Title: In Dreams Author: Diandra Hollman E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org AO3: archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/works Date Finished: 7/2/2022 Rating: hard R to soft NC-17 Keywords: second person POV (Phil as "you"), Phil/Bronco Henry, angst Spoilers: No. Disclaimer: I make no money off my writing. Summary: "In the last days, God says, I will pour out my Spirit on all people. Your sons and daughters will prophesy, your young men will see visions, your old men will dream dreams." -- Acts 2:17 Author's Notes: This came out of a prompt in a Facebook group. Anna Eberhardt requested a "retcon" wherein Bronco Henry, Phil's mentor and would-be lover, was black. This was prompted by a photo of Edi Gathegi dressed as a cowboy, but you don't have to picture that actor specifically. I can't remember if the sharing body heat moment was actually from the book or only in the movie, but I think it probably works for either. I wrote in second person for two reasons: first because I want to prove that there are other uses for second person perspective than reader insert, which I think a lot of fanfiction readers don't realize. And second because the last story I wrote like that prompted an awesome theory that the character was doing that as a way to distance himself from the emotions brought about by the situation. I felt this was the only way I could write Phil. Plus, it gave me the freedom to say things a little more overtly in the end as an observer not wholly distanced from him, but still disconnected enough. In Dreams by Diandra Hollman You dream about him sometimes. Still, after all these years. Sometimes the dreams are nothing more than memories. These come in two varieties: the pleasant and the not so pleasant. You remember how he taught you to braid a rope. The way his body moved gracefully with the gait of his horse. How the sweat glistened on his skin in the unforgiving heat of a summer afternoon. The way he looked at you when you finally saw his running dog in the mountain. You also remember the fear that would grip him when he was nearly caught alone with you in a compromising situation. The way his body broke and twisted beneath churning hooves as you watched in helpless horror. You always see his death coming in dreams, but you can never stop it. But on rare occasions, those pleasant memories turned into stolen fantasies. An exploration of what might have been had you not been caught by prying eyes. Had you been brave enough to touch him like you really wanted to. Had he been brave enough to touch you like you ached for him to. The one you're having now started as a simple memory of the time he saved your life. His naked body curled around yours, lending you his warmth, muttering curses in your ear along with orders to "stay awake, damnit. Don't you die on me!" You don't remember feeling anything at the time but the pull of sleep warring with the understanding that at that moment falling asleep would almost certainly mean death. But now, in the safety of a memory more than two decades past, you can focus on the feel of his strong arms around you. His bare chest against your back. And this is when the memory gives way to fantasy because you're pretty sure the situation was too dire for him to get hard as he does now. Suddenly the cold is forgotten. Your skin is warm beneath his wandering hands. The curses have turned to heated growls and whispered promises. "...get you on a bed and suck you off nice and slow," he rumbles. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? Bet it makes you hard just thinkin' about it." You moan helplessly as his hand wraps around your cock. He strokes you far too lightly, his fingers teasing the sensitive head. "Yeah. You'd probably get off real quick, wouldn't you? Like a virgin gettin' your dick wet for the first time. Bet you'd like to return the favor." Damned if the thought of sucking him off doesn't have you almost coming right there. You always wondered if he tasted as good as he smelled. Like hay and rawhide and sunlight. And the honest sweat of a day's hard work. You feel his breath on your ear, sharp and panting with his own arousal. "You gonna come for me," he asks. You whimper something you hope he takes as a yes and look down, wanting to see the contrast of white semen staining his dark, chestnut skin. But just the sight of his nimble fingers wrapped around you makes you close your eyes, overwhelmed. You're so close... You wake up painfully hard. "Goddamn it," you mutter as you try to cling to the remnants of the dream. You shove your hand down your pants. Your own touch is nothing like the memory of his, but it should just get the job done. You sink your teeth into the knuckles of your other fist, muffling the pathetic whimpers you can't hold in. You come with a wild yell and as you come back down the other side you feel the relief turn into a hollow pit in your stomach, quickly filling with burning shame. You hate that you still can't shake these feelings after all these years. These feelings you shouldn't even have toward another man, much less THAT man. You were lucky, you think as you wash away the evidence in the stream, that this happened in the safety of your sacred grove, far away from prying eyes. If anyone else knew... But that's why you are so careful to make sure they never find out. You have spent years cultivating an image of Bronco Henry as the perfect example of what a man should be. A man so commanding and above any suspicions that he could be accepted and even admired in this world no matter the color of his skin. A legend that you have spent your life trying to live up to. It's gotten so even you have forgotten just how much of it was true.