”

“Mmm, Jack— she’s already a little suspicious of me,” you giggle, wriggling underneath his heavy weight and it’s a futile effort beneath his affection, his lips laying warm insistent kisses all over your forehead, your cheeks, your jaw. He’s unstoppable, whether it’s the heaviness or the happiness that makes you lie there and take it with quiet laughter as the rough skin of his cheek touches gently to yours. 

Jack is as much the sunshine of the room as the real thing, chuckling sweetly along with you and growing more pleased the louder your squealing sounds become, your fingers pulling across the bare skin of his back— he likes it too much to let you off in a timely manner.

Mrs. Adler had only just believed your excuse of a poor sleep as you’d rushed out in a tizzy with your disheveled hair and clothes, and a terrible flourish of panic had bloomed in your chest at the thought of an unchecked mark lingering on your neck. But Jack had looked you over meticulously; deft fingers had worked at the laces of your layers. And even before making it to the kitchen, two dozen kisses wet on your thighs, you’d opened the door only to find the old woman pacing about on the landing of the stairs. Slamming it shut with your back on the wood, panting in the face of confrontation, Jack snickered and peeked out for you a minute later, confirming your chance to slip out undetected.

Now finished serving breakfast, Jack once again prevents you from carrying out your tasks.

“You’ve left me with a lastin’ impression,” he rasps, eyes crinkling as he slips a hand under your skirt and the touch tickles and inspires a giddy laugh from your throat as you swat him away, at last slipping out from under him. 

“Give me your sheets, you greedy man,” you order, lifting your chin and furrowing your brow with your arm extended. Jack purses his lips and thinks, sitting up to run a hand through his dark hair, your smile growing despite yourself when it sticks up in bulky curls to leave his contented face in view. 

“These sheets have got your smell on ‘em now,” he grins like it’s his most favoured fact in his whole life, leaning back into his palms and his cock is slowly hardening between his legs as he considers his next words, “your cum is on them.”

“Jack,” you chuckle, “you’re dirty.” Inching closer to him, his joyous face turns dark when you arrive in the middle of his strong thighs extending past the edge of the bed, “Get up, please, or I’ll have you explaining why I’m behind schedule for the second time today.”

He presses up onto his feet, his gentle scent covering you as if a fleeting spell, and before any more rational thoughts occur, your hand is reaching into his unbuttoned pants, wrapping around his hard length. His head tips back, the softest growl filling your ears and he pushes his hips forward, placing his hands on your cheeks, urging your lips to slide along his as he fucks into your tight fist. It’s a sweet kiss compared to his already desperate thrusts, his cum still streaking your thighs, inside of you, outside of you, from mere hours before.

“I told you I’d come back here tonight. We’ve plenty of time to ruin more sheets.” Your whisper earns a heavy sigh expelled onto your skin, his grip sliding down to your neck and as his mouth hangs open, you nip at his bottom lip and pull it into your mouth, a tender suckle on the plush softness. He hisses as you let it go, burying his nose into the curve of your neck, and stilling his movements with your hand, he lets you work him like that— your fingers tightly curled around his cock as you slide it in and out of your palm. 

“Fuck me,” he groans, “I better see you back here if you’re gonna touch me like this, darlin’.”

Smiling, you pump him quickly, whispering how you can still feel him as if he’s fucking you right now, how good he is, how thick, and he growls from his chest, shutting his eyes tight in concentration.

“Maybe you’ll let me touch you tonight, too, Jack, leave your ropes for another time…” Your free hand clamps around the back of his neck, twirling your fingers around the hair at the nape of it, before tugging him down for a slower kiss, capturing his striking whine in your mouth.

“Shit, darlin’... I’d do anything you say right about now… Christ,” Jack’s fingers trace the neckline of your bodice as his lips skate along your cheek, and his voice is so husky and rumbly, you almost consider a greater risk of trouble.

He makes no protest as you bend carefully, still pumping his thick cock while you yank the sheet away from the mattress, pulling back to fold it into your arms and finally leaving his hard length unattended. Jack’s eyes snap open in a crushing neediness, his displeased but wrecked voice calling after you in a bid to keep you here and he laughs incredulously, “You get back here right now.”

Backing up into the door, your lip caught in your teeth, you reach behind and find the cool handle, offering a cheeky grin before you slip away and murmur, “I’m busy.”

-

A mellow afternoon follows Jack’s disgruntled exit to the fractional post office, stealing a rushed kiss in the corner of the parlour for the mere seconds you were alone together, giddy glances spared through the window on his walk to work. You spend a small segment of your time concocting tea for Mrs. Adler who pours over the payment book, thanking you as she slides a list across the bar; it’s full of all things you know to do without the help of paper and pencil.

“How about that Mr. Daniels?”

Spluttering, you swivel on your heel, unsure of the intention of her question, your eyes mistakenly blowing wide with no answer to fill the subsequent silence. She must know, you worry, she must.

“What about him?” You query, looking down at your apron in no need of smoothing, yet your hands fiddle with the pockets, and her amused scoff scrapes through your uneasy stance.

“My, you’d better sleep well tonight... that man whipped those fools down in a second,” she laughs, flipping the page of the large notebook and scribbling something down with a spotted, shaky hand. 

“He did.” Wiping your face, you conceal a sliver of a smile under your hand when you think of him— ease and cockiness burned down to his big pleading eyes looking up at you for permission. “Thought you disliked him.”

“Well, I could admit we need someone like that around here more often,” she croaks as you pretend to look over the list of laundry, sweeping, cooking, cleaning. The sentiment lands somewhere uncomfortable in your chest— you no more than agree with her and you could never tell her why or how.

“Oh, and dear, the sheriff came by this morning,” she adds, relaying his spiel of reports.

Only the most notable happenings make it over from town to town, lawlessness rendering crime nothing more than irrelevant. It takes a mass robbery, or a mammoth fire, or an offense so deeply doused and coloured red in rage to make the rounds of neighbouring settlements, so when Mrs. Adler shares the spreading news of heightened gang exploits a little ways north, your heart sinks and adopts a painfully heavy sensation.

“He advises to be extra careful,” she finishes with a stern look, “they could be coming here for all we know. Those Statesman men are horrible…”

“Statesman?” you echo her words, scouring the back of your mind to place the familiarity of that name, but she smiles in return to soften your worried brow. Statesmen, a Statesman. You’d read it somewhere, embellished into leather or stitched into the label of a visitor’s coat while tidying.

“I wouldn’t worry too much. If anything, girl, that Daniels boy should be of use.”

A challenge not to snicker, she gives you, when she tells you not to fuss, as if you’ve got the liberty to enjoy the outdoors where a vigilant attitude is required— but Jack is the remedy, you think, eyeing the stray strands of her brittle grey hair twisted up, scrunching your nose.

“Alright, Mrs. Adler,” you agree, passing her through to the laundry closet.

The air is stuffy inside the small, shelved room, where pleasing, cooling, tiny splashes pepper your forearms as you pour the water bucket into one of the tubs, then grabbing the soap, you flump onto the short stool and drag the laundry basket to your side. The first sheet on the pile is the last one you’d taken— Jack’s— carrying his heady and wood-fiery scent now mingled with yours. With a vibration of anticipation up your spine, your thoughts twirl upon your admittedly cruel handling of his need— tonight, you’re surely in for it.

The usual, slowly passing and hot hours fill with inescapable reveries toeing the line of unrealistic: a cloudy day in bed, a sunny evening at the river, clothes discarded to the side. Shaking those heart string-stretching thoughts and trading for a better focus, you hang the wringed sheets on the line as the last blazes of the sun spread over the field, and take a moment to rest your elbows on the log fence at the back of the yard overlooking the vast, lush area. 

Something heavy, once more, tugs at your weary limbs, watching the calm breeze push along the beige blades of plant-life, and you think of Sylvie— her bright mane and soothing demeanor, the rush of riding with her and him. The thrill no longer chased, waiting for you still. There must be a few months worth left of him, two at the least, perhaps enough to soothe your aching heart in seeking more vibrant days. But before too long, you set back on your course of chores, trekking up to tidy the bathing rooms for those coming back from a dirty day.

Jack finds you there an hour later in the open door, kneeling on the floor by the bathing tub, scrubbing away at its already-shiny exterior, and he smiles under the sticky and sweaty clothes, watching the way your body jostles with movement.

“Hey, cruel woman.”

Halting, your head briefly hangs between your shoulders before you sit back on your heels and grin up at him, his weary feet leading him towards you, a set of clean clothes hanging off his arm. His shirt is sheer in some places more than others, namely his chest, damp with muscular effort. 

“Did you have a hard day, Jack?” You question, making big eyes at him from your low spot compared to his tall height, and his face grows slightly stern.

“Oh, darlin’, you know I did,” he kneels, takes your chin in his hand and you find yourself leaning up into his face, mere inches from his lips, entranced by their pouty curve. But he doesn’t kiss you. He pinches your chin harder, a deep pressure as he looks over you, taking in the way you indulgently advance until you’re on hands and knees, caged by his own, staring at him with none of the power you held this morning.

“You oughta continue what you started…” he whispers almost on your lips, never close enough to touch, your eyelids heavily drooping as you look down his torso, leading to his cock.

“Oh,” you sigh, slick pooling where he can’t see or feel it, “Jack, I can…” 

You crawl forward between his spread legs until your nose nudges the material of his pants, resting your weight back on your knees when you reach out for him, but his face is a sinister, knowing grin when steadily rises back up to stand, rocking into his heels.

“Not now, though,” he coos, swiping a damp thumb over your lip, “off you go, little lady.”

“Why—”

Whining involuntarily, you watch while he shrugs off his suspenders and closes his eyes, fluttering back open with a smirk at Mrs. Adler’s distant call for you to prepare dinner.

“That’s why.”

Your mouth hanging open, you roll your eyes, taking his calloused hand as he aids you upward from the hard floor, though he finally gives you a greeting of a peck on the cheek, “Later, angel, you can show me what you’ve been thinkin’ about all day.”

Nudging your body, he sends you off to your chores in a frazzled state and shuts the door with a wink, settling in to wash himself off from the dust and dirt.

You don’t think you’ve ever felt so needy, it nearly feels stupid to still have the crushing weight of wanting Jack as you chop ingredients, peek into cupboards, fill plates. It’s even worse when he sits at the table, clean and fresh and irresistibly smooth, chatting in easy conversation with Mrs. Crockett who enjoys his company dearly as she tells him uninteresting stories of her husband. 

He watches your back as you turn about the steps, as you pass along plates to each person, and he brushes his fingers purposely along yours when you arrive at his spot, a gesture to offer his silent token of appreciation. Your breath catches, and his wink sets it free again through a quiet sigh, smiling sweetly for him. He tries not to laugh, you notice, and you stop yourself from touching his shoulder here in front of everyone— namely Mrs. Crockett, who has also made a poor reputation of gossip and a budding friendship with Mrs. Adler who is closest to her in age. The last thing you can manage is a rumour about your little life; by that point you’d be begging Jack to take you with him even before the post office is built, even with so much left to explore with him.

As the chitter-chatter diminishes down to an empty table with empty plates, and the visitors disperse into corners or run off to different buildings— they always come back for dinner to get their money’s worth— you sort out the dried laundry, slipping into the ladies’ rooms to aid with corsets, all with distant thoughts in a place where they shouldn’t be. They never ask about your day so much as they speak of theirs, whether time spent with their sweetheart, telling you how they prefer their things folded, or muttering how much they liked dinner. The last one you take lightly, thanking the ladies in whispers. Now, though, it doesn’t cause as much of an ache in your heart when you listen to their free and happy memories— you think of doing the same with Jack, of asking him and receiving his sweet smile in return, ready if you are.

When you finally sit at your simple vanity, it’s with a powerful sigh that you remove your boots, step out of your clothes, and trade them for your nightgown. You pull the threaded pink ribbon taut into a bow, and look over yourself in the mirror, giddy in your stomach for when the time comes to slip into Jack’s room. Judging by the clock, another half hour would do to be sure everyone has settled in so you can sneak in complete privacy, and it feels less daunting now than it ever did before.

Folding your petticoat to lay the soft cotton on the tabletop, you hear the handle click and turn and you gasp fiercely in response, rising from the chair as Jack all but barrels in, haphazardly shutting the door before swooping you into his arms.

“Oh, my—” you squeal, cut off by a rough kiss that you eagerly return, bombarded with the scent of his soap and shaving cream. You only urge him off with your hands sneaking between your bodies to press on his chest and ask a burning question, his lips not wanting to part from you. It’s a tiny struggle but he eventually gives way, fondly looking down at you as you speak. “Did anyone see you?”

“Hall was empty. Couldn’t stop thinkin’ of you… lost my damn patience,” he croons, plushy lips open on your neck, leaving kisses that bloom into pleasant flourishes of need like ink dipped into water. It’s a new spot that you allow him to explore, bringing your hands up his wide shoulders as you turn around the room together, stepping at random. “Had to keep from touchin’ myself and dreamin’ of you…”

You wrap your arms around his neck, reeling him in closer for a whisper against the shell of his ear.

“You don’t have to dream, Jack, I’m here.”

His breath stutters uncharacteristically and it must be your chance to keep him like this, his pleasure dependent on what you decide to do with him— so you pin your front to his and he grunts, giving a miniscule, testing rut back.

“No more teasin’?” he asks hopefully, sweet brown eyes glowing in the low light of your little lamp. “You weren’t so nice this morning…”

“Oh, Jack, I’m not so sure about that.”

In a mirror of the morning, you slip your hand lower to find his cock hard again, splaying your fingers over its thick length and rubbing over the fabric. He squeezes your waist, digging his thumbs in helplessly as he staves off a groan in a bid to keep what willpower is still left with him, then loses it all when you place a simple kiss to his collarbone, not open or rough or wet— just plain, pressed lips to his skin, and he asks you for more.

“Will you let me touch you this time?” you murmur, urging him backward onto the bed. He slumps over the mattress, eyes trained on your face as he places himself further up with his legs spread, palms sinking into the covers. He swallows thickly when he takes you in: standing over him in the sheer, light fabric of your nightgown, its lace edges bordering the slopes of your body.

“I want you in my mouth,” you continue, lowering yourself to your knees, hands over his own as he shuts his eyes and breathes deep, long breaths, grunting when he feels your fingers working at his buttons. “Think I’ve earned it.”

“You could ask me for anything you want, darlin’... shit—” His thighs tense under your ministrations as you reach in and pull his cock out, the tip of it shining in his own, generous arousal. He looks down from himself to your sparkling eyes, and cups your cheek in his large hand, its smoothness traveling down the curve of your face. “Anything you want.”

His lip twitches, mouth falling delicately open and his eyes shutting once more as you place your tongue flat at the base, licking upward, circling around the head while you watch his face strain and pull, his neck sticking out prominently. He’s gorgeous when you touch him like this, still so fresh and clean from the bath. The warm drips of precum glide slowly on your tongue as you hold it out, then wrap your lips around him, whining when he fists through your hair and cramps his fingers.

“That mouth is just about gonna kill me already,” he rasps, bucking his hips up a smidge to perch himself deeper in your mouth, your hand rising to cover his at the base of your neck. Its heat is dangerous yet satisfying in its revelation of just how affected he is, a tiny spot of sweat swiping from his palm onto your neck.

Blinking up at him, you pull off, wetly sliding over half the length of him before moving back down to take more, feeling it brush against the back of your throat. You keep him there as he squeezes you harder, his spine curling over you and the new sound he makes is just begging to be heard, but he smothers it with a bite of his own lip to quiet it.

“Like that…” he sighs, carefully canting his hips forward as you wrap your fingers around his base, enveloping him and spreading the wetness of your mouth over his entire length.

He glistens like that, shimmering in the low and golden light, fisting at the blanket and your hair, puffing focused breaths every time you take him deeper, longer, sucking him harder.

Up and down, you keep your lips wrapped snugly around his cock, its throbbing heft a pleasurable weight on your tongue, the satisfying hit of the head at your throat.

“Where have you fuckin’ been,” he nearly laughs in disbelief that you’re even here, much less on your knees, much less with your mouth around him.

Pulling off for a deep breath, you trace the edges of your nightgown, eyeing him and his debauched, handsome face as you bring the lacy straps off your arms, leading them from your wrists. “I’ve always been here.” 

The fabric gathers at your waist in a soft pool of cotton and ribbon, your chest bare and level with his cock.

“Do you like that, Jack?” you preen, settling closer to him this time over the hard and truthfully painful floor— you don’t notice it as much when you feel him hitting that spot all the way down your throat.

“You know I do,” he smiles breathlessly, crinkles and that little dimple creasing in his content face. He leans down for a kiss, its nature unlike the urgency of your own mouth wetting his cock— it’s always sweet like he is to you in every other way, lingering there before you lean into the space between his legs, eager.

“I wanted you all day,” you coo, running a thumb over his tip, a saturated kiss placed there before you put him in your mouth for a brief suck, managing to keep him inside for a few short seconds. “I should have felt so tired after what you did to me, but all I could think of was this.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, he then lets it go in a gravelly sigh as he holds your bobbing head in his hands, spanning the sides of your face. Your forehead brushes his soft stomach as you push down, hollowed cheeks hugging every inch of him and he jolts, driving himself the smallest bit further, moaning at the tight and wet sensation of you. You pump him, looking so falsely innocent between his legs, your chest and shoulders bare for him to admire, peeking out of the fine gown.

“Keep goin’ darlin’, I’m gonna fill that pretty mouth up... know you want it down your throat, bet you thought about havin’ my cum drippin’ from your mouth all day, too, hm?”

Licking the tip and rubbing him faster, you nod fervently, opening wide in a stretch to finish him off with firm squeezes and strokes, his breaths now raggedly rough from above you every time he hits that spot. Your mouth is hot on his skin and he warns you he’s going to cum soon, he’s going to fill your mouth up nice and good, and you shut your eyes tight in concentration, focused on the thick feel of him sliding in and out between your lips.

“Wanna see you when I fill you baby doll, c’mere n’ look at me.” Jack’s fingers brush the underside of your chin, and you strain to look upward before you slide your hand over his slick cock. He tenses up by another degree, his chest and forehead damp, throat straining as he swallows thickly. 

A final squeeze and he cums all over your extended tongue, the milky liquid sliding off and onto your chest as he moans through gritted teeth, dazed as you are as you both watch it drip all over your exposed half. You swallow what remains in your mouth, letting your jaw drop to show him your now clean slate.

Bending into you and still panting, he smiles, streaking his thumb down your chin to gather up what’s left, guiding it into your open mouth. Heart racing, you take it in, your enthusiastic glow causing his face to soften.

His gaze drifts south to linger on your glimmering chest, pressing his palm flat and firm into the slight pool of it. He paints you with it, spreading his cum all over each breast with a clear sheen from the separation, special attention granted to each nipple with a flick of his wet thumb. Its initial warmth has cooled and with it lingers a soothing cover over your front as you lay your cheek over his knee, toying with the worn laces of his boots.

“Now… how to thank my darlin’ girl and her perfect fuckin’ mouth…” Jack wonders aloud as he cups your cheeks in his hands and puts a contrasting, innocent kiss to your forehead.

Grinning up at him and placing your hands over his, you tell him that’s all you wanted to give him, all you needed was to finally feel him in your mouth.

“Well,” he whispers, “I wanna show you what I was thinkin’ about all day long.”

The spark in your eyes must be a blinding one, his hands gliding over the slope of your body as you work yourself back onto your feet, your knees throbbing and sore. Wincing, you balance yourself on his broad shoulders, glancing down to notice his eyes not relieved of their dark hunger.

“Jack, you’re…”

“Not done, angel,” he finishes for you, and that’s when you feel it, the slick dripping past your core to spread slightly down your squeezing thighs. He pushes his sleeves up as the corner of his lip tugs upward too, straight teeth glinting the same as his eyes.

“Your turn, then,” you murmur, parting his hair through your fingers. It falls back into place, his pillowy and gentle lips finding yours as he stands with you, always chasing you, waltzing you backward until your ass bumps against the thick windowsill.

“I was choppin’ wood, thinkin’ of settin’ you right here,” he confesses lowly, ensuring the curtains are drawn completely open with a quick swipe of his hands over the gauzy lengths previously covering the glass, “thinkin’ of fuckin’ you on my fingers like this.”

You situate yourself properly on the sill and he steps back, taking a comically focused once-over of your seated body, but the desire is still so thick it doesn’t even bring you to laugh when he hurriedly comes back to you. He spreads your thighs wide, his palms a fiery heat that couldn’t be further from where you want it.

Tugging at his collar, you reel him in to place an open kiss just under his ear. “Give it to me how you want.”

The glass cools the staggering temperature on your skin as he knocks you into it, your back sticking to its chilly surface in the midst of his swirling breaths, ghosting the edges of your shoulders before he hikes your thighs up higher to his waist.

“You ready for me?” he murmurs with a husky voice, and it’s a powerful shock from your head to your toes, seeing how easily he’s worked back up to needing you as he lowers a hand to your core. His fingers part you, a slick and effortless slip through your folds to your entrance. “Darlin’... you’re soakin’ my hand already. Did suckin’ my cock do all this to your sweet little cunt?”

A hushed, restrained sound tears from you and is quieted by his mouth covering yours when he rubs his calloused fingers over your clit, rasping those low words sweetly into you, nipping your bottom lip between his teeth as the digits travel lower. The arousal dripping from your cunt makes that first slide so easy, Jack bottoming out to his knuckles with a soft sigh. His stomach nearly touches your own still covered by the bunched nightgown and he pauses there, a reassuring squeeze to your side and then a smooth gracing of his free hand to hold your thigh tight to himself.

“This is where I’ve wanted to be,” he confesses, his nose drawing a line from your shoulder, delicately down to your chest as he bends and swipes his tongue broadly over your sensitive nipple. The signals from your brain to your muscles are jumbled now, feeling the heat of his wet tongue tasting the cum on your chest— it’s out of your control when you arch your back into him and whine, when your fingers tangle into his hair and tug.

He responds in a groan, licking across your skin to your unattended nipple which he suckles on gently, lapping at it. Jack curls his two thick fingers before straightening out to kiss you fleetingly on your lips; he parts and watches your eyes intently, a stray curl falling to hang between his brows.

“So full already, hm?” he teases, his thumb swiping slow patterns on your clit, and you lean further back into the glass with a pant, its surface no longer able to cool you down.

“Yes,” you manage to respond in a gasp as he grants a second, deeper hit, a slight slapping sound causing you both to hug each other tighter and chuckle.

“Tight, sweet thing,” he groans, extended curls and strokes stretching you wholly around his hand, “take my fingers just right. Is that it, darlin’, were you made for me to fill you?”

“Mm,” you suck in sharp breaths, “mhm, you fill me up, Jack, you fill me up so good.” 

You wrap your arms around his neck, and his chin hooks onto your shoulder, digging into it hard as he holds you with one toned arm snaking around your waist. Like this, your damp chest brushes his, his fingers pump and work you open another smidge wider as he pushes in, grinds his palm against your clit, pulls his fingers out a fraction of the way. The motions of his hips against his own wrist are gentle, unhurried for now, having already cum into your slack mouth.

With the flat of his free palm caressing your back through soft strokes, he draws his lips back and forth over the curve of your neck.

“You know what I see?” he asks, urging his knuckles deeper in the hardest plunge he's given you tonight, an agonizingly fiery touch to your clit. “Men, walkin’ around all dumb— could see me fuckin’ you right here on my hand if they’d just look up— shit, they got no clue I’m feelin’ the wettest little pussy, huh?”

“Fuck, Jack,” your nails dig into the lean and muscular bulge of his biceps as he keeps you upright against the glass, your thighs squeezing him so close he can hardly fuck you anymore— he just rubs and grinds his hand against you while remaining far inside your aching pussy, soaking his already drenched fingers with more slick.

“And only I’m gonna watch you cum,” he adds in a grunt, working himself into you with every last drop of energy he’s saved, his soft moans and sharp teeth spurring you closer to coming all over his perfect fingers. You might have gone longer if not for the irreversible, desperate need for him that sucking his cock had instilled in you— had you nearly dripping onto the floor, your body left unimaginably sensitive that each time he brushes up against you now, you dig deeper into his skin. He likes it though, and it makes him move with a crazed edge, his moans transforming into snarls.

“Only you…” you echo, starting to grind with him yourself, rolling into and meeting his short, fast thrusts, every muscle tensing and straining and it’s so close, almost there—

“There you go, doll, can feel you squeezin’ me so tight… cum on my hand, fuckin’ soak me, c’mon…”

“Jack, Jack I’m gonna—” Urgently, you tap at his shoulder with wide eyes and worried brows as you feel it start to happen, knowing how close you are to crying— your nails dig into his shoulders so intensely when you cum, jaw dropped and eyes shut and he makes a wincing yet completely pleased noise into your mouth; it’s cruel. You manage not to make a peep at the cost of losing large breaths, and it makes your orgasm all the more intense: light headed, woozy, and tingling numbness reaching the length of your body.

“Sweeter than fuckin’ honey when you do that,” he smiles widely, until his mouth drops fully open at the way you hug his hand inside from coming so hard around him. Your slick gathers between your thighs and you still can’t breathe, his face buried into the spot under your jaw as he pulls them out of you, dragging the pads up to your clit while the rest of it spreads throughout your folds. He stares down at it, at the wetness dripping and glistening from your core, and he groans again, blinking slowly.

Placing his palms on the sill by either side of your trembling figure, he hums, your smile against his skin buzzing at his insatiable drive, how he’d fucked your mouth and your pussy with such short rest, feeling the damp hair at the back of his neck. He drops his head down as an offering and you take him in a gentle cradle, kissing his forehead as he’d done to you while he nestles. He looks up and back down, waiting for another, your fingers smoothing the unruly hair from his face.

“Hell, if I don’t wanna fuck that pretty pussy every night till I die,” he exhales, another glance at his wet fingers, dropping a kiss to your collarbone.

“Oh, Jack,” you laugh, your heels hitting the wall underneath you, “if only you were here for that long.” 

His face scrunches a little in confusion before his lips curve, “How many times do I have to remind you I ain’t leavin’ so soon?”

“As many times as it takes,” you whisper, fingers scratching down his arms, his own dipping into your cunt again without a warning, “fuck—”

“Yeah, baby doll,” he croons, “I got somethin’ to prove to you still?”

You nod with a greedy smirk and he retracts his fingers, taking them into his mouth after drawing a line between your breasts to taste your mingled releases, moaning in your ear. “Go n’ get on the bed. You’re gonna ride my face.”

A shiver chills your spine, mainly at the way his voice has dropped a miraculous third time, his hand landing a light swat on your ass when you pass him, shaky legs taking you toward the mattress. He follows to lay on his back, perpetually pleased with himself, arms outstretched and beckoning you forward. You crawl up to him and you can feel your own cum streaking your thighs as you move, soon beside his large body, and he raises his brows impatiently, “Well go on, sugar, I wanna taste some more of that.”

Stretching his neck every which way, his eyes crinkle as he grins between your thighs while you throw one over his shoulder and his arms fall behind him, fingers searching for yours until he laces them together, squeezing.

“You’re not tired yet, old cowboy?” you tease lightly, the force of it lost when he gives a broad swipe of his tongue and moans yet another time, indulgently, swallowing the remnants of your previous release.

“I ain’t ever gonna tire of this,” he replies, another lick from your entrance to your clit, such an easy slip of the muscle, your sensitivity dialed up too many extra notches. His brows knit together in effort, rough cheeks pleasantly scratching on your skin when he moves his head side to side, tongue hanging out of his mouth and edging with a perfect pressure all over your sensitive bud.

“I’d hope not,” you exhale, grinding your hips over his wet mouth until his grip moves to your thighs to prevent you from moving. His eyes look up at you keenly as he closes his lips around your clit and sucks, your head tipping in silent rapture as you take it all for him without the relief of motion. 

“We go real nice together,” he grumbles into your slick center. Tightening the hold of your thighs, he laves his tongue all over you in focused circles, faster, with just enough force for your legs to start shaking around his handsome face, for another gush of arousal to spread over his swollen lips. All that’s left for you to handle it is to scream it out, how good he makes you feel, how precious, but the house is so silent and only you can hear the slick sounds of his mouth on your clit— he won’t even let you rub yourself over him. You can only bite your lip and hold your breath, yet little puffs and moans sneak out when he does something unforeseen, like a single bite on your thigh or a gentle nip to challenge you— it’s all on purpose and easily noticed by his gratified face.

He tugs your clit a short, miniscule distance and lets it go, shaking his head when you mope over the loss of contact.

“Are you tryin’ for me, sugar?”

“You’re being tough on me,” you whine, shimmying further up his body to regain his lips that are brightly shining.

“If I ain’t tough then it ain’t right,” he whispers, “stay still and quiet for me and I’ll take you out again.”

He tips his head down and forward, swiping his prominent nose to spread you further open, but you don’t even consider the promise of a gift, your focus on the return of his soaked tongue to your throbbing core, biting hard on your lip to quell the need to cry.

“Is my darlin’ gonna come? You gonna cum all over my face? Gimme another one, dolly.” His mouth latches back onto your clit and you can’t think, much less form an answer in your blank head where all you see is white, or maybe blinding stars, or just plain nothingness as you let go, his moustache wet with you, his lips dripping.

By some miracle, the scream you fend off becomes so high pitched in your throat that nothing makes it out of you save for the helpless cry of, “Jack!” as you tremble around his cheeks.

“Yes,” he grunts, and thank goodness it’s muffled by your soaking core; your fingers finally escape his hold to grip at his hair with a fierce, unforgiving tug, and that softer sound fills the room again while your body freezes up and you cum harder this time, covering him, coating him. He grumbles something again, but it’s nothing you could hope to make out in the crushing wave of pleasure that hits you— the light sensation does not leave you, though the shaking eases off as Jack places a tender kiss to your clit, and you jolt at just that velvet brush, his eyes turning sympathetic. You breathe deep, slumping with great exhaustion and the dazed happiness of having him in your room now as you lift your thigh from his body and he leans his head up to grant a quick kiss while it slips away from him.

“Knew you could be quiet,” he smiles under the shine of your second release, resting his arms open over the blanket to welcome you into them.

“As if you don’t make it hard.” Huffing, it’s with a reciprocal smile that you crawl back to him, nearly toppling over on your way with the weakness of his own power against your body, and he chuckles at you, not shying away from his joyous teasing when you throw him a half-glare.

“Did I wear you out again?” he questions, guiding you into his side, turning his body over yours to swipe his tangy tongue over your bottom lip.

Whimpering, it turns into a cheerful giggle as he drops pecks over your nightgown, wrapping his finger around the tail of the ribbon. 

“You just keep going, don’t you, Jack?” you cup his face in your hands, and it’s now that he adopts a sheepish expression, turning his eyes away to tilt his neck and kiss your stomach once more.

“Until you ask me to stop, darlin’.” He lends two more kisses, one to each breast, and then gathers the straps of your nightgown from the pooling of fabric underneath your chest, tenderly helping your arms through the holes. You admire him quietly as you sit up to ease the gesture, letting his fingers guide the intricate lace edges back to your shoulders. He pats the cotton down to smooth it, your thumb stroking over his left eyebrow. His hands pry under you to wrap his arms around your middle, his cheek resting over your belly as you scratch through his dark hair. 

“I think you’re softer than you realize,” you whisper, twirling a lock around your finger and he peeks up, the apples of his cheeks rising in a twinkling smile.

“I can shoot a gun a million times but I sure don’t like it more than kissin’ you,” Jack coos, tickling up your sides and swatting away your protesting hands until you make an involuntary squeak and his eyes widen, hurriedly covering your mouth with his own. You titter over his smooth lips, his weight pinning you as he opens his mouth, taking more. “I’d think I’d have sold my soul to the devil to end up here with you if I didn’t know any better.”

You let the next bubbling ripple of affection take over you when he whispers that with his gleaming eyes, and you kiss him three more times, each slower than the last.

He rests there for some time, indulging in the carding of your fingers over his scalp, and he ensures you’ve drifted off before he rises in search of a cloth. He finds a green one folded by your petticoat, his fingers briefly dragging across its white lace before he dips the cloth in the small dish of water left beside it. He crawls back up beside you, lazily yet with careful attention guiding it under your slip and over your breasts, relieving you of the stickiness. You stir but don’t wake— his touch is too light, yet still unlike a feather— he cleans you off, sets the cloth back in its spot, and resumes his position, nestled up next to you.

-

Sneaking into Jack’s room— or him into yours— becomes a habitual routine after the goodnight click of Mrs. Adler’s door, though you often find yourself with an early visitor with eyes too bright and a needy little grin on his face. It follows his giddy lips on your neck hours before in scarce moments of isolation from other guests, or after he’s stared too long across the bar, and to ease the tension, he’ll ride to take Sylvie to stretch her legs, a sympathetic look on his face at the door knowing you can’t join.

And he wears you out. Nightly. A simmering threat to your timeliness in the morning that you can’t let go of. A single time, he’d taken the sheets with him in a rapid roll onto the floor as Mrs. Adler knocked and knocked outside, calling for you to rise, until she barged in and the thump had to be blamed on yourself, standing in your disheveled chemise. Her shifty eyes become less of a fear in your head and more of a laughing stock, though not as much as Jack was in his stupid course of action to thump on the floor behind the side of the mattress, taking the blankets, too.

His dignity is not lost, though, each time you press on him about it— his grip tightens over your thighs as you straddle his lap, feeling the impression of his leather settling into your skin.

A rare clump of clouds settles over town the following week, lingering long enough to darken this evening further and forcing an early lighting of the lamps inside, a cozy glow over the hectic and crazed state of the bar.

“Let’s not slack, dearie,” Mrs. Adler sings in her urgently high-pitched voice as you handle the treacherous beast of the card game hours, handling too many requests for the strongest liquor from the cabinet, working your wrists as you open new bottles and impatient sighs crumble out of overworked throats.

Jack glances at her, a rapid flick of his angry eyes as he sets his glass of whiskey down, furrowing his brows in obvious disagreement with her words.

“She’s doin’ fine,” you hear him grumble, and you don’t have it in you to turn and face him to offer your surely-silencing glare, and without it he continues, “think we could offer a little patience.”

Chest fluttering, you shut your eyes with a bothersome huff, setting your hands flat over the counter as you wait for Mrs. Adler’s response, and the other men waiting at the dining table chat over things well beyond you, another fleeting mention of the Statesmen— but Jack remains silent along with her, and you can already picture the way he must be maintaining a hard stare at the old woman to leave her increasingly frazzled.

“My girl does this every day,” she states primly, blocking his view of your back with her own body after an uncoordinated waddle, “you keep out of it.”

Jack scoffs, soft but pointed, the wood groaning under the slide of his glass as he moves it aside, “If you cared to notice, ma’am—”

Spinning on your boot, away from the assortment of glasses set over the counter in their stage of finishing touches, you raise a hand, his first name almost slipping out until you choke on the unspoken word, widened eyes earning a mirrored expression from Jack, “It’s alright, Mr. Daniels,” you soothe, and his smirk is much too telling in his amusement of your spluttering, that you’d called him the old, proper name.

Mrs. Adler huffs a victorious breath as she checks over the full and heavy tray, granting approval while you giggle at Jack’s silly face made behind her back, followed by a wink of his eye. 

He closes his eyes as Mrs. Adler finally limps off into her study— what she achieves in there he does not know— and watches you with affection and a warming dose of admiration in his stomach as you handle the tray, setting down shining crystal glasses on the table, a soft smile on your face as the youngest card player offers his thanks. They rarely ever do.

“You look real nice,” he drawls as you round the counter, his elbows sliding along the surface as he leans in, all sparkling eyes and teeth with his wide grin as he follows your steps. “I think I’d like to get my hands on—”

His words fall away to a whisper as you shake your head in feigned annoyance, the laughter stealing your breath as you lean opposite him, taking in the sly look on his face and the pull of his shirt across his shoulders. His hand reaches for yours, tentatively, and you’re powerless against the sweet touch on your fingers as he traces them out, pulling your palm into a bed of his two hands. 

You watch as his eyes set on the random patterns he draws, eyelashes curling against his face every time he blinks, your conscious mind soon oblivious to your placement in relation to the large group at the dining table— but it doesn’t matter. They’re as absorbed in their gambling as you are in his focused touch and feel, your heart an obnoxious flutter when he smiles up at you, a perfect mix of kind and sultry darkness. 

“I’d like to get my hands on you,” he murmurs, those repeated words spoken lower this time and with a twinkle, raising the back of your hand to his lips. A gentle press, your eyes locked together in a soft gaze to match, and he gives you back your hand as the spell of slowed-time is broken by a shocking round of cheering from the group behind you both.

With a subdued grin, you ease yourself away from the magnetic pull of your lips to his, “You’ve always got your hands on me.”

“And in,” he huffs, stifling a snicker at the fifth roll of your eyes today, watching the ends of your tied apron’s ribbon swing around over the length of your skirt. 

“You’d better find something to do in the meantime, or I’ll be asking Mrs. Adler to send you off herself.”

Jack shudders in a fake paddy of fear, the miniscule shakes of his body diminishing the sooner he realizes the severity of your words, and he merely chuckles. “Why’d you want to get rid of me?”

The pleading pull of his face and the wide and warm eyes he gives are somehow not enough to stop you from gesturing your head towards the pile of dirty dishes from dinner, waiting beside the basin. “You’re distracting.”

“Sweetpea, I’m ‘fraid that’s what you’ve got yourself caught up in,” Jack rests his chin in his palm, eyeing the clearing weather outside, “if you insist on woundin’ me, I think I’ve got a horse who needs to go for a ride, and a little lady who’ll have to join us next time…”

“I’ll see you later, Jack,” you whisper, rounding the edge of his ear with your fingers, easing his hair back into place and he adopts a light blush— softer things always more efficient in pausing his heartbeat than harsher things— and he grabs his hat left to the side of him, placing it over his head and bidding you a caring goodbye, “Miss me, darlin’.”

-

Once the room has cleared at last, leaving you in that familiar spot with soapy hands, sore feet, and a wandering mind, you arrange the wet dishes to dry, stacking each on top of the other with meticulous attention. You dry your hands on the fabric of your apron, rough cotton soaking up the water, your back leaning into the hard edge of the bar behind you. The strain in your neck grows sharper as you push your head back, groaning, willing away the next few hours until you can put your feet to rest upon Jack’s lap. 

And at the thought of him, a whistle from the exterior shoots your stream of mental pictures down as your head whips to look out the window, and there he is— Jack, thighs spread wide over Sylvie’s back as he urges her to stop, his eyes straining to find you through the window. Stomach twisting, you make a speedy trip to the stash of berries hidden away, and you pull a handful of them into your apron’s pocket before sparing the parlour a thorough peek and slipping out the front door.

It’s not loud enough for you to make out, but it must be Jack’s voice in a baby soft tone as he tells Sylvie what sounds like “there she is,” with a pat between her perky ears and a smile towards you. 

“Hello,” you grin, stepping to the edge of the porch where you meet the two of them, shamelessly devouring the way he sits tall upon her in the dying sunlight clear of clouds, dark clothes, dark hair, dark eyes, a bandana hugging his neck under his glistening throat. “Back so soon?”

“It was her idea,” Jack pokes, leaning back in the saddle as Sylvie adjusts her hooves into place over the dust and sparse blades of wheatgrass. “Suppose I had to lead her here, though…”

With a hand gliding along her wide neck, you watch his smile only grow in size as he watches you gather the berries from your pocket and throw a quizzical look his way, to which he nods enthusiastically, leaning forward again to watch and guide.

You call her name softly, approaching her from a better angle, and she makes an odd pattern with the movement of her head before she digs into your offered palm of treats, her wide mouth a great tickle on your skin that you try not to flinch at.

“Nice girls,” Jack whispers, swiping his hand over Sylvie’s shoulder, then turning his attention to you. “No more flak from the lady, I’m hopin’?”

“No, haven’t seen her since,” you giggle, “you know, Jack, that was kind what you did, but I am still fine.” 

Sylvie chomps down the rest of your stash of berries, licking the leftover juices off your palm as you gasp, retracting your arm, and Jack extends his hand far across to you in a warm beckoning. You give him the dry one and he laughs when he notices, “I ain’t afraid of no horse’s mouth,” steering you around to where he’s sat on the saddle.

“You’re not even afraid of Mrs. Adler,” you say bluntly, resting your laced hands over the meat of his thigh and then your chin on top, and Jack stares down at your widened eyes, his chest stuttering with a slightly choked breath.

“I came here to see you, darlin’, to tell you somethin’.” Running his thumb over your hand, he starts to lean his body down, your own straightening for his lips to meet your ear in a warm breath, sending ice down your spine and a melting heat between your thighs.

He waits for your prompt, his radiating need causing your posture to wither as you slant up and into him, “What is it?”

Whatever upward curve your lips adopted seconds before falls away as your eyes close, that heat between your thighs now wetter, your grip on his leg tight enough to pinch.

“I’m gonna take you out again tonight, gonna lay you in the grass and fuck you dumb, listenin’ to you whine loud as you can.”

He’s utterly pleased with the visible, hitching breath you can no longer take in, your chest pausing in its stunted passing, and he straightens up his back again to look down at you with his face shadowed under his hat. “Ain’t that somethin’ old girl, the little lady is speechless…” Jack coos to the horse and she puffs, followed by another pat of her hoof on the ground, and his grin is a mix of genuine and egotistical happiness.

“Jack,” you purr, all bothered and wobbly-knees, a helpless look in your eye as you tug the looped rope, and he prepares to ride back off. He doesn’t partake in your pleading this time, instead giving a squeeze of his legs over Sylvie’s back.

“Same place, darlin’,” he calls, “I expect you.” 

A backward glance and a tip of his hat as courtesy— or to make up for his foolish teasing— and his figure dies off in the gunpowder dust behind him and his girl, his jacket the same one you’d worn your first time away. 

-

It’s cool and dark the next time you step out onto the porch, carefully shutting the door behind you, locking it with your key. You rub your hands over the sides of your arms as you creep over the wood, peeking past the pillars before descending the three short steps. Same place, he’d said, so you set off in the direction of the stables, bathed in the soft light of the spaced lamp posts, the same exhilarating rush as the first time bubbling head to toe. 

“Ever heard of a sweet little maid ‘round here?” Jack’s happy rumbling sounds just behind you, turning into laughter at the yelp you let out, its sound squeaky and fearful until he catches you by the waist, pulling your back into his chest to sway your body around aimlessly. “Works for a Mrs. Adler, prettiest face you ever saw…”

An endeared giggle falls out of you, mouth covered immediately by your hand when he comes to place his chin on your shoulder, his fingers pressing tightly to your middle. His clothing feels rough by your neck, unlike anything else you’ve felt him wearing against you, but his cheek is soft and freshly shaven, his lips hungrily kissing behind your ear.

“Oh, I’m not so sure I have…” you murmur, allowing yourself to sink backward into his promising support, and his hum is sweet into your skin when you say so, arms squeezing you just enough for your feet to lift from the ground. 

“She’s got angel eyes,” he whispers, a finger coming to trail down your cheek as he lets you back down, until his hand cups your chin, turning your head sideways to capture your lips in a deep, swelling kiss. Your own hand rises to mirror his gesture, knees suddenly like water with their wobbly weakness, and the ball of your foot scrapes over the dust as he tugs you even closer, tasting your lips. 

“That might ring a bell,” you smile when you finally part, stroking your thumb over his jaw. He likes the way it feels, tilting himself further into your light grip of his face. The world surrounding you will never be the same level of interest when he stands before you— a daydream of an outing only seems as sweet if he’s there. A guidance, of sorts, a protector.

Roaming your eyes over him, a surprised gasp follows that welcoming kiss when you notice his top half covered in a navy blue poncho, its edges finished with white tassels and the wool adorned with white lines making intricate patterns over the length and width of it.

“Where have you been hiding this from me?” you simper, picking up the edge of it to feel the slightly scratchy material. He grins, weight shifting to one foot with a cocked hip, hands resting at the base of his suspenders underneath.

“Hidin’ it?”

“You’ve always got that jacket on,” you murmur, leaning upward, grabbing his face in an internal fit of fondness at seeing him covered in the blanket-like garment, giving him a harsher kiss that surprises him enough to nearly stumble backwards. He gains his balance, beaming against your mouth as he steadies the both of you, the world returning.

“You sure keep me on my toes, little lady,” he breathes, brows raised in bashfulness that you forget he has stored in that cocky brain. “Don’t you stop.”

Humming, your hand falling to rest on his chest as you recall more private contexts to his last words, you notice he wears a cross-body leather satchel underneath the poncho. “What have you got in there?”

“I can’t be full of surprises if you wanna make me spill ‘em all,” he teases, pushing his nose into yours, “come on, just you n’ me tonight.”

With your fingers laced together, Jack leads you through the familiar field to an unfamiliar spot at the top of a climbing hill, large rocks worsening the upward trek under the minimal light.

His hands find the backs of your thighs as he helps you over the last hump and your frustrated huff gets lost in your throat when you realize his hands are helping you up under your skirt instead of over.

“Jack,” you guffaw, using your biceps to push up and over the hard surface and he plays dumb behind you, a deep chortling following as you roll over to the flat space of dry grass above it. Looking ahead you notice a small gathering of wood placed in a circle around the center of the clearing in the trees while Jack rolls up next to you, much more gracefully with what must be years of practice.

He shares a sideways glance with you, “What?” 

His pouty lips drag downward in his falsely innocent question, your eyes rolling without annoyance but with affection. He grabs your hand again, tugging you near the woodpile and he reaches into the satchel, revealing a box of matches in his palm.

“Is this what you did earlier?” you ask, a bewildered softness easing over your shoulders, and he nods with a grin.

“Sylvie n’ I came here to get it ready.”

Sliding the box open, he strikes the match against the rough side of the cover sleeve and the spark ignites a smoking, small flame that he holds to a coil of waxed thread under the arranged sticks and wood. It catches on and flourishes upward, sprinkling tiny sparks that rise then fall by Jack as he recoils, standing back up to his feet.

“How’s that?” he looks at you, pulling you into his warm side, your fingers instinctively wrapping around a tassel. You raise your other hand to hover over the fire, its heat so pleasant and lively on your skin and you look back at him with the same fondness as always for his generous gifts, that might not even be considered a gift to anyone else but you.

“Thank you, Jack.” On your tiptoes, you place a kiss on his cheek filled with all the words you can’t think to say— it’s only a campfire, and to you, it holds all his care, burning there.

“There’s more,” he whispers, and his fingers rise to touch where your lips had just been, then he looks to them and you, smiling. “Said you wished you could run,” he starts, pointing to an old, battered tin can sitting atop a tree stump several feet away, “reckon there’s a few things you’ll need to learn first.”

From underneath the wool, he pulls out one of his revolvers and it shines in the flickering fire, freshly polished. He extends his hand, your own hesitantly touching it’s handle, cupping the barrel with the other as you slowly hold it on your own.

“Jack, I really don’t know about—”

“Careful,” he coos, circling back to stand behind you and placing his hands on your hips, he helps you adjust your grip with the beginning of his lesson whispered into your ear, his hands gentle as they cover yours. “Two hands.”

“I’m not sure I’m the gun slinging type,” you whisper nervously, your palms becoming clammy just handling the weapon, and you remember when its silver glint was pointed at Mr Porter, under its power.

“Always assume a gun’s loaded,” he continues, aiding you in extending your arms out, the aim at the can improving as you go. “Feet apart.”

With the toe of his boot on the inside of your ankle, he pushes your feet further apart until shoulder-width, and your shoe slides over the dry grass as you suck in a deep breath at the physical order. 

“Hold it tighter,” he whispers next, ensuring your fingers are hugging the grip tightly, your other hand cupping the trigger guard firmly. “Don’t leave your finger on the trigger unless you’re aimed and ready.” 

Jack is rasping now, a growing hardness on your ass from watching you handle his own weapon with determination and he pinches your hips, inciting a gasp as you try to keep your arms steady.

“The cylinder's full,” he adds, “you hit the can and I’ll make good on my promise.”

With the shot of arousal that comes after his words and the reminder of his promise to fuck you hard over the grass, it’s too easy to convince yourself that you’ll miss every shot.

“Won’t somebody hear it?” you question, turning your head as far as you can and he hums thoughtfully, pinching you softer.

“It’s luck if you hear a gunshot from a distance,” Jack soothes. And it hits you, that when Mr. Porter and Mr. Bryant started shooting blindly in the house, that those were the closest bullets had ever been to you— and here, you hold them in your palms.

“Go on, sugar, knock it over and I’ll fuck you right by this fire.”

A whine escapes you before you can aim it again, the grip even sweatier than before, the fire merely a glint now as you focus on the target tin.

Locking your grip around the handle, your pointers steadying the direction, you shut one eye, then the other to test the placement, and you pull back the hammer with a stretch of your thumb.

“I’m scared,” you breathe as your arms remain pointed forward, and Jack nods, applying pressure to your shoulders with his palms.

“I’ll keep you steady. S’okay if you miss.” Jack rubs some of the tension away, your arms growing tired from holding them up as you make one last adjustment. The jolt when you pull the trigger is more powerful than you’d expected, and Jack keeps you still as your body reacts to the sharp sound and the full shock of it. The bullet only just skims the side of the can, a tinkling sound following the jarring shot from the barrel.

“Fuck,” Jack breathes, his eyes wide and his smile too, when he looks from your near-shot to your frightened face turning into confidence. He throws his hat to the side, smoothing his hand through his hair before bending slightly behind you, “that was fuckin’ close, darlin’. Go again.”

His tone is pure excitement as you shake off the last lingering threads of apprehension, and you aim again, not a one inch difference from your first shot, pulling the hammer down a second time.

You place your pointer over the solid trigger and Jack’s breath hitches as he waits and watches intently, his hands still supporting your shoulders. This time, when your upper body jostles back from the force, the shot is farther off but still close, hitting the bark where a small explosion of wood chips scatter to the grass and you startle at the cracking noise, casting a worried look to Jack.

“Keep tryin’,” he soothes, cuddling his cheek to the side of your neck as he cozies up, and you’re certain it’s not the best condition for a shooting lesson, the middle of your thighs gathering slick and your palms more nervous sweat. With a deep breath, you stretch your arms out once more, muscles pulling up tight as you adjust your feet, your eyesight on the tin can reflecting the flames of the little campfire.

“That’s it,” Jack whispers as you touch your finger to the hammer, “focus.”

Scoffing, you settle your aim, determined to ignore the way he’s still pressing up against you.

“You’re doin’ great,” his voice scratches just before you pull against the trigger’s resistance and the bullet releases, harder it feels like, and pierces the tin with an incredibly loud metallic pang, sending it fast off the stump. Although you’re not too far from it, you don’t trust it yet; looking back down at the weapon in your hand and then to him, his smile already turns smug. It’s a surprise to hit it at the same time that it’s not— luck or natural talent, you don’t think you’ll ever find out. He shakes his head with pride dripping all over, crushing you into his side with a tense squeeze of his arm, your neck fitting in the bend of his elbow.

“That’s too quick,” you breathe in modesty that Jack tells you to shush away, as your disbelieving eyes fall back on the tree stump, tin can-less. “I wasn’t far away enough.”

“Come on, darlin’.” He disembarks, jogs to the stump, picks up the can behind it. A hole burns through the center on both sides. “Still shot it on the third try.”

When he arrives at your feet again, you peer down at the silver gun in your hold. Struggling to accept your own accuracy, you slowly hand it back to him.

“It'll be harder next time,” he purrs, sliding it back into its holster pocket, “but I think you’ll make the most charmin’ gunfighter in the whole damn world.”

“That’s your title,” you smile, brushing the dark hair from his forehead, curling your fist into the wool draped over him. “And the most handsome, too.”

Jack’s chest puffs out against yours as he preens at your softly-spoken compliment, the tone of his hum pitched in a questioning way to urge you on to continue.

“I’d rather like to learn more about that lasso,” you say instead, fingering where it’s attached to his hip, and he looks at you through his eyelashes, closing his hand around the one fisted in his poncho.

“Hell, if I taught you the ropes I doubt you’d let me out of your room for a whole week, darlin’. We’d better work up to that…”

“Oh well,” you tease, perching yourself up to level your lips with his ear, “you’re too soft on me to be my teacher anyway.”

“Too soft?” He raises his brows, eager to know, causing you to step back as he advances on you.

“Too easy. I ought to shoot that can three more times from ten more feet away just to be sure I’ve learned.”

Jack lays the thick blanket next to the crackling fire after pulling it out of the satchel, motioning for you to come.

“Sugar, I’ll show you rough,” he grumbles, dragging you down to the blanket with him, your chest thumping square on his when you land, a stunted breath into his mouth. His promise, listenin’ to you whine as loud as you can, returns to you now as he holds the back of your neck and opens his lips to brush yours, nipping your lower lip to earn the first wince.

“Don’t disappoint me,” you taunt, landing yourself rolled over and pinned under his heavy weight as he lifts the poncho from his head and drapes it over your bodies, hidden and warm together as you share the fiery heat of yourselves and the physical fire beside you.

“I’d hate nothin’ more than to disappoint you.” He keeps his eyes trained on your face as his fingers creep up your leg, a soft ghosting until he reaches the stark wetness compared to your dry skin everywhere but your core and he’s already groaning at just the sensation of your slick covering his fingers. “Think I could fill you right now, hm? Soakin’ me so fast…”

“I need you to fuck me as hard as you can,” you demand, your head tipping back against the ground underneath the blanket, heat accumulating in your own makeshift tent of the dark poncho. His fingers twitch over your clit as he watches your face twist in effort to get your last coherent thoughts out, “This is where I can cry.”

“Jesus,” his head falls into your shoulder and he rubs his cock on your thigh, covered by his trousers. He’s hard and thick, just as he was watching you shoot his gun, and he lifts your skirt higher, bunching the fabric at your waist. “You always get what you ask for from me.”

Blindly searching with your fingers, you find the buttons of his trousers and pull them open, carefully taking his cock out, the tip leaking generously onto your skin. You spread it for him though it runs out quickly, but your own burning arousal is enough for the two of you as he settles himself closer, his hair flopping out of place. His moustache brushes against your temple when he spreads your legs wider, a soothing slide of your skin over the blanket before you feel his cock running through your slick folds, and it’s enough to start whining. Even the little sounds you let out at the house are suppressed and quietened— here, there is no one but the two of you.

“Give it all to me, baby doll,” he rasps over your throat as he positions himself and pushes past your entrance, slowly stretching you open on his thick cock and your thighs fall open wider, too, your breath heavy and low for him to bask in. “Ain’t that sweet…”

Jack’s eyes carry the glint of the fire beside your bodies as he stays there for some moments, letting you squirm all you need before he flattens you to the ground with his chest, cooing encouraging gentleness to contrast with the untamed way he’s going to fuck you here, on the blanket, again. His cock pushes deeper with the added mass, your whimper not enough when he finally thrusts and hits his hips to your wide-spread thighs and works the wetness of you all over his cock.

“Ja— Jack—” you whine, and his hot hand soon comes to glide over the innermost part of your thigh, rubbing it firmly as if he’s about to—

He spanks your thigh and earns the high-pitch moan he’s been working for all along, drawing himself back to return with a harsh thrust as he keeps his hand on the stinging sensation, groaning out his nose.

“Fu-uuck, there we go, that’s what I wanted,” he grunts through stunted breaths as he sets a new, punishing pace, sliding with ease in and out, hitting deep inside to brush against that satisfying spot that when he slaps the same part of your leg, the pleasure from both makes you cry louder, moan louder.

He draws the wool tighter around his back as he lowers his lips to your mouth, emitting an animalistic groan over your face when you clench around his cock and pull him in closer for another open-mouthed kiss, true and full.

“Oh, god,” you groan, his hand caressing the underside of your thigh, until he draws it up to push your knee on your chest, fitting his hand in the bend of your leg.

“Gimme more, sugar,” he demands, landing a sharp swat to the side of your ass lifted off the ground that gives him your neediest, filthiest sound yet as you fist his hair, taking his brutal pace. 

“Jack, fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Fuck,” he curses back harder, “I’m gonna steal you every god damn night for this.” Jack hisses through bared teeth on your collarbone, keening when you raise your hips to meet his. The fire rises beside you at the same time a wave of building pressure in your abdomen knocks through your lower half, and you place your hands on his face, sliding them up to meet his hair.

A shaky breath puffs out of you, the sting of his spankings spreading over your leg as you crane your neck and cry out while he buries himself and grinds against your clit, “You just get wetter n’ wetter for me,” he remarks hoarsely, “just can’t help but need me, hm?”

“I... Yes,” you sigh into his heated neck, your limbs softening in their hold of him as he fucks you hard over the blanket, his grip deathly on the side of your thigh.

“I want to hear it, darlin’, say it to me,” he scrapes, his voice at the bottom of his register, and when the words get stuck in your mind and jumbled out of order from the fullness of your core, he draws himself out and rolls you onto your stomach. Mindlessly, empty, you whine with an equal hoarseness to his own, the end of it pushed out prematurely when he flattens his chest over your back, lining his cock back up with your soaking entrance.

“I’ll pull every last pretty sound you got left in you if I have to.” 

The words are a terrible blow to your senses, sparking a rapid increase in the sound of rushing blood in your ears as he pushes your thigh up to the side and presses down on it with his palm.

“Please…” you breathe, “I’m so close— fuck me, please fuck me again—”

Shutting your eyes, hoping to feel him push himself back inside you, you instead are met with a final, cracking swat on your leg that sends you wailing as Jack waits for you to scream it, “Tell me, sugar!”

“I need you, Jack— I need you!” 

It doesn’t sound like your own voice. Never has it been clouded by so much desire and such a sinful edge to your witless begging, but it’s enough for him. A push forward, and he fills you; his own sounds have grown needier too, reaching far out. He plants a hand by your face and you grab onto his wrist as he shoves his cock repeatedly deeper and at this angle, you could consider the punishing stretch of him painful, but it’s everything you need, causing you to whine a step higher every time his hips hit your ass.

“You’re all I fuckin’ think about, darlin’,” Jack mouths at your earlobe, your bodies turning slick under the poncho and your clothes, “here you are, shootin’ my gun n’ lettin’ me fuck your tight little pussy, beggin’ for me— gonna make me fuckin’ cum.”

Your jaw drops and an involuntary squeal stumbles from your hanging lip, Jack snarling behind you as he plunges again, hooking his hands under your shoulders and splaying his fingers wide over the tops of them.

It’s a taut stretch of your chest when he pulls on you like that, the soft curl of his hair tickling your neck as he nestles his face to yours and muffles his grunts and groans. You pull up tighter around him, squeezing his cock, nearly driving him to collapse over your back when he feels it happen and what is easily his hardest, neediest and wrecked groan tears out and spreads over your limbs with the rumbling breath he takes after.

“Jaaack,” you whisper, his movements heavily weighing on you, your body resting just at the precipice of something overwhelming, “So… full..”

“I’m gonna fuck my cum into that sweet cunt.” Jack fists the blanket with his supporting hand and the next time he rams his hips forward, a full-bodied scream fills the air, and once more, you squeeze him tighter as you cum hard around his cock, your nails starting to dig into his wrist as he fucks you through it. 

“Baby doll, you’re too fuckin’ good to me— squeeze me so fuckin’ tight when you cum, keep it comin’—”

“Oh god, oh god, oh god— fuck!”  You can’t stop gushing around him as his thrusts lose rhythm, as he focuses more on the sounds you’re making and the grip you have on his cock and it just won’t end, tears beginning to form in your eyes while the movements never cease.

“That is just heavenly,” he says with a strained laugh, “shit, you really did need me, huh? You want my cum inside you too? Want to be spoiled?”

“Yes!” you cry, miraculously raising your ass just a little against his cock as the orgasm finally calms, a growl and a bite on your shoulder at your ceaseless will to beg.

“Take it.” One final, gorgeous moan from his throat and he buries himself, a wet warmth painting your walls, his chest deflating as he settles around your back and rubs your thigh in a soft contrast to what was his stinging swats minutes before. He blows and pants to recuperate, and as he brings himself out, you feel the warmth spreading and dripping down to your clit. For a moment, you share the breaths you’re both trying to catch, but the sensation of his cum sliding over your skin is yet another obstacle to returning to a manageable state of being.

“This…” he whispers, taking his hand back, leaning on his other elbow to support himself as he slides his fingers under your skirt to lead them to your swollen cunt, “is my favourite, darlin’.” He spreads his cum over your folds, milky liquid sliding wherever he traces, and you push back on your knees to raise yourself for him while he guides it back inside you, your throat tired but still whimpering as he pushes his fingers in.

“Keep me inside,” he murmurs on your temple, urging you to lay back down over the plushy blanket, and as you relax, mussed and twinkling by the fire, he drapes the poncho over your body, tucking the fabric under your sides. He strokes your cheek with the dry hand, lifting your head to his lap as he carefully sits by you, your eyes delicately fluttering closed. 

“Did I hurt you?” He asks, and without opening your eyes, you shake your head no. Jack makes a purring sound, considering the moans his actions pulled out of you, and he begins to stroke your face some more. “Hope I never do,” he adds softly, studying your peaceful expression under the firelight and stars, “you’re soft.”

The last two words make you blink and smile up at him, finally granting him a peek which he returns with curved lips, and you know that “soft” doesn’t mean “weak” when he says it.

“I got an idea of where to take you next, if you think you can handle it...”

-

tags for yeehonk idiot:

@filthybookworm @frannyzooey​ @javier-pena​ @javierpcna​ @astroboots​ @userdindja @pedros-mustache​ @princessxkenobi​ @trashcora​ @writerdee1701​ @thelemongeneration​ @libraryofrecs​ @fan-of-encouragement​ @herb-welch​ @writeforfandoms​ @queenofthecloudss​ @leannawithacapitala​ @the-feckless-wonder​ @kesskirata​ @fuck-goes-on​ @lawfulgranola​@apascalrascal @prismaticpizza​ @xemmaloveskillianx​ @littlemissoblivious​ @quica-quica-quica @spideysimpossiblegirl​ @little-big-mac2​ @recklesswit​ ​@frankie-catfish-morales

let me know whether you’d like to be added or removed! 

[asset35-maya]

Another ask if you feel like it, because I love the way you did the last.

Gavin helping Nines through either a Bad Texture Day, or a meltdown because one of his routines got disrupted.

Autistic and Human Au again please

<3 <3

Another bright morning. Another sunny day. Another painful struggle for Gavin Reed to drag himself out of bed. Luckily he knew he could always count on a warm breakfast waiting for him in the kitchen… along with a gentle kiss on the left cheek.

The very thought ought to make him smile, but this morning, he had a headache. A rather nasty one. Well actually, it was a hangover. And his own fault for thinking he could get away with downing that much red wine.

His new fiancé had warned him, but Gavin couldn’t be stopped from celebrating. Not after finally bucking up the courage to get down on one knee and having the proposal go spectacularly well.

Gavin had carefully researched how best to balance the element of surprise with giving Nines enough time to internalize and deliberate the request. He didn’t at all doubt Nines’ commitment to their relationship or willingness to marry him... but he knew that spur of the moment decision-making didn’t always blend well with autistic thought processes.

After asking around in online help forums and talking to their close friends, Gavin had figured it out. The proposal ended up being simple and domestic, yet a 100% charming.

Since Nines loved to cook and Gavin always brought home the groceries, he decided to create a long trail of clues using notes tacked to different items on different days. It was a slow build but when Nines finally retrieved the ring from within the box of Cheerios, the deal was a good as sealed.

They kissed over the brown paper bags and Nines whipped up a splendid meal with all the fresh ingredients. Gavin had brought home lamb shanks and the fanciest figs he could find from the Mediterranean aisle. He also broke out his birthday wine that he’d been saving for a special occasion.

Life wasn’t perfect for the two of them, but in that moment it sure felt like it.

Still blissed out despite the throbbing in his head, Gavin stumbled into the kitchen. He yawned as he noticed the mugs of tea steaming on the countertop. Nah, he’d need something way stronger to ward off his pounding headache.

Unthinkingly, he sidestepped Nines and flipped open a cupboard door. He reached for the jar of instant coffee and let the door slam shut. The second Nines flinched, Gavin’s actions caught up with him.

“Sorry babe, I’ll get out of your way.”

Nines nodded stiffly and turned his attention back to the bacon in his frying pan.

Gavin sheepishly poured hot water from the kettle into the spare mug. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but he couldn’t avoid the spoon tinkling as he stirred the coffee powder into the water.

Nines suddenly dropped his spatula and marched towards the side counter. He grabbed one of the mugs and dumped the tea down the sink. In the few seconds his back was turned, a burning smell came from the stove. Nines scrambled to turn it off and in his haste, dropped the beloved cat-shaped mug. It cracked in two, splitting diagonally across the cute little face.

Gavin knew what was going to happen before it did. A cruel reminder that despite the glorious night they’d shared, their life was indeed far from perfect.

Nines’ breathing turned shallow. He sunk to the floor, fighting the sobs that threatened to break free. He kept his eyes fixed on the broken fragments. A few moments passed, and then Nines lost all composure.

He cried like he’d lost everything. As if the roof had caved in… as if the sun would never shine again… as if the world had ended. Maybe none of that was even remotely true, but it sure felt like it.

Gavin knew. Gavin understood. And it hurt. Even if he knew it would pass, even if he knew Nines would eventually be okay. It hurt to see his lover in so much distress, especially if he was the cause, however inadvertently.

Silently, Gavin sat down on the floor in the same spot at the edge of the kitchen. He made no attempt to approach or coax or calm Nines. He just sat and watched him go through it for a moment.

“I- I- I’m s-s-sorry… Ga-Gav-in…”

“Shhh… don’t be. Don’t be sorry, Nines.”

“I ruined… I ruined breakfast. Like I ruin… everything.”

“Mmm… not everything. Breakfast yes, and that’s my fault, but not everything.”

“I ruined that mug forever.”

Nines pointed at the ceramic pieces on the ground. Tears streamed steadily down his face and his chest shook with the effort of trying to talk and breathe though it all. Gavin’s throat clenched with guilt. His own eyes felt rather warm and wet, but he blinked rapidly to clear them. It wasn’t about him. He now had to focus and help Nines move out of his current headspace. 

“Well babe, this mug is never going to be the same, that’s for sure… buuuut we can use it for something else, right? You’re always gushing about upcycling! Could we maybe glue the pieces together? Turn it into a pot for one of your plants? A cat with leaves growing out of its head sounds neat.”

Nines sniffed.

“A cat with a huge crack in its face.”

“Or… a scar on its nose. Just like me.”

Nines pointed to the other mug on the counter.

“What about that one?”

“We could stick plants in that one too.”

“But it’s not broken.”

“Yeah it’s perfect. Just like you. And nothing’s ever gonna split you and me up, so who the phck are we to keep these mugs apart? Both of them are going in the garden. You just tell me which herbs you want in them later, okay?”

Nines wiped his face with the back of his hand. His breathing was steadier. Gavin could see that providing a distraction had worked and Nines could now slowly collect himself. The only trouble with using rational paths like this one was the risk of making Nines feel silly.

“I’m a mess. I couldn’t let things be… normal… for like 24 hours. You went through all that trouble to propose and I just had a meltdown over a fucking mug. I don’t know why you even want to marry me.”

“Nines... There’s no such thing as normal. We both know that. So let’s not strive for the impossible, okay? Phck normal.”

Nines looked up and met his eye. That was a very promising sign. Gavin decided to push a little further with humor. If it worked, they were in the clear. If not, he’d try something else. Whatever the outcome, he wouldn’t give up. Never. Not when it came to Nines.

“And if you really need a list of reasons why I wanna marry you, just go back and read all the little grocery notes. Come on! I didn’t pour my heart out for the love of broccoli and canned beans.”

The corner of Nines’ lip twitched. He closed his eyes and leaned his head wearily against the cabinets. Exhausted. He held out a hand.

Gavin was beside him in a flash, gently placing his opposite hand into the outstretched palm and squeezing as much reassurance as he could into it. Nines reciprocated weakly and their matching rings clicked against each other.

A moment passed with Gavin resting on his haunches. Then Nines made a valiant attempt to stand. It wasn’t very successful... Patient as ever, Gavin waited until his hand was dropped.

He pressed a soft kiss to Nines’ forehead before wrapping one arm around his back and slipping the other beneath his knees. With practiced ease and balance, Gavin stood up… stepped over the broken halves of the mug… and carried Nines into the living room.

A plan had already formed in his mind.

He would give Nines his tea.

They would watch some Sunday morning cartoons.

They would get some hash browns and McGriddles delivered home (because it was still early enough).

Gavin would throw out the burnt bacon and carefully glue the broken cat mug back together.

Nines would pick out the herb cuttings to plant into the two matching mugs, though Gavin had a pretty good hunch it would be rosemary and thyme.

As difficult as it was, life would go on... and they would buy new mugs. Maybe a bigger set... because accidents happened and there was no need to dwell on them for too long.

There would be more bright and sunny mornings to spend together.

They would get married someday.

And maybe things would be okay. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Who knew. Who cared.

Their life wasn’t perfect… but it definitely was beautiful.

//

@rjhpandapaws

[untilthenextencore]

Kashmir Pt.1

As usual forever editing~.

Enjoy~!

...

Wandering blithely through his castle Robert sighed. It was now just past teatime & Lord Kidderminster had exhausted just about every form of entertainment that he could think to occupy himself, his mind or his time with. His affairs were all but done for the day and yet the day itself was far from done. And since he had decided to extend his morning ride earlier that day, even that beloved pasttime was off the table for the time being.

He had spent the day with his old friend Jimmy, or as he was known in the public sphere Lord Heston of Middlesex. Yet the mercurial older gentleman was not much in the mood for sunny pleasantries - when was he ever~?! - certainly not after he & Robert took their conversation into the library where it was then cut short by the fellow Count picking up a hefty, rather ancient looking tome off of one shelf & becoming quickly invested. When Robert jokingly asked if Jimmy would like to be left alone with his "new precious little thing" he was surprised - only initially - to find that the answer was a yes. And so he left "Old Blackbeard" to his own ever mysterious devices.

Suffice to say that Lord Heston's company left a lot to be desired that day...

Gazing out his window for what felt like the umpteenth time that day, Robert was stunned to find that the light rain that had been falling for some time, had recently ceased, giving the surrounding fields an almost dreamy haze. Mystical. The light from the sun peeking through & refracting through the lingering haze, shattering into shards of color that reached out into the misty air.

Through the mists Robert saw movement by a nearby pond. Intruders! Hooligans! Drunkards! No... Wait... Women... Girls in fact!... Young girls at that!... Two of them... A blonde & a brunette... Both dressed in while brief slip dresses until all of a sudden one wasn't. "Oh!" Robert gasped at the sight. She slipped out of her slip dress, laying it on the grass nearby as she dipped into the pond squealing a bit at the cold & then motioning for her dark haired friend to do the same. Robert watched the scene with rapt attention unaware that his lips were parting with the rasped request. "Oh, please God, yes!"

Indeed, outside at the pond the young strawberry blonde Sibella or Sibby was indeed trying to get her young dark haired friend Charissa or Rissa to join her. "C'mon, Rissa!" She laughed, splashing about both to acclimate to the cold water & to tease her shyer friend. They had started the day in gauzy white dresses with crowns made of little pink and white flowers. Her dress had since been discarded after the freak midday shower, both of their flower crowns bleeding petals into their hair.

Rissa gazed warily at her bold young friend, now as naked as the day she was born. She folded her right arm across her midsection, hand braced against the crook of her elbow. "I don't know, Sibby... This is an awfully big place here... Whoever owns this place probably owns this little pond thing too. Get dressed. Maybe we should go?"

Sibby just scoffed." Oh my God! You're such a scaredy cat! You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?" Rissa gazed at Sibby in confusion, leading to another incredulous scoff from the older girl.

"This place is Wolverhampton Manor! A bit away from Wolverhampton true but it is so named due to that being a favored haunt of the owner of this manor, Count K also known as Count Robert Plant, Robert Anthony Plant Lord Kidderminster of Worcestershire. His dearest friends included a driver who came into a title from a distant relative Count John Henry Bonham, Lord Clewer of Berkshire. And the most notorious rakehell of his day Count James Patrick Page Lord Heston of Middlesex."

The list of names and titles and places made Rissa's head spin, prompting her to exclaim with an incredulous laugh. "How do you know these things?!"

Sibby just shrugged. "I read about it in study hall once. Fastest I've ever gone through a history book in my life! Shame they're all gone now. From what I've heard they were gorgeous men the lot of them. But a lot of rumors surround them all. Things you wouldn't believe!"

"I bet." Rissa laughed. "What else could get you to read a history book so fast?"

This made Sibby laugh. "Yeah. Well, c'mon! You don't even have to undress if you don't want to. Just hop in!"

"Oh, all right!" Rissa sighed through her laughter. At last the ever irrepressible Sibby had won!

At last Rissa dipped into the pond, inching in until it was at chest height, the same as dear Sibby. She shivered intermittently as she acclimated to the chilly water herself before casting a quick look at her surroundings, musing with a wry grin that she hoped veiled her still frazzled nerves. "I could swear I saw the curtains up in the manor shift a little. In a room or two. Not sure."

Sibby just grinned. "You just hit one of the rumors I've heard on the head!"

"What?" Rissa hushed.

"Well..." Sibby looked around herself as if she were sharing a secret in a crowded room & not the open field bereft of anyone but them that they were in. She then leant in & spoke also in a hush, this one a bit more excited. "They say that the Counts were all part of this thing called the Order of Kashmir..."

...

Back in the library Jimmy was laid down on the exquisite bearskin rug, the heavy, cracked, leather-bound volume beside him. His eyes were closed, all of his senses were focused on the room around him.

Shifting was a difficult skill to master, even with his centuries of experience in magick, & required full concentration, & full synchronisation with the magician’s environment. One had to taste, scent, touch, see & hear the magick in the air. See with the heart & the mind, see with internal eyes. The desired shape must appear as real before the magician as his own hands before his own eyes.

It was fiercely complicated, & shifting into the Hermit came with its own set of dangers. The spirit of the Hermit was notoriously possessive of magicians & querents, & if not approached respectfully, humbly, or honestly, could be killed trying to divine his wisdom.

He could feel the shift beginning, the air taking in true texture around him, wrapping him in, binding the consciousness of Lord Heston in place, allowing the rest of him to merge with the Hermit, physically & mentally.

When he next opened his eyes, he could feel the changes, the new form. The Hermit craved sunlight, needing to regenerate his form, leading him to the ceiling-length window, surveying the now-damp meadows sparkling in the sunlight.

A darting flash near the pond, a subsequent splash drew their eye. Two young ladies splashing about in the sun-warming water, their giggles echoing even to them in the library.

Golden faerie maidens. Theirs the purest of magicks, the strongest potential of the senses.

Both of them - the Hermit & Lord Heston - felt deep stirrings at the sight of the splashing maids, one stirring at the magickal pull of the girls, the other stirring at the more erotic potential of such youth & beauty.

...

Robert could hardly tear himself away from the window in his room as he watched the girls frolic & splash about. Both of them were finally in the water, laughing & talking, though he could not quite make out what was being said. Both young ladies were, he could tell, in the ripeness of health & youth, all curves & soft skin, reminding him of his own glowing memories of springtime swims in the pond, as well as the interludes that often followed such swims in later years.

He licked at his dry lips, considering how he might entice them to explore the grounds further. He wondered if they’d discovered his apple & lemon orchards yet... Both were in full bloom, both his apples & lemons deliciously ripe & sweet... The scents were legendary for perfuming the countryside in high spring & summer - if the girls had not found it, he knew they surely would soon. Perhaps then, he might introduce himself to them...

...

"Order of Kashmir?" Came the reply from Rissa along with another curious look.

"Yes. They called it the Order of Kashmir. A list of nobility at the time - a relatively small list but a list no less - all were said to have joined this secret order that gave them powers or something. Vampires. Immortal spirits or the like. They say people still spot them around the grounds and areas of their old Manors, Castles & Haunts. All around the world there are sightings of the Counts and others said to be in the Order. Kashmirites some call them. Kashmirite Sightings. They're in all the papers. Especially gossip rags though."

"The same ones that talk of UFOs, Big Foot & the Loch Ness Monster?" Charissa snickered.

"Seriously! Though I have to admit after reading about the Order I was kind of hoping that in making this trip that we could maybe have a chance at catching... At finding... At sighting a few Kashmirites... Look!" She pulled a scrap of paper from her pocketbook nearby. It had a picture - a collage - of the Kashmirites. Messrs. Lords. Page. Plant. Bonham. Jones. Coverdale. Beck. The list went on. Sibby then showed Charissa her latest books that she had been carrying on the subject. One was a rundown on the lives of the mysterious Lords. The other was on the Order of the Kashmir as a whole & Kashmirites as a subject. Charissa was nothing less than stunned. "Well! I'll be darned!"

"Mmm-hmm..." Sibby nodded. "They say the ringleader of sorts or at least the one the deepest into the order, higher up in the ranks or something, was Rakehell Page. He was said to be like a wizard or something!"

Charissa couldn't help but laugh at this now, prompting Sibby's squealed reply. "I'm serious! Seriously! Seriously, Rissa! He--..."

Whatever her next words were to be as a loud clap of thunder sounded, emanating seemingly from above the Manor as another sheet of rain began to fall over the grounds. This prompted the two young girls to shriek & scurry to climb out of the pond. Sibby hurried into her dress. Charissa helped Sibby gather her books. Sibby in return helped Rissa out of her dress so the two of them could wring it out, where she then began to help her friend back into it. She had only barely managed to get the dress to cover the peaks of Charissa's breasts when...

Just then...

A male voice called out to them...

"Well, well, well... What's all this now?..."

The two girls whipped their heads in the direction of the voice where they were met by the sight of a tall, regal looking gentleman all flowing blonde curls, turquoise jewelry & long flowing cape draped over his shoulders. Steel blue eyes pierced them both as dimples popped both near the corners of his upwardly curving mouth & in the center of his chin as he teased them with a wry Cheshire Cat grin. "To what do I owe this extreme pleasure?" His eyes raked over their bodies with those words. Sibby's with her dress clinging to her in places & Rissa with hers hardly on, barely over her nipples revealing the expanse of creamy curved flesh below. This she remedied quickly, hurriedly taking over from Sibby & pulling her dress back down in a huff, face burning with the heat of both his gaze & her subsequent blush.

When the girls couldn't manage to do more in response to his question than gape, stammer & stumble over their words, a great many of which were "Um... Uh... Well... I... We... You see... I, uh--... Ahem..." He just chuckled, holding two other capes out to them. "Come now, loves. It's frightful out here." He crossed over & draped the rich, warm fabrics over their trembling forms as he draped an arm around each of them, leading them ahead towards the door. "Let's go inside & see if we can't get you warmed up."

The girls nodded shyly, not sure of what to do past that. But as they neared the door to the Manor, Rissa turned towards Sibby & hushed one word where only she could hear, motioning almost imperceptibly to the tall, striking, dimpled blonde gentleman in between them. "Nessie~..."

...

The storm had come again, in earnest this time, the thunder drowning out the pained gurgling scream from the library. Both the Hermit & Lord Heston had been stirred by the sight of the girls, Lord Heston the most, & had summarily lost control of the shift, causing a physically painful, albeit temporary, rending of the shared consciousness.

The Hermit retreated further inward to maintain balance, as Lord Heston gathered himself in kind, the pain fading, but the memory keen.

The brunette had been worth such a blow, however. Lush, sweet softness beneath such a delicate frock... the unexpected surprise of her innocent nakedness stirring Heston to half-hardness...

And the wretched timing of the lord of the manner! Scooping up both maidens in one fell swoop, undoubtedly promising them sweet porridge & hot tea, promising to dry their frocks at his fireside, as the three of them romped & frolicked in his bed. No doubt that by nightfall, Robert would have two new beauties to count among his wives & lovers, fully turned & waiting for their own feasts.

He would have damned The Hermit himself, had he been able to do so easily. No, he had chosen to take this form today, this hour, not knowing the girls had been on the estate. No, if he desired one, he & Robert would simply have to share. And indeed the shyer, dark-haired beauty already haunted their mind, awakened a delicious need in Heston’s entire being, & intrigued the Hermit’s sensitive intuition. Both of them desired to see the girl, & they would do so, whether Robert liked it or not.

...

Robert led the girls through the door & into the palatial manor which was lit by a litany of candles in in little holders tucked into nooks carved in the wall, chandeliers, candelabras and candlesticks everywhere. It gave the whole place a warm, inviting glow along with a warmth that was only amplified by the fire roaring in the fireplace. He had large, fluffy towels laid out for them of which he grabbed two, handing one to each girl. "Here you are, loves. Care for a spot of tea? Might help you warm up after getting caught in such a dreadful storm."

"Thank you." Came the girl's response in unison. Both were standing still gazing around at their environs in complete shock. Charissa was the first to move slightly, only to pat herself dry with the towel. A slight moan fell from her lips at the feel of the softness of the fabric against her skin, followed by another from Sibby when she did the same.

Robert couldn't help but to grin at that, dimples popping as he laughed. "Feelin better already, eh? Well come, sit." He removed his cloak as well as those of the ladies, chuckling as they promptly covered themselves with their towels, draping them over their shoulders & carefully perching on more towels laid out on a settee opposite him & his large stately chair. He went about pouring their tea to their specifications which they mumbled out while still in a state of shock about it all. It was all very innocent, their surroundings very comforting & their host was nothing if not charming but they still couldn't help but stare at him openly, try as they might to hide it. It led Robert to perk an eyebrow at the two maidens as he handed them their cups. "Hmmm? What? What is it? Is there something on my face? I certainly hope not?" He teased with a smile, feeling around his cheeks, patting them playfully.

"No!" Again the response came in unison. Before they traded off every few words. Sibby first. "No, it's... It's not that... It's... It's just..." And then Charissa. "...She thinks you look like someone... Someone quite familiar..."

"Oh?" Robert tilted his head. "Someone you know?" And then his eyes fell to the books clutched in their little hands. Ah-ha!

"I see... Interested in the Kashmirites are you? Is that how you found yourselves here? Seeking things related to the Order? Counts? Count Kidderminster? Lord Kidderminster and all?"

The replies were now mixed. Sibby was seemingly contrite, ashamed at her inquisitive nature, her nosiness. She dropped her head & nodded, admitting in a small voice. "Yes..." Charissa was nothing if not firm however, shaking her head. "No!" Then taking her contrite friend's admission into account she relayed the following to the now snickering blonde man. "She was. I just came as a tagalong so she wouldn't be alone."

Robert nodded thoughtfully, still with a trace of the teasing smirk on his lips. "I see. And would that be who you think I resemble by any chance, dears? Ah! Now that I think of it... I've never even asked your name! How dreadfully rude of me! Please forgive me... Praytell what are your names, ladies?"

He finally got his answer as to who the maidens - who he was fighting the urge to lick his lips as he took in the sight of them in those damp, filmy white frocks which clung to them just so - were. It was only fair that he caught their names since he was currently contemplating them as prospective bed partners. He got a "Charissa." From the shy brunette. And a "Sibella." From the curious blonde. The brunette growing curious herself, only enough to ask the obvious. "And you are~?..."

Robert couldn't help but grin at that. As his grin peaked, another clap of thunder sounded startling the two girls into jumping into each other's arms with a shriek. Robert felt his urges rising. That was the cause of the thunder. His deep seated urges were awakening to them. Senses on high. He hungered for them. Both of them. Their innocence. Their energy. Their pureness. Pure energy. Purity both of heart & of spirit. It intoxicated him. He swore he could smell it.

He got a scent of peaches and cherries from them. Mingled with that was a hint of apples and lemons. Signs that they belonged here? Were meant to be here? He wasn't exactly sure. He'd worry about that later. Maybe he'd ask Pagey later.

But wait...

PAGEY!...

The storm...

The way it started...

Grew so intense so soon...

Centering over his house...

His castle...

High above the one tower in the center...

The one that contained the library...

The library that contained Pagey & that one mysterious tome of his...

The library which was now emitting strange energies to him...

Pagey always had a strange energy to him...

But this...

This here...

This...

This was different...

This was...

This was...

This was like Pagey but on a whole new level!

He couldn't put his finger on it but the vibrations that Pagey was now emitting were strange... Too strange...

Even for him...

And it all started with the arrival of these girls...

Thinking back he realized the window from the library also faced out towards the pond that the girls had frolicked in...

Had Pagey seen them too?

He found himself laughing internally at the question. A bittersweet laugh that turned into a low growl of a single word spoken under his breath as he grit his teeth & balled his fist up, sending back an energy of his own, protective, defensive & yes even a bit greedy towards his newfound houseguests.

The word. Simple. It was a place.

A place that he wished a certain dark haired friend of his were still residing in just then. Preferably locked away in a different tower in a different castle at that. Or even dungeon knowing his reputation.

"Heston..."

[redheadgleek]

Klaine Advent: Season of Grace

Summary: Their reunion is only the beginning. A collection of drabbles (100 words) written for the Klaine Advent 2017. Pairing: Klaine (Kurt Hummel/Blaine Anderson) Rating: T

Chapter title lyrics taken from Vienna Teng’s The Atheist Christmas Carol and City Hall. Lyrics used in Day 16: Perform are from Vienna’s Never Look Away.

Masterpost: read on tumblr / AO3 or click below to read the whole collection.

When Blaine cups his jaw and surges forward in reunion, Kurt clings. He breathes in Blaine’s scent, rediscovers the texture and contour of his skin, drinks in his sigh of pleasure. In lonely nights his psyche supplied his dreams with phantom memories of Blaine’s laugh and fingers - dim in comparison to this reality.

Blaine had proposed with promises of a forever without fear; Kurt’s fears had whispered that they were too young, that their youthful attachment wouldn’t be enough to sustain them through vows of better and worse.

Wiser now, Kurt holds his love close and faces the future together.

***

Faint moonlight reflects off their bare skin, their noses brushing, breath mingling in shared space. Kurt’s hand traces hearts across his hipbone, reminding him of another November night, when they had been naive and sweet in love.

“Are you worried? About us?” Blaine flinches as Kurt’s hand stops.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I tried to live without you and it nearly killed me. Because we’re better together.”

“That’s it? That’s enough for you?”

Kurt furrows his brow, selecting words carefully. “You know I don’t believe in God. Or soulmates. I don’t believe that we were meant for each other in some cosmic arrangement, as lovely as it sounds. But... I know you and I choose you, Blaine. For now and every day and year to come.”

“Kurt. I choose you too.”

Kurt’s hand moves again. “I’m not letting go again. If we break, I’m bringing in bail buckets and duct tape with the marriage therapists, because you are it for me. The only future I’ll accept is the one where we die hours apart when we’re 102 and still fabulous.”

“Speak for yourself. I’ll only be 101. Kurt, no!”

Languid kisses quench giggles and unease as the day dawns anew.

***

Alone on the cold bathroom floor, with every carefully salvaged thread of hope collapsed into rubble, the tears stung and choked in their bitterness. He deserved this, after destroying their future. Karmic retribution for giving into his doubts and shattering Blaine’s - and his - heart.

It’s faded memory now, as Blaine, with sun-warmed eyes open with love, cradles him close and kisses him again and again. There will always be regret mixed with relief, but Kurt is more confident than ever in them; their foundation stronger now, fortified by forgiveness, trust, and faith in each other.

He smiles and kisses back.

***

Back then, before, a current of tension permeated between them, a sense of looming demise. Insecurities festering, Kurt reacted by pulling back and Blaine by clinging harder. Perhaps their end was inevitable.

So was their beginning. Though in fragments, their connection was undeniable.

Now, he drinks in the sight of Kurt, tall and framed in sun, packing pillows and trinkets, chatting easily - the kids and their sectional selections, Burt and Carole’s adventures in D.C., Rachel’s antics. Blaine’s heart stutters and thrills at the little casual mentions of plans for their life, their future, together.

Grace is a golden epoxy.

***

He returned to Ohio a failed little boy, life in shambles. Mixed with the heartache of his destroyed relationship was the mortification of slinking back home as a college dropout. Blaine spent most days in bed, with rimmed eyes that refused to spill tears.

An invitation from the Dalton Headmaster granted him asylum. His heart ached daily walking down the marbled staircase, past memories haunting a never-coalesced future. And yet, watching his boys flourish under his tutelage and example, he found redemption.

Like before, he heals, and forgives. When Kurt returns to him, his heart is open for a renewal.

***

You keep expecting there to be awkwardness, some reminder of the months spent apart. Before you shattered his heart and yours, more evenings than not were spent in stilted silence to stave off the volatile fractionation. The lingering pain of the breaking should taint this beautiful moment of reunion.

Instead, conversation is easy. He seems as eager to share his thoughts and dreams as you are in spilling yours, safe in shared vulnerability. You drink in laughter and love, intoxicated in his presence.

Warm lips and soft eyes seek yours. Embracing this gift of intimacy, you tug him to bed.

***

Lips seek yours again and again before moving to tug at your earlobe. Goosebumps rise in response to his traveling fingers.

From the first time, sex has always been easy. Together, you discovered communication with touch and passion, and over the years when words caused harsh reverberations, you relied on sex for reconciliation.

Now it feels like a sacrament, the fulfillment of the pledge to take genuine care of precious hearts.

He pauses his downward trail at the edge of your abdomen, eyes open and mischievous.

Lips part and your stomach vibrates as he blows raspberries across your belly.

“Kurt!”

***

“Maybe I should just move in here.”

“Move in?”

“I know you gave your landlord notice but is it rented already? Could we back out?”

“What?”

“We’d have to share my room at Dad’s; it’s small though. I don’t think your parents would approve of us shacking up. We could find a new place, I suppose. Sunday, after the wedding?”

“I thought. I thought you would want to wait. Take our time.”

“Living together wasn’t our problem, we weren’t ready then. We’re healthier now. We can do this.”

“You don’t mind that Dave-”

“No. No unicorns though. Okay?”

“So okay.”

***

His parents, barely blinking at the news of their reuniting, had offered to drive to the wedding. He had resisted at first, not wanting the presence of others to break their sanctuary, but relented when Pam Anderson joined the caravan.

In the backseat, Blaine inches closer as icy harvested fields flicker past the windows, until his head drops onto Kurt’s shoulder, sleep slacking his mouth. Moments like these, precious in the mundane, were the ones Kurt had missed the most.

He meets his father’s understanding eyes in the rearview mirror and curls closer into the solid weight of Blaine’s trust.

***

“Barn chic” wouldn't have been Blaine’s aesthetic choice, but he tries to withhold judgement. Gossamer-draped branches cluster charmingly around hay bales and Blaine can see elegance interspersed with the fairy lights - Kurt’s touch.

Blaine acknowledges the deep twinge of regret for the wedding that will never be - hours spent choosing colors and locations, only for those plans to vaporize. And yet, he feels no rush, no reason to push for something that he no longer needs to believe their commitment.

Kurt’s hand rarely leaves his as they greet beloved friends. Blaine answers his blinding smile with one of his own.

***

“You dress up nicely.”

“So do you. That suit is impeccable.”

“Mmm. I couldn’t have picked better. May I tie this for you?”

“Kurt. We don’t have to do this.”

“I know.”

“I… I don’t want you to regret this.”

“I won’t. We won’t. Blaine. I was going to propose this time.”

“You were?”

“And then drag you to Vegas and skip the wedding entirely.”

“Not Vegas. Same-sex marriage isn’t legal.”

“Massachusetts, then. Or Indiana, I guess.”

“This is so foolish.”

“Foolishness is the key to us. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Make me your husband, Mr. Anderson.”

***

Kurt tweaks a light as he waits with Brittany. He (and Artie) did an impressive job, even with limited resources and atypical locale.

He loves weddings, the pageantry and extravagance that surrounds heart-felt vows of forever. Planning his own, however, had been months of frustration and devastation. The stress of bartering over flowers while dealing with school and work had frayed his surety in them.

They are too young; it’s a heteronormative tradition rooted in sexism; it doesn’t legitimize their love. He’s listened to reason before.

Still.

He wants to marry Blaine. Always.

Now the time is right, he will.

***

There’s a moment, walking down the aisle with Santana on his arm, that he nearly gives in to panic. He had been so certain two years ago when he had stood on marbled stairs and declared his love. Was he pushing Kurt into a decision that he wasn’t ready to make again?

Kurt turns on the step, amid the surrounding confusion dawning into awareness, and meets his gaze. Doesn’t look away.

There’s no doubt in Kurt’s eyes, misty with love, shiny with conviction. Kurt’s smile is for only him.

Apprehension vanishes. Blaine steps up and turns to say the vows.

***

There’s a moment, as Blaine glides the welcomed weight of silver over his knuckles, when everything clicks into perfect rightness.

Once he wore a ring fashioned from paper and promises which he exchanged for one representing forever without fear, a constant reminder of Blaine’s unwavering love. Against his finger, it had sometimes felt like a fetter. Only, in its absence, his hand had been both impossibly heavy and empty without Blaine’s anchoring presence.

In this moment, as his father declares them husbands, Blaine’s hands in his, nose brushing his, mouth greeting his, Kurt feels like he has finally come home.

***

The tempo changes, and Blaine - laughing, blushing, adoring Blaine - finally winds his arms around Kurt’s neck. Kurt can’t resist pulling him closer, relishing the feel of Blaine’s hips, the way their chests press and legs slot together.

Blaine tilts his head and sighs contently. “Brittany just invited us to a ‘wedding consummation ceremony’ with her and Santana.”

“An orgy?”

“Yeah. Supposed to bring good luck. You know Britt.”

“And what did you say, husband of mine?”

“I told her that there was no way that I could share. And that we don’t need luck.”

Kurt captures his lips. “Good answer.”

***

“When Blaine and I were engaged, I made a playlist of songs to perform for our wedding. Even after we separated, I kept adding to the list. Every song reminded me of Blaine, of what we meant to each other.

“One night when I was the loneliest and despaired our chances, I heard this song, and I knew. This was our song.

“Blaine, love of my life, my husband, this is for you:

“Let me uncover the silver in your dark hair The weight of your bones I want to witness the beauty of your repair The shape you’ve grown...”

***

Straw bales prick at his raw skin, but Blaine pays little attention; he pulls Kurt down firmer against him and chases his lips again.

“Isn’t it,” Kurt pants against his neck, hands everywhere, dipping down Blaine’s waistband, tugging his shirt higher, “the epitome of poor decorum to have sex at your wedding reception-”

“Uh huh.”

“With family and friends just feet away.” He lowers the zipper and pushes the cloth over Blaine’s hips.

“Mhhh!”

“How long before Mercedes-”

“Kurt, less talking, more… more… Just-”

He feels Kurt’s smirk. “I love making you speechless. Mmmph!”

Blaine grins back. “Same, my love.”

***

Giggling, drunk on romance, Blaine removes Kurt’s tie, then slides his shirt down his shoulders. Their shower is unhurried with languid kisses tracing trails of water.

Kurt brushes his teeth and washes his face, his ring reflecting back at him, new and yet so familiar. He enters the suite wearing Blaine’s favorite briefs, only to be greeted with snuffling snores.

Blaine stirs slightly as Kurt tugs down the duvet. For the second time in just twelve hours, Kurt watches his beloved sleep. He’s not sure if he could love this man more; he falls to dreams resolved to find out.

***

Awareness drifts into consciousness. Blaine opens sleepy eyes to Kurt’s soft smile. Morning sun glints off their silver bands. “We’re married,” Blaine marvels.

“We are.”

“It feels like a dream.”

“A good one, I hope.” Kurt chews his lip.

“The best.”

“It wasn’t the wedding you wanted. Not our colors or flowers-”

“It was perfect.”

“You put so much effort-”

Blaine shushes him. “I get to wake up with you, talk to you, go to bed with you. Every day, sharing our lives, together. That’s all I wanted.”

“No regrets then?”

“Only love.”

“…Dork.”

“Your dork.”

Kurt pounces. “All mine.”

***

Awareness drifts into consciousness. Blaine opens sleepy eyes to Kurt’s soft smile. Morning sun glints off their silver bands. “We’re married,” Blaine marvels.

“We are.”

“It feels like a dream.”

“A good one, I hope.” Kurt chews his lip.

“The best.”

“It wasn’t the wedding you wanted. Not our colors or flowers-”

“It was perfect.”

“You put so much effort-”

Blaine shushes him. “I get to wake up with you, talk to you, go to bed with you. Every day, sharing our lives, together. That’s all I wanted.”

“No regrets then?”

“Only love.”

“…Dork.”

“Your dork.”

Kurt pounces. “All mine.”

***

Not that Burt would’ve complained if he had to stand in line all day to make his kid’s marriage legal, but thankfully, the line’s short.

Kurt steps up to the counter, defiantly holding Blaine’s hand; Burt’s struck again by his son’s courage. “One marriage license.”

The clerk slides the application across with a smile. “Birth certificates, IDs, and $60. Just sign under the line.”

Forms completed, Burt’s attesting as officiant, and - “It’ll be mailed in 2-4 weeks. Congratulations, Mr. and Mr. Anderson-Hummel!”

Burt wipes sudden tears as Carole hugs the newlyweds. His kid’s grown up and he couldn’t be prouder.

***

They’ve been married three days, three serendipitous days surreal in their ordinariness. Kurt’s belongings are piled in boxes, waiting to be unpacked. Their apartment is tiny: a bed pushed to the corner, one dresser to share.

Once, Kurt had carved out special space for Blaine in his life, tried to fit him into defined compartments. Those boundaries, created to protect, only prevented growth and caused lingering pain.

Their success depends on variation from old patterns. Kurt opens the suitcase and dumps his clothes into the drawer.

Blaine kisses his cheek and Kurt draws him in, breath mingling, eager for more.

***

The overhead lights dim and Blaine eases up the armrest. The width of airplane seats are too narrow for comfort, but Blaine doesn’t mind having his husband pressed close.

Kurt’s already asleep, fingers curled in Blaine’s, overcome with exhaustion from their unexpected week since they made vows of forever. Giddy disbelief has faded somewhat in the realism of merging lives, but not the surety of that spontaneous decision.

Blaine knows too well how it can go wrong; this week, basking in deep happiness and reinforcing trust and intimacy, has been a testament to how good it could - and would - be.

***

Kurt tilts his head invitingly for another kiss. “Can’t we stay here forever?”

“We can come back. New York’s pretty close.”

Kurt twists in surprise, water sloshing. “New York?”

“Of course. It’s where we live.”

“But…”

“Did you want to stay in Ohio?”

“I thought a fresh start… Chicago or L.A.”

“I’ve planned to return, even before. I already applied to NYU and Juilliard and a dozen others for next year. But if you want to move—”

“No! I just— I want you to be happy.”

“I’m so happy. Wherever we make our home.”

“Let’s go home then, love.”

***

Dalton burns.

Acrid cinders sting his eyes. Beside him, Blaine stares blankly at the ruins, silent since the call this morning.

Kurt steps to the edge of the fire zone, debris crunching under his feet, and questions the observers. Arson. Only partially salvaged. Oh, yes, it can and will be rebuilt.

In the past, Kurt struggled with connecting to Blaine in times of vulnerability and grief. His tendency is to shoulder on and normalize, the opposite of Blaine’s needs. Their fights magnified this difference.

In their destruction, he’s learned better. Kurt reaches out and provides the anchor his husband requires.

**

Dalton burns.

Blaine chokes on ashes as he takes in the mangled steel frames and smoldering embers. Beside him, Kurt asks questions; Blaine zones out, the details of how and why less important in this inescapable reality.

Dalton had been his refuge. He remembers the first time he walked through those doors, heart bruised and heavy, scared and defeated.

He wonders if this is a sign.

Kurt’s by his side. “The foundation’s strong. They’ll be able to rebuild.”

“Rebuild?”

“There’s already a fund.”

The smoke clears. “Kurt, look. Our staircase.”

Kurt squeezes his hand. “It’s still standing.”

“Just like us.”