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In which I continue to write naughty stuff about supporting characters.
Title: The Pantry
Author: mooncustafer
Rating: R
Category: het, pretty vanilla except that one partner has a leg brace
Pairing: Doc/Jewel
Warnings: some bad words, sexual situations described more graphically than I have hitherto done.
Disclaimer: I've nothing to do with Deadwood.
Also I'm not sure if the phrase "cute as a bug's ear" is period, I just like it.
Summary: It's about time something happened!
(follows after my earlier story, 'Counterweight')
"When are we going to fuck?" she said. "It's awright, I want to. I've done it before." Jewel's words gave Doc pause, until he saw by her expression she had started to fear his possible reply. He cleared his throat.
"Do you have a preferred position?" When her answer was to throw her arms about his neck, he tapped the lowest pantry shelf experimentally, then picking her up, he seated her upon it. Her expression brightened and she tugged awkwardly at her skirts, eventually bunching them across her lap as he stepped between her bared knees and curled an arm around her waist to place his hand between the small of her back and the wood of the cupboard behind her. "Now, please tell me if you're uncomfortable --" he began; she put her hand gently but firmly against his mouth.
"Shh," she cooed. "I'm awright, Doc, really. Please, let's just do it."
When Jewel had asked him to dance, the night Reverend Smith had... the night the cavalry had left town, Doc told himself he had been too drunk, too distraught to resist her. When she had kissed him, the afternoon he was examining her leg brace, he told himself he had been caught off guard, and had kissed back out of sheer surprise. A week later she had squeezed his hand, drew him under the staircase, and insisted he unbutton her blouse. He had wondered as he did so why he continued to acquiesce - was he humoring her? Relieved someone was giving him instructions for a change? Perhaps, he had thought, as he bent his head over her shoulder and placed a slightly-out-of-practice kiss in the hollow of her collarbone, it was a relief to step away from himself for a moment; to play at being young and wicked for a few moments, until one of them would hear a footstep, or breakfast would need cooking, and she'd shoo him out of her kitchen with a last peck on the cheek. At least she was less danger to his liver than his usual source of consolation.
It was a month before he could bring himself to admit she had become a constant presence in his mind. As he went about his daily rounds, he imagined how she would casting her sharp eye on each situation, as though she were perched invisibly on his shoulder. The booze was no more effective against his passions than it was against the nightmares; his memory dredged up phrases he hadn't spoken out loud in decades: "Chickabiddy." "Cute as a bug's ear." The endearments vanished among the medical clutter of his tiny cabin as he looked more soberly at the situation: till now, his sense of duty had kept him just able to go on living; the thought of someone having a personal reason to want him in the world was a complication that terrified him. Though he'd never been much for the conventions of courtship, he felt obscurely he was wronging one who despite her handicap was in sound enough health and would likely outlive him. Well, he told himself, he was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch - if thus far, he'd been able to resist putting himself in the ground, he could resist putting himself...elsewhere.
In a dim pantry that smelled of smoke, too-green wood, and molasses; with a woman wearing a leg brace and a faded calico dress; who whispered in a soft, slurred voice while her eyes looked bright as a bird's into his: Doc's resolve on this point finally melted; and melted like ice on a pent-up river. The few petticoats she had hiked up were of calico too, worn to soft tatters and warmed by constant contact with thighs as pale as the unbleached cloth. He reached to move the skirts up a bit higher and shivered with a long-forgotten pleasure as his fingertips encountered curled hair. Jewel trembled, too, at the touch.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like that." As if by instinct (or not- she had after all indicated she was not without experience) she crossed her fists across his back and brought her knees closer to grip him, though her weaker leg could not press so hard against his body as the other. Nonetheless, he took it that she desired more pressure on the spot and did his best to provide it. Meantime, their mouths had locked themselves together, until the force of their osculations almost brought their front teeth into contact. Instead, he tried nibbling delicately on her tongue when it stole forth to touch his. His hair fell over her closed eyes, and he broke the vacuum of their lips long enough to rub cheeks, noses, before withdrawing his hand to hastily undo buttons.
"If you could," he whispered, "just tilt your hips a bit forward and upwards. Yes. Like that." She gasped. After that, it was mostly gasps, their mouths open, ecstatic, while the part of Doc's mind that was still aware of the universe outside their conjoined bodies prayed that the pantry shelves were as stable as he had thought and wouldn't tip forward with their rocking.
Sometime later, as they stood leaning against the cupboard door, two exhausted bodies with hearts temporarily at peace, Jewel peered into his flushed face, and gingerly smoothed a damp lock of hair off his forehead. "Was I good?" He nodded wordlessly and she continued gazing at him. "You've got eyes like you swallowed the moon."
"Well," he murmured into the hollow of her neck, "you did serve it to me."
Title: The Pantry
Author: mooncustafer
Rating: R
Category: het, pretty vanilla except that one partner has a leg brace
Pairing: Doc/Jewel
Warnings: some bad words, sexual situations described more graphically than I have hitherto done.
Disclaimer: I've nothing to do with Deadwood.
Also I'm not sure if the phrase "cute as a bug's ear" is period, I just like it.
Summary: It's about time something happened!
(follows after my earlier story, 'Counterweight')
"When are we going to fuck?" she said. "It's awright, I want to. I've done it before." Jewel's words gave Doc pause, until he saw by her expression she had started to fear his possible reply. He cleared his throat.
"Do you have a preferred position?" When her answer was to throw her arms about his neck, he tapped the lowest pantry shelf experimentally, then picking her up, he seated her upon it. Her expression brightened and she tugged awkwardly at her skirts, eventually bunching them across her lap as he stepped between her bared knees and curled an arm around her waist to place his hand between the small of her back and the wood of the cupboard behind her. "Now, please tell me if you're uncomfortable --" he began; she put her hand gently but firmly against his mouth.
"Shh," she cooed. "I'm awright, Doc, really. Please, let's just do it."
When Jewel had asked him to dance, the night Reverend Smith had... the night the cavalry had left town, Doc told himself he had been too drunk, too distraught to resist her. When she had kissed him, the afternoon he was examining her leg brace, he told himself he had been caught off guard, and had kissed back out of sheer surprise. A week later she had squeezed his hand, drew him under the staircase, and insisted he unbutton her blouse. He had wondered as he did so why he continued to acquiesce - was he humoring her? Relieved someone was giving him instructions for a change? Perhaps, he had thought, as he bent his head over her shoulder and placed a slightly-out-of-practice kiss in the hollow of her collarbone, it was a relief to step away from himself for a moment; to play at being young and wicked for a few moments, until one of them would hear a footstep, or breakfast would need cooking, and she'd shoo him out of her kitchen with a last peck on the cheek. At least she was less danger to his liver than his usual source of consolation.
It was a month before he could bring himself to admit she had become a constant presence in his mind. As he went about his daily rounds, he imagined how she would casting her sharp eye on each situation, as though she were perched invisibly on his shoulder. The booze was no more effective against his passions than it was against the nightmares; his memory dredged up phrases he hadn't spoken out loud in decades: "Chickabiddy." "Cute as a bug's ear." The endearments vanished among the medical clutter of his tiny cabin as he looked more soberly at the situation: till now, his sense of duty had kept him just able to go on living; the thought of someone having a personal reason to want him in the world was a complication that terrified him. Though he'd never been much for the conventions of courtship, he felt obscurely he was wronging one who despite her handicap was in sound enough health and would likely outlive him. Well, he told himself, he was a stubborn son-of-a-bitch - if thus far, he'd been able to resist putting himself in the ground, he could resist putting himself...elsewhere.
In a dim pantry that smelled of smoke, too-green wood, and molasses; with a woman wearing a leg brace and a faded calico dress; who whispered in a soft, slurred voice while her eyes looked bright as a bird's into his: Doc's resolve on this point finally melted; and melted like ice on a pent-up river. The few petticoats she had hiked up were of calico too, worn to soft tatters and warmed by constant contact with thighs as pale as the unbleached cloth. He reached to move the skirts up a bit higher and shivered with a long-forgotten pleasure as his fingertips encountered curled hair. Jewel trembled, too, at the touch.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like that." As if by instinct (or not- she had after all indicated she was not without experience) she crossed her fists across his back and brought her knees closer to grip him, though her weaker leg could not press so hard against his body as the other. Nonetheless, he took it that she desired more pressure on the spot and did his best to provide it. Meantime, their mouths had locked themselves together, until the force of their osculations almost brought their front teeth into contact. Instead, he tried nibbling delicately on her tongue when it stole forth to touch his. His hair fell over her closed eyes, and he broke the vacuum of their lips long enough to rub cheeks, noses, before withdrawing his hand to hastily undo buttons.
"If you could," he whispered, "just tilt your hips a bit forward and upwards. Yes. Like that." She gasped. After that, it was mostly gasps, their mouths open, ecstatic, while the part of Doc's mind that was still aware of the universe outside their conjoined bodies prayed that the pantry shelves were as stable as he had thought and wouldn't tip forward with their rocking.
Sometime later, as they stood leaning against the cupboard door, two exhausted bodies with hearts temporarily at peace, Jewel peered into his flushed face, and gingerly smoothed a damp lock of hair off his forehead. "Was I good?" He nodded wordlessly and she continued gazing at him. "You've got eyes like you swallowed the moon."
"Well," he murmured into the hollow of her neck, "you did serve it to me."
