#respite in december | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

prolix-yuy · 1 year

Text

On the Right Flight

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x F!Reader

Summary: A long flight with a gorgeous neighbor takes a hard turn when you get on his favorite subject - Nicholas Cage.

Word Count: 4.1k

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ MINORS DNI, allusions to sex, PiV sex, brief hint of voyeurism, lots of fantasizing, we are Looking Disrespectfully, plenty of sweetness dumped on top.

Notes: I had the worst writers block for this, but then went on a plane and remembered all the fun/not fun things about flying. Plus traveling for the holidays would be greatly improved with a dose of Javi.

I apologize for one moment and one moment only in this story. You'll know what I mean when you get there.

Cross-posted on AO3

For once, you pray to the gods of airline transportation, let there be no one in the window seat.

It’s futile, you know. It’s LA to Boston and you’ve never seen an empty seat, but you’re hoping that this one time you’ll get a little respite. You’re already fed up with having to pay extra for an emergency row seat, no other options left on the only flight that gets you to your parents in time. Then the dread of endless questions about your work (fine), love life (dismal) and future plans (???) just adds to your crankiness. It’s the holidays, you’re going home, and you could use a holiday miracle.

At least the expansive legroom is a plus.

You like LA, but no snow in December is weird. Growing up in places where snowfall is a guarantee makes you miss it all the more when towering evergreens are carted into the Grove and fake snow looks strangely post-apocalyptic against a 75 degree sunny day. It doesn’t feel right without the tip of your nose being perpetually cold and a scarf devouring you from shoulder to chin.

Plus you still have a handful of presents to get, and the anticipation of a long flight is making you antsy about your procrastination. There are still a couple days, but one present has eluded you this year and you’re getting desperate.

“Excuse me.”

A polite voice, Spanish accented, lifts over the murmurs and rumbles of the plane. Your heart sinks briefly.

“Sorry, is this your seat?” you ask, sliding your shoulder bag out of the way before getting a good look at the man waiting in the aisle.

And you do get a good look.

A long one.

Probably uncomfortably long.

But holy hell he’s gorgeous.

He definitely doesn’t belong in coach, and if the cogs in your brain could turn at all you might have asked him if he was in the right aisle, but instead you numbly stare as he steps around your knees. He nods with a tight smile, tucking his elbows and broad shoulders as he squashes into the small window seat. Against the dull beige and navy of the walls and seats he’s a cream and maroon dream, a lightweight striped jacket barely zipped over a white shirt. Tan chinos hug his thick thighs as he twists to find the seat belt, a tiny slip of his tan stomach peeking out. You look up desperately at the flight attendant, whose expression is almost as shocked as yours, before settling back into your seat.

Six and a half hours next to this golden god might actually be a Christmas miracle, but not one you’d ever dream to wish for.

You follow basic plane etiquette, pretending he isn’t there as you arrange your belongings just how you like them. Without a seat directly in front of you most of your supplies remain stuffed in your bag - a bottle of water, your iPad loaded with movies and tv shows, snacks easily in reach, headphones at the ready. You do sneak a peek at your seatmate’s luscious caramel curls, the intriguing curve of his nose, the perfect dip above his chin where pursed lips tempt.

Stop it, you scold yourself, you’re not in a goddamn Hallmark movie.

“Sorry,” comes that rich voice again, heavily apologetic as he waves to get your attention. Pretending you just noticed him - very smooth, you praise yourself - you turn and nod with your best people-pleaser smile. “I am not sure how to make all this work,” he sighs, mouth downturned and brow knitted. A wild gesture to the lack of a tray table, or entertainment display, makes you bite back a smile.

Hot and hopeless? Oh no.

“The tray is in the armrest, you have to flip it out. Same for the TV screen. The headphone jack is here,” you indicate quietly, though your elderly aisle neighbor is not paying much attention, “and you can plug in your phone here,” you add, tapping at the ports in the armrest. His face lights up, then falls when he fails to have the correct cable. You’re not normally this forward with someone you just met, but there’s something about the fish out of water routine that’s making you bold.

“Here, you can share mine, I won’t need it much for the flight,” you offer, fishing the other end of your cord out of your bag. The man’s face breaks into relief - you’ve never seen so many expressions in such a short time - before he thanks you over and over. It makes heat tingle at the tips of your ears and the back of your neck.

“You must think I am quite foolish,” he murmurs when he finally settles into his seat, wincing at the stiffness.

“Don’t fly coach much?” you ask, fighting your smirk when he throws up his hands, the gesture too big for the tiny space he’s occupying.

“Can you believe every plane was booked for two weeks? My assistant barely got me on this one!” he groans, and the tiniest part of you loves the plight of an obvious mucky-muck living like the plebeians. His face turning to you, capturing you in an intensely focused gaze, dries out your mouth.

“You are laughing,” he states, more incredulity heaped on. You can’t help the smile and snort that eke out of your unwilling mouth.

“I’m sorry, it’s just…you gotta know how silly that sounds,” you say, flight attendants beginning safety demonstrations in the aisle. You lower your voice further. “My assistant had to book me in coach because it’s three days before Christmas, oh the humanity!”

For a moment you’re nervous you’ve offended him, the blank expression he pins you with making you fiddle with your fingers. Then he covers his face, a thick gold pinky ring only adding to the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You are right, I sound like the worst sort of person. My apologies, I will try to be a better seat-mate.” You shake your head, waving your hand at his apology before settling back into the seat. “I’m Javi, by the way,” he says, and you give him your name in return. He repeats it back to you, along with another few apologies, before leaning over to finish settling himself for the flight. The plane begins taxing, and the telltale rumble of the jets lulls you into closing your eyes.

Your right arm is warm, pressed against something amazingly comfortable. Considering snuggling into it, you’re shocked awake remembering you’re on a plane and you’ve accidentally slumped against the golden man - Javi’s - arm.

“Sorry,” you whisper, straightening, but he only smiles (holy shit can he get more attractive?) and shrugs.

“We are all on this plane together, what is a little touch?” he whispers back before returning to scrolling through an iPad. His is bigger, the nice pro version that’s almost the size of an actual computer. You begin to settle back into your plane nap when a hefty list of titles flash by.

“That’s a lot of Nic Cage,” you comment sotto voce, the rumble and white noise of the plane keeping your conversation relatively private. Javi looks at you blankly, one eyebrow quirked.

“He is my favorite actor,” he says, and the seriousness of this statement bleats a little laugh from your lips. This furrows his brow further, though his eyes do dart to your mouth briefly.

“Sorry, it’s not funny, it’s just…serendipity,” you say, adding more confusion to Javi’s face. You wave your hands, centering yourself.

“You celebrate Christmas?” you ask, and he nods, confused. “Okay, so every Christmas I’ve got this tradition with my sister. It all started one year when she said she didn’t like Nic Cage movies.”

“How could she dislike one of the greatest actors in film history?” Javi interrupts, now half perched in his seat and animated, hands flying. It makes you lose your train of thought, those soft brown eyes now shockingly sharp. You swallow once before continuing.

“I don’t think she hates him or anything, she just thinks he’s silly, and plays a lot of goofy roles.” At this Javi flops back in his seat, rubbing a hand over his face. The dramatics are making you giddy, a frenetic energy barely contained in your body as you try not to disturb the quiet travelers surrounding you.

“Has she never seen Raising Arizona? Con Air?” he interrogates, counting several more movies you didn’t even know he was in. Shrugging, you watch his face fall.

“She got through Ghost Rider and Face/Off before she called it quits,” you say, shoulders shaking at the exasperation rolling off his broad ones.

“Please don’t tell me you feel the same,” Javi pleads. You shake your head.

“He’s made some…questionable choices, but I unironically love Lord of War, and National Treasure is just fun to watch,” you say, the flight attendants starting beverage service.

“Thank goodness,” he grumbles, folding up his iPad to have enough space. The flight attendant moves to take drink orders, a professional smile following, “Something for you?”

“Champagne,” Javi says, almost off-hand, which shoots the flight attendant’s eyebrows up to his hairline. Warmed by conversation, you test a tease.

“You’re not in first class anymore, Toto, try a vodka.” Javi’s cheeks pink, but he does order a vodka soda instead. You begin to order a ginger ale when Javi interrupts.

“No no, it’s a long flight, you should have a drink too,” he says, the confused flight attendant’s eyes darting between your conversation.

“Oh no, that’s all right…”

“You drink, yes?”

“I do.”

“Then you should have a drink.”

“I, uh…”

Javi addresses the flight attendant directly, and where embarrassment radiated off him before is now confidence.

“She’ll have a drink on me,” he says definitively, and when he catches your eye there’s a sweet smile that makes your heart pound. “You should have a drink with me.”

Moments later you’re sipping on your own vodka soda and the flight attendant is giving you an approving nod as he moves on to the next row.

“So your sister does not like Nic…” Javi prompts, your story brought back to the forefront sharply.

“Yes, right! So after she told me this, I was looking for her Christmas present and found this ridiculous pillow on Amazon that I had to get her. It’s sequins, and when you brush them a certain way…”

“...you can see a photo of Nic,” Javi finishes, to your surprise. “I have the same one.”

“Get out, you do not!” you reprimand, the vodka starting to warm your blood and loosen your tongue.

“I do! It’s part of my collection.”

“You have a collection?!”

The next half hour is spent slowly sipping your drink and enjoying the hell out of Javi’s extensive Nic Cage collection, complete with photos. The wax statue is a little much, but the golden guns are pretty badass. You’re half distracted with Javi’s proximity, leaned in to flip through his photos, shoulder to shoulder. Tart orange peel and the clean musk of some expensive cologne engulfs your senses. Add the relaxing effects of the booze and you’re actively trying not to cuddle up to this stranger with an insane amount of movie memorabilia.

“But you have not told me what your sister and Nic have to do with Christmas?” Javi finally says, leaning back in his seat and finishing his drink.

“Okay, okay, so after that first Christmas it’s a tradition every year. I get her some silly Nic Cage thing, she pretends to get mad about it, and we all have a good laugh. So far it’s been the pillow, a shirt, a mug, and a really awful coloring book.” Javi shakes his head and laughs, catching the flight attendant’s eye to bring another round of drinks. You’re pretty sure that’s not how it works in coach, but Javi’s charisma gets him two nips and two glasses of ice palmed to him surreptitiously. If only you had that charm.

“So what is the gift this year? Pants? Shoelaces?” he teases, pouring your drinks.

“That’s the problem! I haven’t found it yet! I’ve looked everywhere for the perfect gift and I am coming up empty!” You slump back in your seat, accepting the second drink with a wry smile. “I’m gonna break my streak.”

“I may be able to help you with that,” Javi says with a sly little smile, looking at you over the top of his cup.

“Something out of your collection? I’m sure you’ve got some fun things in there you’re not showing me,” you say, altitude and alcohol making that come out flirtier than you expected.

“Even better. I know Nic,” he says, beginning a standoff between your incredulous face and his smug one.

“You’re joking.”

“I wrote a screenplay, he was the lead. We’re good friends.”

You have to bury your mouth in your elbow to keep from screeching like a pterodactyl.

“You’re fucking with me, really?”

“He came and stayed at my home. He’s an incredible man - talented, kind, humble, funny. I could call him up the second we land and have him record something for your sister. It would be the ultimate gift.”

You have to admit, that would be incredible. A personalized message from Nic Cage himself? Your sister would shit a brick. You would win Christmas for sure.

“And what would you want in return for being my Christmas miracle?” you ask, but Javi only shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Only the pleasure of your company,” he says breezily. You scoff at that.

“I don’t think my company is quite worth that.”

“I do.”

The air thickens around you, not daring to look up and see what expression Javi is wearing. Instead you let your finger run the circuit of your cup rim, hot flashes bursting along your collar. Your heartbeat thuds with twin thoughts - yes yes yes and not worthy.

Some air would probably do you good. You excuse yourself to the restroom and lock the door firmly behind you.

The tiny plastic sink is grounding under your hands, the hum of alcohol in your blood receding. A glance at yourself in the mirror makes you grimace - disheveled, tired eyes, rumpled loungewear that suits plane travel but not handsome strangers chatting you up. You splash a little water on your face, fortifying yourself for the return to your seat. Anyways, Javi’s out of your league, fun only because you’re trapped in a plane together. He clearly has money or comes from money, and once outside this pressurized tube you’d never be able to hold a candle to the life he has.

So stop fucking fantasizing about what you would do if he opened that door right now and joined you in this tiny bathroom. If he’d be soft and sweet, plying you with passionate kisses as he lifted you to balance on the edge of the sink. Or maybe those flashes of focus you kept glimpsing were signs of a man who would fuck you hard and fast, time a factor but attentive to your pleasure. Would he urge you to bite down on his shoulder to muffle your cries before he spills his seed on your inner thighs?

Are you fucking rhyming now?

Sighing, you open the door and run almost directly into the man himself, a sheepish smile on his face. Your face is on fire, nodding and smiling as you pass in the tiny space outside the bathroom. Returning to your seat you try to center yourself, but a tap on your arm directs you to your forgotten aisle neighbor. She smiles conspiratorially.

“He’s single,” she says simply, eyes sparkling, and you share a secret giggle at her wingmanning your chance encounter. “And he’s clearly interested, trust me. If you don’t get his number you’ll be kicking yourself later,” she adds before going back to her show. Javi returns soon after, a few wet trails in his hair and a fresh face.

“It is not so bad in coach,” he muses, pulling out his iPad and opening up his library.

“Even without the champagne?” you toss back, getting your own entertainment set up. The distance beginning to grow between you dampens your mood, fingers uncertain as they fiddle with the tech.

“Even without the champagne,” Javi sighs back with a wink. He scrolls through and settles on something before looking up at you, lips parted around a question. You wait with baited breath.

“Do you…want to watch a movie with me?” he asks tentatively. “I was going to watch a favorite of mine, if you want me to AirDrop it to you?”

Heart fluttering but trying to keep your cool, you nod. “What movie?”

“Paddington 2.”

After all the Nic Cage talk, this takes you by surprise.

“I’ve never seen it.”

Javi’s face breaks out in joy.

“Then we have to watch it.”

How could you say no to that smile?

Syncing pressing play, you both settle in to watch the children’s movie. It’s honestly really good, Javi occasionally leaning over to whisper commentary in your ear. The tickle of his breath against the baby hairs along your nape is a delicious shudder you savor.

After Paddington 2, it’s airline lunch, which Javi pokes at with an mistrusting face. You share some snacks between you as he queues up National Treasure, “the perfect movie for flying,” which leads you to debate whether that title should belong to Con Air.

It’s halfway through the movie (which still stands up after all these years) when your eyelids begin to pull, settling deeper into your uncomfortable seat. Javi peeks through his lashes, sliding a little closer.

“If you would like to close your eyes, you can lean on me,” he says with gentle hesitancy.

“Don’t want to be a bother,” you protest, a yawn interrupting further thoughts. Javi gives you that soft smile you don’t feel worthy of receiving.

“What is a little touch between friends?” he says, an echo of his previous sentiment.

Everything, you think to yourself before resting your head against his warm shoulder.

You dream of Javi between your legs in the plane bathroom, holding you tight to his chest as he fills you with his cock. He is whispering movie trivia to you, punctuating his thrusts with facts your mind can’t grip. Legs spread wide, head bumping against the mirror behind you, he pushes you higher and higher, hips snapping into your core. The door opens - Nic Cage pokes his head in, asking Javi about changes to a script. Javi pulls back to talk to him as he keeps fucking you senseless, swapping ideas as your orgasm hovers on the precipice. He turns back to your pleading face before absentmindedly licking his thumb and pressing it on your clit.

“Want to watch her cum, Nic?” he asks, your eyes rolling back in your head.

A jolt of turbulence shocks you awake, your body in unbalanced arousal from that confusing dream. A wide palm strokes along your forearm, Javi’s rumbling hum right next to your ear.

“It is okay, conejita,” he murmurs, your mind blearily taking in how far you’ve leaned on him, his hand on your arm, his mouth moving against the crown of your head. “Only a few bumps, you can sleep.”

“What’s conny…” you mumble, but close your eyes at his urging. He breathes a puff of air into your scalp.

“You twitch your nose when you’re sleeping, like a bunny,” he says, hand slowing to only his thumb caressing your skin. Humming in response, you slip back under, thankfully into a dreamless sleep.

You’re not sure how long it’s been when you finally rise, neck stiff and fingers tingling. Javi’s watching something in black and white, a man and a woman having an animated conversation. Straightening up, you wipe the corner of your mouth and pray you didn’t drool.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Javi teases, “they said we should be landing in an hour.” The rapidly approaching deadline makes you wish you hadn’t passed out, even if it was the most comfortable you’ve ever been on a plane. You want to ask Javi more about himself, the life he leads, the movies he loves. But the flight attendants are making the rounds, stilling your tongue. This is only a chance meeting, nothing more.

The landing is smooth and uneventful, both of you watching the Boston skyline come into view. You ask Javi if he’s ever been before and when he responds in the negative you point out popular landmarks, the Leonard Zakim Bridge the easiest to spot.

De-boarding is always a mess, but with the extra legroom it’s easy to get your carry-on out quickly. Javi helps you get it down, pulling his own out as well. You stand and stretch your legs, admiring how Javi's shirt pulls across his back while he packs his belongings.

With nods and smiles and “thank yous” said on the way out, you’re free from the tight confines and in the open air of Logan. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels like homecoming whenever you enter the familiar airport.

“Walk you to baggage claim?” you ask, Javi’s expression blooming from uncertainty to agreement. You savor the last dregs of conversation, Javi telling you he’s visiting family friends on the Cape for a few weeks. The time to part is nearing, but you don’t know what you want to ask. For his email? His number? Could you really ask for anything?

Bags in hand and a man in a suit with a printed “Gutierrez” sign looking pointedly at Javi, you finally square up to your unlikely friend.

“Thanks for a fun flight, I can’t say I’ve had a better one,” you start, Javi waving his hands in protest.

“A pleasure for me as well.” The awkwardness mounts as Javi’s driver fidgets impatiently. Girding yourself, you speak.

“I should probably…”

“I need your number.”

Javi’s blurted out request stops your goodbye, eyes widening. His do too as he stumbles to explain, fishing his phone out of his pocket.

“For the video! From Nic. For your sister. I promised, didn’t I? And you were very good company, I must keep up my side of the deal,” he rushes out, flushing high in his cheeks. You couldn’t stop beaming if you tried.

“Yeah, you’re right, you’re gonna help me win Christmas for sure,” you say, typing your number into his phone. Relief dances in his eyes as you hand the phone back, sending a quick “It’s Javi” text to you. “You only have three days to get it, though, you’re on the clock.”

“Nic will come through, I know it,” he says, hands wrapping around your upper arms. He hesitates, then pulls you into a hug that blocks out the sweat and grime and frustration of the world around you. Orange peel and warmth fill your nostrils, and you hug him back, face tucking under the light scruff of his jaw. He holds you for longer than you expect but just long enough to know you’ll miss being hugged like this.

“Take care, conejita,” he says, watching you over his shoulder as he leaves. You wait for him to be out of sight before heading on your way.

Christmas morning, after all the presents are opened, coffee is drunk and cheer is spread, you pair your phone to your parent’s TV and play a video message.

“Hi Clara, this is Nic Cage. My friend Javi told me you were one of my biggest fans. Now I don’t know if you can compete with him, but if he says so I have to think it’s at least a little bit true. So to my biggest fan, Merry Christmas, happy holidays, happy new year, and if you’re ever nearby I owe you a photo, a handshake, and some thanks for all your support. Take care.”

Your sister is in stitches, laughing on the floor and interrogating you about how you pulled it off. For now, your lips are sealed.

The other video message, sent right after, you keep as your own Christmas present.

“I told you he would come through, conejita! Merry Christmas, I hope you are spending it with the ones you love. Maybe we will be on the same flight back to LA and I will get to see you again? Or...ah, I have no plans for New Years…and you know, it’s bad luck to start the new year without a kiss. If you…would like to be mine, this year, maybe I can take you out. Yes. I would like to take you out. Please. If you want. Okay, let me…let me know. Okay, bye.”

You would very much like that.

END

Part 2: A Bearable Weight

#javi g x f!reader #javi g x reader #javi gutierrez x f!reader #javi gutierrez x reader #javi g x you #javi g x female reader #javi gutierrez x you #prolix fics

1K notes · View notes

lisbeth-kk · 4 months

Text

December moments

Prompts used in this chapter: post-holiday blues - "Thank God that's over"

John always gets post-holiday blues after Boxing Day, but an unexpected visit, brightens his mood. The jury’s still out regarding Sherlock’s reaction to said visit

December 27

He wakes up alone, and his stomach clenches. It’s the same every year. Once Boxing Day is over, John’s post-holiday blues arrive. He’d thought it would be different this year, when his dream had come true, having Sherlock’s love, sharing his bed every night, but apparently not. Perhaps it wouldn’t have felt this awful if Sherlock still was sleeping beside him, but he isn’t. John buries his face in his pillow and tries to take deep breaths to keep the tears at bay, but he doesn’t succeed.

Last night had been the most passionate, tender and fucking amazing night of his life. A begging Sherlock on his knees while John was rimming him until he gave in and entered Sherlock’s body deliciously slow and was rewarded with the most exquisite sounds from his lover, which almost tipped John over the edge before they’d begun.

And now he lies alone in bed close to sobbing because of…what exactly? He’s engaged to the love of his life, he’s got the next days off work, and he and Sherlock are going on a trip to fulfill Sherlock’s secret wish in January.

John’s been so lost in his own misery that he hasn’t heard footsteps approaching the bed, and startles when the mattress dips and a warm hand is placed on his shoulder.

“John. What is it?” Sherlock asks.

The worry in his voice is evident and John turns on to his back facing him. Sherlock’s thumb wipes away a tear and frowns.

“Only the usual mood, which I thought would leave me alone this year, truth be told. There’s no need for me to feel like this when I have you in my life. Do you have a kiss for me?”

Sherlock’s features soften and he doesn’t waste any time responding.

***

The text from Greg after breakfast, puzzles John

Is it okay if I come over around 1 pm? No case, just a social call.

Sherlock just shrugs when John asks if he has any objections to Greg’s unprecedented inquiry. Luckily, they have some of Mrs. Hudson’s delicious biscottis left, and the special hazelnut-scented coffee they received from Sherlock’s parents will be a nice addition.

John has changed into the midnight-blue shirt Sherlock gifted him, and the detective himself, is impeccably dressed in dark blue suit trousers and a crisp white shirt with straining buttons. A jolt of desire runs down John’s spine by the very sight and he wants nothing more than to walk over to Sherlock and snog him senseless, but steps on the stairs stop him.

“When did you give Greg a key?” John asks Sherlock.

“I didn’t,” Sherlock answers with narrowed eyes before he collapses into his chair, muttering his brother’s name.

And seconds later Greg and said brother stand in the doorway. Greg seems a bit nervous, and when John realises what’s going on, Sherlock has glared, huffed and scoffed for several seconds.

“You can close your mouth now, if you don’t have anything to communicate, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft says haughtily.

“Mycroft,” Greg hisses

The resemblance to how John scolds Sherlock when he behaves inappropriately is uncanny. John can’t hold back anymore, and when he meets Sherlock’s eyes, John’s done for. He laughs whole-heartedly and Sherlock joins him with his dark rumble. It takes a while before they remember their visitors, who have taken matters into their own hands and serve the coffee and biscuits with slightly blushing faces.

***

“Thank God that’s over,” Sherlock states when Mycroft and Greg have left.

“It wasn’t that bad,” John protests. “Did you know they were an item?”

“Not per se, but I observed that Mycroft greeted Lestrade with his first name at our Christmas party, and that struck me as a bit strange considering that he rarely uses your given name,” Sherlock says.

“Right. Well, I never saw that coming, but I guess it’s no weirder than the two of us being romantically involved,” John muses.

“John! Don’t you dare compare what we have with what my brother and Graham are up to,” Sherlock blurts out and makes a total mess of his hair in his agitation.

John straddles Sherlock’s thighs with a gleeful expression and gives in to the temptation from earlier, which effectively puts a stop to Sherlock’s reflections regarding his brother’s love life.

Read it on AO3

@totallysilvergirl @keirgreeneyes @calaisreno @a-victorian-girl @phoenix27884 @safedistancefrombeingsmart @sabsi221b @gregorovitchworld @helloliriels @peanitbear @raina-at

#christmas ficlet prompts #sherlock fandom #johnlock #sherlock #john watson #mycroft holmes #greg lestrade #sherlock fanfic #bbc sherlock #ao3 fanfic #december moments #respite in december

67 notes · View notes

coltermorning · 4 months

Text

A Christmas to Remember (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)

Summary: You and Arthur have agreed to meet on the night of Christmas Eve. The evening and the following day turn out to be more than either of you expected.

Author’s Notes: Just some good ole fluff for the holidays! Set a year or so down the road from the events of RDR2, and in this instance Arthur never got sick and rides alone now.

Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, implied sex, fluff

AO3 Link

A Christmas to Remember

Word count: 5994

The firelight flickered, throwing shadows across the wooden walls, shimmers of gold rising and collapsing in the night. The room was warm, comfortable for all the drafty air threatening to cut through it. It never quite managed to get in, like the flames stood guard in their grate, pushing against the inevitable winter.

The room had been decorated for the season with a tree and garland and ribbon and light. This place had likely never seen such decoration until the end of the year, the woody smell seeping into the very walls it was so thick. The source of it, a small pine, was standing crooked in the corner. It was a promise of what was to come. Inviting and, had the room not already held its heat, warm. Perfect for the occasion.

On the night before Christmas, you were perched by the window, ignoring the beauty of the room surrounding you in favor of the company you awaited. Mr. Morgan, a promise to meet you here not having left your thoughts since the moment it parted from his lips. You had your gift, your best clothes, expectation wrapped around you like a bow. And yet, all there was to do was wait. To feel the anticipation for his arrival and let all else fall away.

The minutes passed, and soon there was a horse coming up the path with its familiar white spots flashing in the night. That white would normally stand out more but for the snow, falling thick and slow in the December air. It made Valentine prettier. It made the mud seem less untidy somehow, more familiar.

You felt a smile curve your lips when you saw just the man you waited for approach, his hat slung low, his blue coat fastened tight around him. You watched him encourage his horse onward until he rounded the building out of sight. You wondered if he would stable the animal or not, caring as always or too taken by his haste at seeing you. How that eagerness of his for you made you giddy. To be known and to be wanted anyway.

You left your place by the window and took in the room with a sweeping glance. The lights, the smell, the warmth. It was homey in the same way he was. A welcome respite to come back to, a place to look forward to when things got hard.

You stood closer to the fire, knowing sitting was useless when all you wanted was to embrace him the moment he walked through the door. It had been too long. So you remained standing if a little impatient, feeling the nerves that quickened your heartbeat course through you. You would be parting with more than just a gift tonight, and the very thought made you restless. But you owed it to him. He deserved it.

You fiddled with a piece of ribbon tied on the garland that framed the fireplace when you heard bootsteps in the hall, heavy and determined. They made you smile. But for all his bravado, he knocked softly on the door when he reached it, as if you would whisk away into nothingness the moment he did. Like a dream and nothing more.

“Come in,” you answered, and your gentle words were all it took for him to regain that sense of pride. The door swung open, and nothing could have suited you better than the smile he wore, the light in his eyes when they landed on you.

“Y/N.” It was a happy sound. Not a greeting so much as a satisfied release of breath. Your feet were moving before you could respond.

You hugged the man you had been missing for weeks, wishing like always that the pair of you could make this permanent enough to keep you together for longer than an evening.

“I missed you,” you whispered, sinking into the feeling of him holding you. His coat was cold but his warmth outweighed it, swallowing you in the scent of tobacco smoke and outside air. You had missed that smell so much your chest ached with it.

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” he said. Always so intentional. Always saying just what he thought. You adored that about him.

You pulled back to look at him but remained in his arms. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Morgan.”

“Christmas Eve,” he corrected. “We still have a few hours yet.” Then his eyes were filling with meaning like they always did before he kissed you. The look that said nothing in the world mattered more than this. You tilted your chin up, happy to greet it with all the love you held for him. He leaned in with that enamored look, and his lips met yours with the soft release of anticipation for all the days spent waiting. All the days apart that would be dreadful if not for the knowledge that you would have this again. You kissed him back just as slow and soft, like this was what it took to remember.

The pair of you got a bit lost in each other until you could hear his breathing grow heavy. It always did that, and it never failed to make your heart race in kind.

You pulled away and looked into those ocean water eyes. “I got you something.”

He quirked an eyebrow, running his lips together subtilely like he could still taste your kiss. “Did you now?”

“Yes.” He had told you not to. This was your first Christmas spent with him, the first chance you had to give him a gift. But, just like his birthday that had come and gone without your knowledge, he didn’t want a gift. Just your company. You had already gotten onto him plenty for letting his birthday squeak by. You wouldn’t let it happen again.

You stepped to the side and motioned to the bed, to the small parcel laying atop it. You had done your best with wrapping it, a small bit of twine done up around the paper with a bow.

“It’s two, actually. I’ve been working on one for a while.” When you turned back to him, the small flash of concern on his face didn’t go unnoticed. “Don’t worry,” you assured him. “I didn’t expect anything in return.”

His eyes snapped to you then. “Well, that’s too bad,” he said lowly, and before you could ask why, he was reaching inside his coat and pulling something out. A present, a little battered from his travel, the paper wrinkled and the tie around it crushed. You only loved it more for it. It was endearing in the same way he was.

“Arthur,” you chided with a smile. “You were just going to let me show up without a present when you had one for me?”

“‘Course.” He smiled with his teeth, that toothy grin that reminded you of the boy he had once been.

You gave him an incredulous look, and he laughed, the sound spiraling upward and into your bones like liquid gold.

“Fine then. You open mine first,” you said, unable to shake the high that was being with him.

He raised his hands in mock surrender before repocketing his gift and making for the parcel. You felt nerves flash through you, hoping against hope he would like it. One you knew he would, but the other was…a bit different.

“You didn’t have to spend your money,” he said, picking up the package and pulling the string so the bow slipped apart.

“I wanted to,” you told him. “It didn’t cost much anyway. More time than anything.”

He eyed you, the remnants of that grin still on his face, then the paper crinkled as he undid it. It finally gave way to fabric—his favorite color. He smiled.

“Darlin’,” he said endearingly as he pulled out a new shirt. Nothing special, nothing fancy, just something for him to ride in, the softest blue you could find. You always teased him that everything he owned would be blue if he had his say in the matter. “I love it,” he said with a smile bright enough to make you return it. “Thank you.”

He made to hug you but you stopped him. “Unfold it.”

He hesitantly did so, dropping the wrapping to the floor. He held the shirt up, and the moment he did, a loud thunk sounded—his second gift hitting the floor.

“Shit, sorry,” he said, reaching for it.

You could only laugh. “It’s not breakable.”

He picked it up, and the low light in the room was enough for him to see the wood. To see what you had carved into it.

He flipped it over, examined it from every angle. “You did this?” He met your eyes with such an open admiration in his that you felt your face heat.

You nodded. “It’s for your shotgun. The stock. I made sure it was the right kind to fit your gun if you wanted to…swap them out.” You suddenly felt that was a little presumptuous of you.

He stared at it so long your nerves got the better of you.

“You don’t have to, of course-”

“No,” he said, meeting your eye with sincerity in his own. “I love it. I mean it. Thank you. I’ll get it put on there first thing tomorrow.”

You were beaming. “Really? It’s not too…I don’t know. Effeminate?”

He gave you a chiding look so you kept on. “You’re just…you, and I want you to like it, but you don’t have to use it if you-”

He stopped you with a kiss, sudden and sure enough to melt away your doubt. Then there was nothing but him. No worry about some gift that he ended up liking after all.

Arthur pulled away from you slowly, reluctantly. “Open yours.”

He pulled the parcel out of his coat and handed it to you as he sat on the bed, urging you to sit beside him. You joined him, admiring him as you took it. There was no nervousness about him like there had been in you. His mind didn’t even seem to be on the gift. He was thinking of you and little else. So you smiled when you opened it, knowing you would love it before you even knew what it was.

Sure enough, he knew you well. “A journal?”

He nodded as your smile stretched wider. You thumbed through the empty pages, yours to fill. The two of you had that in common—a need to record in drawing as well as words. He was heavier on the words, journal entries lining the pages of what little he had let you see of his leather-bound book. But you preferred drawing. Mimicking art. It was why you had carved the woodland scene into a gunstock for the better part of a month, knowing upon seeing its inspiration how special it was and that it needed to be remembered. So maybe now, that proud deer on the foreground of a valley would forever be cradled in his appreciative hand just as this journal would be cradled in yours.

“Thank you, Arthur.” You met his eye to show that you meant it then melted all over again at the way he was looking at you. You debated speaking the feeling that bloomed within you but didn’t, not when he picked up the stock again and brushed a thumb over your handiwork.

“This is fine work.”

The words made a blush tinge your face. You couldn’t help it. He always bragged on you in a way that would make any woman blush, much less the woman who somehow found herself on the doting end of this rugged, outlawed man. He was a blunt instrument, violent and determined, yet all he trained on you was softness. Kindness you didn’t know how you had come to deserve.

“I told you you was better than me.” This meaning your artwork.

You snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right. And I told you, maybe I’d be a better judge of that if you let me get my hands on that journal of yours.”

He chuckled, the sound soft and warm as the room surrounding you. But to your surprise, for the first time since you’d found out he carried a journal, he didn’t protest.

“Actually,” he said, reaching around to his satchel. “I got you two gifts too.” And, to your shock, he was turning back to you with said journal in hand, holding it out like a bough of hard-earned trust.

“What?” It came out as a whisper, all you could manage in your surprise.

“Take it,” he said, holding it out farther. “I used up all the pages anyway. It’s nigh time I offload it, and I’d feel better about it being in your hands than lord knows who else’s.”

“You mean…” You looked from it to him. “You’re letting me have it? Read it all?”

He nodded his head to the side, a self-conscious gesture. What it must take for him to trust you this much. What he must feel for you.

You took it from him and ran your hands over the worn leather face. All Arthur. Your heart leapt in fondness for him.

You set the journal down atop the new one he had gifted you and turned to face him fully. You felt so deeply for this man. You had for a while. And you wanted him to know it. The journal was just proof he felt the same.

Before you could utter a word, Arthur swept in close and kissed you on the cheek, then stood. He offered you his hand. You took it, and he pulled you up and against him in one fluid motion, his fingers tangling with yours, his other hand finding your back. Then he was moving back and forth. Dancing. Arthur Morgan, outlaw of the state, dancing.

You laughed aloud. “What’s this?”

He ignored whatever gruffness he would normally have over something so carefree and led you in a soundless dance around the room, the only music the warmth, the lights, the way you felt for each other.

“You know how to dance, don’t you?” he said.

“Vaguely,” you replied. “Do you?”

That really got him going. He gave you a roguish grin and spun you, making you twirl with his fingers alone before pulling you back in. And when he did, he crushed you to him. Then his lips were on yours, and there wasn’t anymore air in the room apart from the love he granted you, how it filled your lungs.

Now. Now, in this perfect moment. It was time. You pulled away.

“Arthur?”

His eyes were closed, his hands cradling your face as he rested his forehead against yours as best he could with his hat. And still he swayed, a subtle back and forth even though it couldn’t quite be considered dancing anymore.

“Hm?”

You didn’t care that his eyes were shut. Didn’t care that he didn’t know what you were about to say or how long you had mulled over saying it. Because you felt it. And it was never more real than it was when you were with him.

“I love you.”

He stopped swaying.

You watched his blue eyes open slowly, like he didn’t quite believe what he had heard. Then his gaze met yours, soft and searching under those eyelashes, complicated as he was.

He didn’t answer. Just held you, watched you. In disbelief, you realized. Or maybe wanting to hold onto this moment like you were, committing it to memory. Too bad he no longer had a journal to draw it in. The thought made you smile. Then words were spilling from you like a flood.

“I’ve loved you since the day I saw what kind of man you really were. I’ve loved you since I saw that page in your journal with the deer drawn on it. I’ve loved you for so long it’s like I was just waiting on you to get here. Like you were made for me.”

His eyebrows drew together in emotion. Still, he did not speak.

“I love you so much it hurts when you’re away,” you muttered, finding his coat in your hands and clutching it, pulling him closer. When you met his eyes again, he was so close you could see every fleck of color in the firelight, the blue and gold that crashed together into green. You kissed him, and this time he was reluctant. Unsure. So you moved back just enough to give him room to breathe, time to think enough to speak.

His eyes never left you as he said, “I don’t know what I did to deserve that.”

It was quiet and vulnerable. So true of him, that he didn’t think he deserved to be loved.

“You’re you,” you said. “And that’s enough for me. Enough and then some.”

He was pulling you to him in less than a heartbeat. Crashing his lips to yours with all the passion of a man born again.

He broke from it for a breath, whispering, “I love you too,” before kissing the words into your mouth.

Nothing would ever be better than this. Nothing. It didn’t matter that the feeling was temporary. That Christmas would be over, and he would be gone, and you would ache at the loss of him again. There was no losing this. This memory would hold on forever as the happiest you’d ever had.

Arthur pulled back, and you were both breathing heavy. Far beyond any arousal or want. This was deeper.

He held your face like he held his life in his hands as he said, “I love you too, sweetheart.” Just because he could. The privilege of getting to say it addictive.

You looked at him and couldn’t keep the smile on your face at bay. He met your gaze and kissed you softly, a press of his lips against yours. A guarantee.

Wordlessly, he led you back to the bed. Your heart started to pound with thoughts less innocent until he picked up his journal, flipped toward the back, and held it out to you again.

“I may not have admitted it until now but…well. See for yourself.”

You took the book and turned it toward you, sitting back on the bed. The page you were met with had a drawing of you on it. Patiently drawn, thought out enough that it truly resembled you. You had wondered that—if he had ever drawn you. And now you had your answer. There were no words inscribed beside it like usual, like he just wanted the memory of you down on the page. Absentminded fondness. It burned you up inside.

“Keep turning.”

You looked to him. He wouldn’t meet your eye, embarrassment keeping his gaze glued to his journal, but it was endearing on him all the same.

You did as he asked and saw drawing after drawing after drawing, a few entries here and there. A few animals, a few towns, and nearly every other page, you.

It amazed you. You had thought you’d fallen first, and hard, but seeing this proved otherwise. Based on the entries, these drawings were done mere weeks after you met him.

“I could never seem to get your likeness just right,” he admitted quietly.

“Arthur, these are…” You wanted to reassure him. That this warmed your heart to him more than anything. You looked at him. “Thank you. I never thought…” You had stopped on a page that drew your gaze like none other. Because it captured a look in your eye you had only ever given to him. It was your admiration for him sketched out on the page, all subtle shades of black and gray. And the entry beside it nearly made you tear up.

I get to see her again.

He had drawn a heart beside it. You sobbed a laugh, a sound so happy it was all you could speak.

“I’ve been pretty damn fond of you from the beginning,” he admitted.

You set the journal aside and rose to meet him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you.” You said it on a smile. Because that’s all there was for it.

“Well if it ain’t obvious now…” he started. And he didn’t have to finish. Because you knew he loved you back.

You kissed him slowly then hugged him tight. He was yours.

You had a sudden idea and broke away from him, sitting back on the bed, reaching for the unused journal. “Here.”

“You don’t want it?”

Even the thought crushed you. “No, I want it. But I want you to christen the first page.”

“It’s yours,” he said. Like that would change your mind.

“I know it is. And every time I open it, I want to be reminded of the night I got it.”

He just stared, so you spoke. “Draw me.” Not from memory. Not without your knowledge this time.

“What, now?”

It was true, the pair of you didn’t have long together. But this was more intimate than anything somehow.

“Yes.” You smiled at him. And the look you gave him must have made up his mind, because he took the journal from your hand, the motion subtle and soft in the firelight. He went to the corner and pulled the lone chair over, setting it before you and sitting in it. He reached in his satchel and pulled out a drawing pencil. Then he sat back and looked at you. Really looked at you. He smiled. And he opened the journal, set pencil to paper, and began.

Every time he studied you, you admired him. The way his eyes focused, the way his pencil shaded gently. Such a light hand, easy in the same manner he was to you. A vast difference from when he was holding a gun, just as he treated everyone else so differently. This was the real Arthur. Only yours to see.

Minutes passed, and you shifted as you watched him, the big, tough man hyper-focused on the small journal in his hand.

“Hold still.”

When he met your eye, his were glinting with playfulness. You knew he was only kidding. You had seen him capture birds in flight, fish mid-leap out of the water, animals of all sorts on the run. He didn’t need you to be still. And just being here with him, letting him draw and joke and tease, filled you with such happiness as to make you want to plant this in your memory forever—a warm room and a man who loved you.

When he finished the drawing, he closed the journal and stowed his pencil, standing.

“Let me see.”

He shook his head with a lazy smile as he bound the journal back up. “Later.”

“Why later?”

Then he was stepping closer, the air in the room going thin as his eyes fixed on you.

“Open it when I ain’t here,” he said, eyes full with want. He tossed the journal on the bed and boxed you in with arms on either side of you, leaning in and kissing you slow and lazy. You soared. In this room full of merry light and special occasion, you soared. You hadn’t known what to expect when you first met this man, certainly not the gentle, easy love you had fallen into with him, but as he laid you back and began kissing you like you were the very air he breathed, you were more thankful than you ever had been. He was yours, and you were his, and nothing else in this inconsequential little life mattered. Maybe one day, it would even be enough to make him stay. Or better yet, for you to gain the courage to go with him. Whatever he asked of you, you would do it. For him, you would.

“I love you,” you whispered into his mouth again, eager to be able to say it. And then he was losing all semblance of patience and control, borne on the back of the desire that was having you all to himself for the night, those full words repeating and repeating.

“I love you,” he said, low and true. You smiled.

The following morning, Christmas morning, the two of you hesitantly stepped down the stairs of the hotel together, neither wanting to leave the other.

Sure enough, Arthur’s horse stood just beside yours, hitched to the post outside the hotel. He, like you, had been too full of anticipation over seeing you and had refrained from taking the time to stable his horse. No matter. The two animals had always seemed to get on well. Like they knew their owners had something special and got along like old friends, like siblings, because of it.

Arthur stepped up to his horse, giving it a treat and a loving pat. Not saying a word, not wanting the moment to end.

“Want to go get that stock put on your gun?” you suggested, knowing whatever else there was could wait.

He eyed you. Then turned, stepped closer, took your hand.

“Come with me.” He looked down at your hand as he spoke. Like the mere act of holding it was precious.

“Of course,” you said, a smile already forming.

The pair of you led your horses together down the main thoroughfare, the slight worry of someone recognizing Arthur lingering in the back of your mind. It had been a long time since that gang of his stirred up so much trouble here, but not long enough.

You got to the gunsmith without a fuss and offered to hitch Arthur’s horse while he went inside. He just rolled his eyes at you before taking your mount, leading them over himself. Ever the gentleman.

When he returned to your side with his shotgun strapped over his shoulder, he led you up the steps with a hand at your back. He used to be so nervous about touching you. It only made you fonder for him over time, and especially now that he had gotten over it.

He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, looking over the racks of guns, the counter display, the gunsmith. He eyed Arthur a little when he came in behind you but didn’t say a word about it if he recognized him. He only gave a Christmas greeting and an offer to help.

“Need to change the stock out on my shotgun,” Arthur said, laying the weapon down on the countertop.

“Sure. We have a fine selection of-”

“No need,” Arthur said, holding a hand up and using the other to pull the gift you had carved him out of his coat.

“This is a fine piece,” the smith said upon seeing it laid down.

“She carved it,” Arthur said with pride as he turned to look at you, eyes alight.

“You?” the man said, drawing your attention away from Arthur’s loving gaze. “Well, if you’re looking for work, I could use someone with this kind of talent.”

“Thank you but no,” you said respectfully. “I don’t live around these parts.” Just a passerby, choosing this spot to spend one perfect evening because you knew how the hotel room would be decorated, how homey and worn the town was. Just like Arthur.

The smith nodded his head and got to work, taking Arthur’s gun. When he was halfway finished and Arthur said, “That piece goes on first,” realization hit you like a slap. Arthur never said he needed to go to the gunsmith to get the new stock affixed to the gun, just that he would get it put on. He would. He knew how, likely knew more about guns than most gunsmiths. Including how to take one apart and put it back together. So why had he agreed to come here, pay what little penance the labor would cost?

When Arthur’s gaze shifted from his gun to you, the answer dawned on you. He wanted to spend what little time he could with you. Your whole being melted at the very idea. He was such a sap.

You held his eyes then let the moment pass when the smith announced he was finished. Arthur checked over his gun and smiled when he brushed his hand over the carved wood. “Perfect,” he said. You felt your face heat again, just glad that he liked it. Even more glad he was willing to carry it around like a badge of honor.

He turned to the smith. “What do I owe you?”

“You let me keep this stock and we call it even,” he said, holding up the old one. It was worth more than that, but Arthur let it slide, seemingly favoring his new one too much to care.

“You got a deal,” Arthur said, tipping his hat. “I appreciate it. And uh, merry Christmas.” He shouldered his gun and placed his hand at your back once more, leading you out.

“To you as well,” the gunsmith replied. Then you were out the door and away from any remaining worry that Arthur would be recognized.

The two of you ambled back over to the horses, wordless. Not wanting this to end so soon. Arthur stowed his gun. You stood and watched him. Then he turned and sighed as his breath plumed in the cold air, like he had to remember how to breathe when leaving was inevitable. Maybe one day it wouldn’t be.

He pulled you in for a hug, resting his head atop yours. You nuzzled into his warmth.

“When will I see you again?” The words had more sorrow in them than you intended. He must have noticed, as he moved back enough to place a finger under your chin and lift your head to look at him. The smile under his eyes was sad too, but filled with hope.

“Soon. Real soon if I played my cards right.”

“What does that mean?”

He just shook his head and smiled, that boyish grin. “Just write me when you feel like putting up with me again.”

That was odd. Normally he gave you a time frame. “That’s always, Arthur,” you said. “You may as well stay if that’s the case.”

He laughed. You’d been over this before. He only refrained from asking you to join him in fear of his past catching up with him. You used to want to keep a healthy distance from that past, but now you weren’t so sure. Things were different when love was involved.

“Well, if you’ll have me, I’ll be back then. How’s that?”

That still raised more questions than it answered, but you didn’t ask them. His smile was distracting you. He was normally more solemn than this when he left.

“Why are you acting so funny?”

He leaned in and kissed you, a quick peck on the lips. Then he held your eye, the look on his face smug. For the life of you, you couldn’t decipher why.

Finally, he gave some. “Just take a look in that new journal of yours for me. When I’m gone.”

Your eyebrow raised high. Or even higher. “Why not now?”

“Just…” He let out another long breath. “Trust me. Can you do that?”

The dashing, bashful smile he leveled on you would have had you agreeing to murder.

“Yeah. Of course. You know I do.”

“All right then.” He pulled you in for another hug. This one tighter. This one more like a goodbye. It was a strange place to end things, almost unlike an ending at all. It had you wanting to rip open that journal right now and figure what on earth he was on about.

He pulled away and, with a calmness in his eyes, said, “I love you.” He held it like a breath. “And merry Christmas. I’ll see you…real soon. I hope.”

As suspicious as you were, you let him be. If he wasn’t telling you what was up now, he had to have a reason. So you held onto the hope that the promise of soon was a surety, that you would see the love he had for you made just as palpable as it was right now, stretching across his face in the morning light.

You loosed a breath and gave in to that love. “I love you too. More.” He grinned, color reaching his face. “Merry Christmas, Arthur.”

“Indeed,” he said. Then he was kissing you again and letting you go. Heading for his horse all too soon.

He mounted and turned to look at you. “Remember, don’t open that journal ‘til I’m gone. Long gone.”

“Why? What’d you put in there, a stick of dynamite?”

He let out a happy laugh. “Oh, it’ll blow something up, that’s for sure.” That left you stumped. “Just relax. You can read it as soon as I’m down the way, how’s that?”

You shook your head at him but couldn’t help the smile that turned your lips. “You’re something else.”

“You love me,” he taunted. And he was right.

“Go then,” you said, shooing him. “Go on. I have journals to read.”

“Good day to you too, miss.”

You laughed, and he kicked up his horse, rounding you. He got close enough to duck down and lift his hat, planting one last, brazen kiss on your lips. It had you blushing like a kid.

He straightened and donned his hat, his face the same red as yours likely was, though neither could be contributed to the cold.

“Bye. See you soon.”

“Goodbye, Arthur. It’d better be soon, or you owe me an explanation.”

“It will be. I hope.” There he went again. You just waved him off, and he passed you smiling wide, his horse stepping out into the muddy, snow-logged street. You watched him go with awe. That handsome, proud man. How you had ever won him over, you couldn’t be sure. But you had. And you were pulling out your new journal to find out why before he had even gotten halfway down the street.

You unwrapped its binding in haste, feeling the new pages crack and reluctantly give in your hands. You flipped and flipped and reached the first page and were…struck dumb. Utterly.

On the left was a drawing of you. Subtle and suggestive with its shading, perfect, the way all of Arthur’s drawings were. But on the right, in big, bolded letters: The future Mrs. Morgan. And underneath, May she forgive me for not having procured a ring yet. I’ll make it up to her in kind as soon as she’ll let me.

You could have cried. You couldn’t believe it. The decision to stay apart all this time had been both his and yours, and knowing now that he had changed his mind…

You looked up and found him to be nowhere in sight. You wished he still were. If he were, you would drag him back here and tell him a ring didn’t matter. Of course you would marry him. It didn’t require any thought. The decision was already made the minute he whispered that he loved you back.

The future Mrs. Morgan. Having that down in his writing, on the very first page no less…you could die happy.

You took one last look and shut the journal, stuffing it back inside your coat. And, riddled with giddiness, you faced the street and the daylight, soaking it into your bones. For all the chill the wind held, it couldn’t cut you. For all the months spent away from Arthur, you couldn’t feel sorry that you had needed to be so patient. Because this was real, and true, and unlike anything in the world.

On Christmas Day and for the first time in years, you faced your future with surety. And what a beautiful, merry sight it was.

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x female reader #high honor arthur morgan #rdr2 arthur morgan #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 #fanfic #writing

152 notes · View notes

ewanmitchellcrumbs · 4 months

Text

Someone Like You

Pairing: Billy Taylor (The Halcyon) x f!reader Warnings: Mild angst, handjob, smut. Word count: ~1.4k

Summary: The Halcyon is hosting its Christmas Eve party for its guests, and her and Billy are both feeling the pressure of being rushed off their feet. They find a moment of respite alone together.

Author's note: A part two of my first Smuffmas entry. Day eleven of the Smuffmas prompts - "a fancy party and praising". No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

It has been twelve days since her and Billy had decorated the staff sitting room. Twelve long, miserable days since she had last felt his lips upon hers and the way he’d rutted against her, not that she’s counting. They have scarcely had a chance to see each other in the lead up to Christmas. Beyond shy smiles and blushes exchanged in passing, they’ve had no other interaction. But that’s not for lack of wanting to or trying. The mistletoe she’d rescued has remained in her apron pocket, primed for an opportune moment.

December is always the busiest time of year for the hotel. People want to celebrate in style, and so they check in to the Halcyon to be waited on hand and foot. She’s not sure what it is about Christmas that drives people to make the most outlandish demands of the staff, but it has stolen away her festive cheer. She is exhausted.

It’s Christmas Eve and the day has been spent preparing for the annual party they host for the guests who will be staying with them on the big day itself. On top of turning down rooms, and helping the kitchen staff to prepare food, she’s now expected to serve drinks at the party itself.

The staff who are married with children have been given Christmas off to spend with their families, so The Halcyon is operating on a skeleton crew of the young and the single, her and Billy are unlucky enough to find themselves among them.

She weaves her way through the bar, abuzz with the sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses. Every surface seems to glitter with decorations, amplified by the muted lighting of the lamps that adorn the centre of each table.

Nodding and smiling politely each time a guest relieves her of a saucer of champagne that rests on the heavy tray she carries around the room, she breathes a withering sigh once it’s finally empty. Her feet ache with how many passes she’s made around the crowded space, yet there’s no time to rest. She has to collect the empties and take them back to the kitchen to be washed, so that they can be refilled anew by the bar staff. It seems never ending.

Doing a quick scan of the bar, she can see that Kate and Feldman are circling the room with drinks and canapés, so she’ll be fine to leave for a little while to wash up some glasses. The food prep has already been done, so the kitchen is empty, save for the staff going in to refresh plates and glassware.

The empties rattle precariously against each other on her tray as she walks carefully back to the kitchen, her burden suddenly seeming not quite so great as she spots Billy doing exactly the same thing. He’s clad in his usual bellboy uniform, though is without his cap, a means to help him blend in with the rest of the serving staff.

He pushes his tray onto the draining board next to the sink, and a glass wobbles, toppling off and shattering loudly against the hard linoleum of the kitchen floor.

“Ah– shit!” He grumbles, kneeling to pick up the pieces.

She quickly deposits her own tray onto the food prep table and kneels to help him.

“It’s okay, Billy, it’s just a glass,” she reassures him, picking up some of the larger shards and depositing them into the bin beneath the sink.

“I know, I know,” he replies with a sigh, “but I can’t seem to get anything right today.”

“How do you mean?” She asks, righting herself and brushing her hands on her skirt as he reaches for a dustpan and brush to sweep up the rest of the mess.

“Spilled champagne all down a lady’s frock just now, broke a glass,” his brow furrows as he brushes the broken pieces into the pan and empties it into the bin. “Brought the wrong luggage to the wrong room earlier too.”

She watches as he stands again, chucking the dustpan and brush to one side, and she offers him a sympathetic smile. “It’s our busiest time of year, everyone makes mistakes. I forgot to fold the toilet paper into a point in the Royal Suite earlier, and Mrs. Garland gave me a right earful.”

He tugs awkwardly at the bottom of his bellboy uniform, his mouth turned downwards, as is his gaze. “Yeah…but…I’m gonna be drafted next year. If I can’t get this job right, how am I gonna manage to defend our country? I’m useless.”

Her brows pinch together in concern, stepping forward to gently cup Billy’s cheek. It’s soft and warm against her palm, growing warmer still beneath her touch. “Oi, don’t talk like that. You’re doing a fine job. And you’re so brave, I know I’ll feel safer having you protecting us all.”

His blue eyes flit up to meet hers, wide and filled with uncertainty. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, Billy, I think you’re wonderful.”

He huffs a soft chuckle, turning pink as he pulls away slightly, lips pressed into a tight smile. “I dunno about that…”

“Well, I do,” she reaches into her apron pocket, pulling out the mistletoe she’s kept stashed there since their first kiss. “See? I’ve been saving this in the hopes we’d use it again.”

Billy visibly softens, shoulders pulling away from his ears, and he steps towards her, hands gripping her waist as he presses his lips to hers. It’s a slow, soft, lingering kiss that they hold for a few moments, before he reluctantly breaks away. It sets her pulse racing and she wraps both her arms around his neck to keep him close.

“Anyone could walk in,” he whispers, his eyes searching her face uncertainly.

“They won’t though. They’re all busy.”

She kisses him again, and this time they are both more eager as he backs her up against the sink. She smiles into it, the mistletoe she’d been holding absentmindedly falling from her fingers and onto the floor behind them.

His excitement grows more apparent as he presses against her, and she drops an arm down between them to palm at him through his grey trousers.

He groans, pressing his forehead against hers. “We shouldn’t…”

“But you want to?”

“God…yes…yes!”

His voice is a strained whisper, causing excitement to flutter hotly in her lower belly. She uses both hands to unbuckle his belt, before unzipping his trousers and snaking her fingers into his underwear to wrap around his hardened length.

Her eyes widen slightly in surprise. Though she’d felt it as he’d ground against her the first time they’d kissed, it’s another thing entirely to have her hand on it. Billy is impressively well endowed.

“So big,” she coos, her thumb swiping over the wetness that’s gathered at the tip.

His head falls against her shoulder with a gasp, and his grip on her waist tightens as she slowly strokes her hand up and down, dragging the foreskin along with it, feeling every ridge and vein.

“So good for me, Billy, you’re so good.”

She speeds up her movements and his head tilts back slightly, eyes screwed shut and lips parted, as he breathes raggedly. “Oh god…please…”

Smirking, she leans in, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Have you ever been with a woman, Billy?”

“N–no,” he pants, hips canting to chase the movement of her hand.

“Do you think about it when you touch yourself?”

“Yeah…I…I think about you.”

She clenches around nothing at the confession, biting her lip, twisting her wrist slightly as she pumps at his cock.

“Is that what you want?”

He whines slightly, nodding and pulling her closer, a strand of his gelled hair falling forward against his forehead. “Mmmm…I want you.”

“Such a good boy,” she purrs. “Perhaps if you ask nicely then that’s what you’ll get for Christmas.”

She feels his stomach muscles tense, a grunt escaping him as he pulsates in her palm, coating her knuckles in hot, sticky spend.

Withdrawing her hand, she licks it from her fingers, the taste slightly salty, and hums in satisfaction.

He stares at her, chest heaving and eyes wide, transfixed by the sight.

“Are you real?” He asks breathlessly.

She giggles, brushing his stray strand of hair back into place. “If you do a good job for the rest of this evening, perhaps I’ll let you find out.”

#billy taylor x reader #ewan mitchell #billy taylor #billy taylor x you #billy taylor x y/n #billy taylor imagine #billy taylor smut #billy taylor the halcyon #the halcyon billy taylor #billy taylor fan fiction #billy taylor fanfiction #billy taylor fanfic #billy taylor fan fic #the halcyon #the halcyon fan fiction #the halcyon fanfiction #the halcyon fan fic #the halcyon fanfic

161 notes · View notes

queenshelby · 5 months

Text

Chemical Reactions (P. 21)

Pairing: Cillian Murphy as J Robert Oppenheimer x Student Reader

Warning: Age-Gap, Infidelity, Smut, Torture

Words: 1,889

Note: The fic is spoiler free and my own fantasy and imagination. It is not historically and scientifically accurate.

It was early December and a few more weeks had passed since Robert had sent the letter to you, to which he received no response.

Concerned, Robert met with General Groves who informed him about the progress of your case and difficulties for him to obtain correspondence from you. Unfortunately for Robert, Groves also informed him that reaching a conclusion in respect of your release still required more time than initially expected due to bureaucratic delays.

Feeling helpless and anxious, Robert continued to pour his energy into his work, focusing solely on the task at hand which, again, proved more difficult than he had anticipated.

The first implosion test failed and a series of subsequent tests resulted in setbacks too. Although these failures might have discouraged lesser men, they served to intensify Robert’s dedication and tenacity. Each failure drove him further into his research, leaving behind nothing short of success when the stakes were highest.

But, it wasn't just the scientific aspect that consumed him – the mere thought of failing you made his predicament worse.

It didn't matter how many hours he spent poring over equations and calculations, his mind always drifted back to you. Your image haunted him like a phantom, taunting him with visions of your smiling face, tender touch, and warm embraces. And then, late nights turned into sleepless nights as thoughts of you invaded his dreams, making sleep seem like an elusive creature refusing to grant him respite.

These agonizing days wore on, each bringing fresh torments. Nightmares plagued Robert's slumber, filling his waking hours with a profound exhaustion until, one afternoon, just weeks before Christmas, everything seemed to fall into place when Groves came to visit.

"Robert," Groves greeted with a solemn expression as, without knocking, he entered his office and startling him from his thoughts.

"General," Robert acknowledged with equal gravity, rising slowly from his chair, a hint of worry etched across his brow.

"Do sit, Robert," Groves ordered calmly, gesturing towards the seat and, as Robert sat back down, he noticed that General Groves appeared unusually serious and formal.

Swallowing hard, Robert composed himself, preparing to confront whatever dire situation lay ahead, thinking that, clearly, his day could not become any worse after, just that same morning, yet another implosion device failed to detonate.

"I have an early Christmas present for you," General Groves announced abruptly, casting aside any pleasantries.

"General, I am Jewish, we do not..." Robert began to say, but the General interrupted him sharply.

"Trust me Robert, you will be delighted nonetheless," Groves chuckled, causing Robert to furrow his eyebrows.

"Unless that surprise is going to helpful when it comes to activating the gadget, I must apologize if my excitement remains contained, General," Robert retorted with a rather exhausted look on his face, making the General realize how little he must have been sleeping.

"Well, for a matter of fact, the surprise I have for you is a scientist and I am hopeful that she might be able to help you become inspired with new ideas that will, indeed, help with the activation of the gadget," Groves responded confidently, knowing full well how important your contribution would be.

"You are bringing a new scientist on to the project without my consultation?" Robert asked incredulously, his initial disbelief transforming into anger.

"Indeed, I am Robert. Now come. I want you to meet her," Groves commanded briskly, stepping past Robert's desk to lead the way. Robert hesitated briefly, wondering why the urgency, feeling somewhat unwilling to get excited. But, curiosity piqued his interest, driving him to follow suit despite his reservations. Together, they descended the steps leading outside and, soon enough, Robert realized that General Groves was leading him past the security gate and towards his own house.

"General, forgive me for asking, but why precisely are we heading to my home?" Robert enquired curiously, attempting to contain his growing suspicion.

"Like I said Robert, I want you to meet the newest addition to your team," Groves stated firmly, opening the door to his residence, whereupon Robert found himself suddenly standing inside, bewildered by the sudden shift in locale.

"General, please explain to me..." Robert began to plead, his tone displaying a mix of frustration and impatience, just before he got interrupted.

"Robert, believe me when I say you will appreciate meeting this woman," Groves answered cryptically, guiding Robert into the living room where, suddenly, he saw you sitting there, looking up at him with those intense eyes that had captivated him so completely.

Robert froze in shock and disbelief upon seeing you. The unexpectedness of the encounter left him momentarily speechless, taking in the sight of you before him as though he were viewing something unreal or a mirage. Time stood still as he gazed at you, lost in admiration. His heart raced wildly against his rib cage while his mouth went dry.

Standing up, you rose gracefully, walking towards him with an undeniably feminine sway, your soft footsteps echoing against the wooden floorboards beneath you. As you reached closer, Robert felt his breath hitch, watching your every movement intently, struggling to regain control of his erratic pulse.

"Do I not at least get a kiss?" you teased playfully, tilting your head to the side, flashing a shy smile. Robert felt his heart skip a beat, overcome with both relief and longing, the familiar yearning returning with vengeance. Reaching forward, he took hold of your hands, pressing his lips fervently against yours, feeling a surge of desire coursing through his veins.

"Where is our son?" Robert demanded passionately, pulling away momentarily while you clung onto him, reciprocating his affection wholeheartedly.

"He is asleep. In your bedroom. He cried all the way here, so he really needed the rest," you explained earnestly, caressing his cheek lovingly. Robert leaned down, planting a gentle kiss on your forehead, relieved that your son was safe.

"Thank you, my love," Robert exclaimed gratefully, embracing you tightly, unable to let go even after several minutes had passed. This was the second chance he never imagined receiving – a gift straight from heaven. For about a year, you two had been kept apart, separated by deceit, distance, and obstacles, but fate had conspired to bring you together again.

"Perhaps I should give you some privacy, but before I go, please be advised that officials are going to keep a close eye on the both of you. Y/N will not receive security clearance and must remain at Los Alamos until the project concludes. She has been cleared of all wrongdoing, but these are the precautions we will need to take to bring her back on to the project, Robert," Groves began before addressing the fact that Robert now had not only one, but two, children to be looked after.

"As far your children are concerned, they will remain here, with you. This includes Kitty's son who she chose to leave in your care upon her departure from Los Alamos. I have taken it upon myself to employ a child nurse to look after them both. She will arrive tomorrow," Groves informed, pausing briefly as Robert digested the news. It was certainly a lot to process - finding solace in your arms, having been reunited with you, and now learning that he would also bear responsibility for raising not one, but two young lives. "Now, you must understand that, for obvious reasons, I expect you to retain professionalism at work. The only reason I have allowed Y/N back on to the project is because I consider it beneficial to the well-being of the man who runs Los Alamos for me. So now, I expect focus from you, Robert!" Groves instructed sternly, drawing attention back to matters concerning national security before saying his farewell, hoping not to be back until after Christmas.

After Groves left, silence fell heavy around you both, giving you both time to truly reflect on what transpired. Both hearts racing, filled with gratitude and apprehension, Robert pulled you closer, allowing your bodies to nestle snugly into each other. He couldn't believe this was finally happening, you being right there beside him, holding him close, cherishing moments previously stolen from you.

"I need to see our son," Robert insisted, breaking free from your embrace gently as he heard him squirm, making unsettling noises.

"Of course," you smiled before, overwhelmed, you closed your eyes, savoring the tender memory of his touch.

"Come with me and I will introduce you," you offered, entwining your fingers with his as you led him toward the bedroom, sharing a comforting warmth as you walked shoulder to shoulder.

You then opened the door to the dimly lit room where your tiny son stirred peacefully, swaddled in blankets, angelic features contrasting the gloomy atmosphere. The sight of him stirred mixed feelings of joy and sadness in Robert, reminding him of the responsibilities he faced along with the happiness derived from being reunited with you in this world, at war.

"Go on, pick him up. He is awake," you encouraged softly, reaching across to guide Robert's hand toward your son's small body.

Gingerly, Robert lifted him from the cradle, feeling like the weight of the world was now balanced precariously in his palms. Carefully, he held the infant close to his chest, feeling his fragile frame trembling slightly underneath the pressure of fatherhood. The sweet innocence radiating off of his son struck Robert hard, filling him with both immense pride and trepidation simultaneously.

"See, that's your daddy, my sweet boy," you whispered softly, your voice resonating with genuine tenderness as Robert rocked him gently.

"He looks just like you, Oppie," you added lightheartedly, referring to his striking features, causing a hint of laughter to surface in Robert's strained expression.

"He's got your smile though," Robert remarked pensively, gazing deeply into the baby's eyes which mirrored his own intensity. Seeing the resemblances brought forth fond memories of the days spent together when everything seemed perfect, a stark contrast to reality.

With tears beginning to pool in his eyes, Robert turned to face you, trying to hide his vulnerability behind a facade of bravado. Unable to maintain composure any longer, he wrapped you both in a protective embrace, holding onto you fiercely until, suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

"Dr Oppenheimer! You must come quickly!" his secretary announced frantically, catching Robert unawares with the urgency in her voice. Startled, Robert glanced hurriedly towards you, hesitation evident in his eyes as he contemplated leaving your presence prematurely.

"Go, Robert! I will be here when you get back," you reassured him, stroking his arm affectionately as he moved closer to you.

Taking a deep breath, bidding you goodbye, Robert set off towards the sound of his secretary's distressed call and, before you knew it, he barged out the door.

Tags:

@sunbeamseas @saint-ackerman @oatmealisweird @naxxsstuff @amanda08319 @r-m-cidnah @elysiannook @cillshot @infireddabdab @tastycakee @harrysbestiee @lilybabe22 @adalynlowell @henrywintersdearestgirl @ietss @thatgirlthatreadswattpad @ryiamarie @axionn

@heidimoreton @nela-cutie @futurecorps3 @delishen @nosebleeds-247 @thirteenis-myluckynumber @gills-lounge @hjmalmed @lost-fantasy @tiredkitten @sidechrisporn @smallsoulunknown @charqing-qing @hopefulinlove @aporiasposts @shycrybaby @me-and-your-husband @hjmalmed @lacontroller1991 @galxydefender @aporiasposts

@galxydefender @hunnibearrr @saint-ackerman @lunyyx @gentlemonsterjennie1 @ihavealotoffandomssorry @nadloves @lost-fantasy @nolucesn@mcavoy-girl @hjmalmed @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @blushykiss @tatumrileyslover @teawithsatanx @orijanko @rhaenyra4ever @xcinnamonmalfoyx @budugu @nadloves @kmc1989 @bloodybagels @obeyme4life @richiesgroupie @forgottenpeakywriter

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy imagine #cillian murphy x y/n #cillian murphy x you #oppenheimer movie #oppenheimer 2023 #j robert oppenheimer #robert oppenheimer #oppenheimer x you #kitty oppenheimer #oppenheimer #j robert oppenheimer x you #j robert oppenheimer x reader #robert oppenheimer smut #oppenheimer x reader

278 notes · View notes

ourladyofoldgotham · 8 months

Text

i'd be your mistress (just to keep you around)

jonathan crane x gender neutral reader

NSFW 18+, minors dni

infidelity, angst, smut

summary

On a summer night, Dr. Jonathan Crane sneaks away from his life for a few hours to be with you.

It’s a warm August evening in Gotham, in the dusky hours before night falls and after the sun goes down. You hear his car before you see it - with practice, you can recognize it even in the milieu of the evening rush on the highway below your balcony, like a voice in a crowd. Your lover always calls late.

He lets himself in. You’ve never been particularly bothered by that. After all, he has a right to it. The money he pays you every month covers over half your rent, plus a solid chunk of your grocery bill- there’s no way you could get a place like this on your own acting.

Sometimes you wonder exactly why he does it - out of affection? A need to know you’re safe and cared for when he’s not there? Out of his own self-preservation? A way to make sure his tires stay unslashed and his reputation tidy when he comes to visit? Or out of guilt?

You try not to wonder. It’s easier to leave things unquestioned, with him. He makes it easy, honestly. You think about it more than you should when you’re alone- about whether it’s right to need him and have him in his respites from his beautiful life - but under his sharp, lonely gaze, it feels like it melts away. It’s just you and him. The rest doesn’t matter. Not right then.

He seems distracted when he unlocks the door. He is more often than not, these days. A perfect life can drive a man mad. There’s always something on his mind. Sometimes he’ll tell you about it absentmindedly, sitting back on the couch with a vodka martini while he undresses you with his eyes. It’s usually work things - a fascinating case, or a particularly troubled patient. He asks you your thoughts on it, and there’s something you find charming about it. As though he sees you as someone far more intelligent than you seem, as more than the sum of your parts. Sometimes, he refuses to - avoiding the question and your gaze as his hands slip under your shirt while you fix him a drink. That’s when you know it’s about his other life. His children, maybe. Issues with school or an argument with his wife. The things he really comes to you to forget. You wonder sometimes if they know - if they ever put something together from all of the evenings spent away.

He used to be more than just an evening caller. A couple years ago, he’d even spent the whole weekend with you. It had been the only thing you’d asked for for your birthday that year, and he had been willing to provide it. Between the wild sex, you’d done normal things together. He took you out to the fair and won you a prize. You went to dinner. You felt like a normal couple, like something to be shown off on his arm and not hidden away. Maybe that was the problem.

He was gone early Monday morning - you didn’t wake up to see him go, but you could have sworn you heard your door shut before the sun came up. After that, it was radio silence. Brief periods of quiet on his end are typical, he’s a busy man, but it had never been anything like this. There was always a little something to tide you over - a text, a little treat showing up on your doorstep, a call when he’s driving home from work. This was something else, something more worrying. At first you scanned the obituaries, the news, any accident reports that you could get your hands on going about your day. Maybe something had happened. Nothing showed up. You texted, of course. You called. No reply. He read them, sometimes, though. They delivered. You read into that. Maybe more than you should have. On the 12th of the month his money still showed up in your account. No note.

It did that four more times before you saw him again. He called you out of the blue one cold night in early December and asked if you were home. The exhaustion in his voice made your heart melt in seconds. You were out of practice making the martini, but when you cut your hand making the twist and ran out of vodka he kissed you on the cheek and said that anything you made would have been fine. The two of you ended up with hot spiked cider instead, curled up on the couch together. He was sweet, but he didn’t seem all there that night. He didn’t seem to want much from you but your company. He mentioned something offhandedly about the new baby, and he left you there alone just a couple hours after he came. His drink was still on the coffee table untouched.

To his credit, he was better about the silence after. He texted, sometimes, but so much less than before. Maybe a couple of times a month, one or two a week if you got lucky. It was the first time you ever really realized the vastness of his life outside of your apartment, and it served as a wakeup call. You stopped looking for auditions and started looking for jobs. The next time he came over your table was covered in applications and classified ads.

He asked about it. He looked confused, almost nervous. You spilled your heart out to him, of course. You never could keep a secret from him, and when you finished, there was a softness in his eyes that made you want to break down crying. He told you that you didn’t need that - that you never would. That he couldn’t always be there when you wanted him, or when he wanted you, but that he would always be there when you needed him. He told you that he loved you. It was the first time he said it. You tried your best to believe him.

You’ve been his thing on the side for four years now. You’ve gotten good at it. A distraction, a comfort for a couple hours in the night when he needs you in exchange for his money and as little of his time as you can manage. He has a life outside of you. He calls you on his terms. You make yourself as easily compartmentalized as possible.

When he comes in tonight, you have his drink in your hand and you’re already dressed up for him. He isn’t really looking at you. You’ve learned to be okay with that. You take his hand and lead him to the couch, setting his glasses aside on the coffee table.

You push him back and there’s no resistance. Your hand brushes against his cheek as you stand over him and he smiles, leaning into the soft touch. You lean in for a kiss and he melts underneath you. When you deepen it, he reaches up to hold you, one hand on the small of your back and the other undoing your shirt.

You pull back and look at him and he looks wrecked already, his icy blue irises barely a ring around his widened pupils. When he sighs and drops his head into the crook of your neck you know he needed this as much as you did. Maybe more.

You sink to the floor and kneel in front of him. He’s still in his suit, but it’s disheveled now, his shirt crumpled from where you grabbed onto him with his sleeves haphazardly rolled up. His face is flushed, and when you touch him over his slacks he throws his head back and whines. You don’t tease him for too long, though, just mouthing at him over his boxers for a minute. His hand is covering his mouth as he lets out a shaky moan when you pull out his cock, already rock-hard and dripping with precum.

You‘ve had your fair share of practice, and you know exactly what he likes. You sink your head down to his base almost immediately, and his hips buck up into your mouth. He apologizes for it through shaky breaths, but there’s something that drives you crazy about knowing he needs you badly enough for the infamous Jonathan Crane to lose control. His hand tugs at your hair, guiding you as you lick a stripe up the underside of his cock and swirl your tongue around the head of his cock. He arches his back and shivers, pulling you off.

“I…don’t want to finish this here. Go to the bedroom. Get ready for me.”

You get up, legs just a little shaky, and leave him on the couch with a kiss on his neck. You open yourself up for him, but he takes a longer time than you thought he would coming in. When he does, you feel that distance between the two of you again. His hand caresses your cheek softly, and you stand up to undress him properly. You’re tender with him, almost. You kiss his neck. You bring him back down to earth. He groans a little and sits down on the bed, pulling you close to him. Something in his eyes makes you feel like this is the first time he’s seen you in a long time.

“You look wonderful tonight, darling. Can’t think of what I could have done for all this to be for me.”

He smiles and grazes a kiss across your knuckles, raising your hand to his lips.

You hold his face in your hands and kiss him as you sink down onto his cock. It takes him by surprise, almost, his breath shaky. You opened yourself up while you were waiting, but you’re still hot and tight around him. Your legs are spread, your thighs on either side of his lap, and he clings onto them as you start to move - slowly, then switching to a breakneck pace when you find the spot inside that makes you see stars. For a minute, you falter, and then his hands are on you again, on your hips bouncing you on his cock, and then one reaching between your bodies to touch you. He is a terribly skilled man with his hands, and before you know it, you’re cumming on his chest. He guides you through it, soft and gentle, moving your hips through a slow roll, toying with the line where the pleasure becomes overstimulation.

He’s stronger than he looks, and he lays you down gently on the bed in the haze afterwards. He kneels between your legs above you, pulling your hips up to meet his. It’s only a few thrusts before you hear his breath start to quicken, his movements erratic. He’s over you now, cheeks hot and flushed, his blue eyes fluttering shut. You press one hand against his chest and the other on the back of his head to pull him in for a desperate kiss, but before you can, he’s pulling back, hand on the bed to steady himself as he pulls out and cums onto you.

He falls onto the bed next to you, and your hand intertwines with his, as easy as breathing. You can feel his heartbeat slowing as your head rests on his shoulder. He kisses you on the forehead and pulls you just a little closer, and for a moment the world seems perfectly atop its axis.

He catches his breath for a couple of minutes before he rolls out of bed. You hear the faucet running for a couple of minutes and watch the golden light slip out from under the door around his lean shadow. When he comes back, he's presentable again, and he hands you a warm washcloth. He gets dressed in silence as you clean yourself up.

With his shirt still unbuttoned, he leaves the room and steps out onto the balcony. You watch him for a minute, through the open bedroom door. The glow of the cherry on his cigarette lights up his face against the dim blue sky. He looks older than you remember him looking. More tired. More distant. You catch a glimpse of your own reflection in the glass. You do too.

You slip out of the glass door behind him, dressed in your pajamas - his old shirt and boxers. It's chilly, and he wraps an arm around your shoulders. You stay there for a while, his warmth against your side, while he finishes his cigarette. Neither of you speak. Gotham looks softer in the dying light. It's him that breaks the silence first.

"I love you. You have to know that."

"More than you love your life now? That I don't."

He looks away.

"I don't blame you for it. I wish I could sometimes. But I can't."

As you speak, you take a cigarette from the box in his hand. You lean in and he lights it for you from the embers of his.

"There are things about me that you don't know. Some for your own good. Some for mine. Maybe you should blame me."

His jaw is tense, and there’s a sadness in his eyes.

"You think I'm a far better man than you should. I wish you could understand."

"Maybe I could."

"I'm not giving you up on a maybe."

Your cigarette is finished and the night is cold, a silence falling over the two of you. It's half-past-midnight when he tells you he has to go.

You ask him to stay. You rarely do these days. When you do, it’s somewhere between a weakness and an indulgence and a hope.

He says no. He always does.

There’s something in the dark outside at night these days that unsettles you. Some sinking fear in the pit of your chest. You tackle it tonight to stand on the balcony after he says goodbye at the door. You watch his car crawl back out of the city through the evening traffic until you lose it in the crowd. By the time his car turns into a dark alley downtown, you are in a fitful sleep. He does not think of either of the lives waiting for him among the bright lights.

The next morning, reports will rise of a new villain on Gotham’s roster. “The Scarecrow”, they’re calling him. Panic about fear toxins and phobia will drip from the edges of the morning paper, but you won’t spare them a second glance. All you can do is trust. All you can do is wait for him to come back and pray that maybe this time he’ll stay.

thanks for reading

173 notes · View notes