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kanene-yaaay · 8 months

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In Between Feathers and Smiles

Kanene's notes: As it seems when I wasn't looking ??? Fucking Felipe Minecraft just came here and made a nest in my mind and refuses to leave so now I have a new comfort character as it seems.

Also I know that Richas and Philza didn't interact a lot but I like to think they are final bosses for each other. The day Richas adopts him as his father and Philza adopts him as his son the island explodes and life come to a full cycle.

Warnings: None! Just a tad of angst with plenty of fluff and some silly cheer up tickles. Ticklish!Richarlyson and Ler!Philza. Around 4.000 words. Richas uses all pronouns here.

[~*~]

Tio Phil had a nice place.

Richas didn’t spend a lot of time there. Important talks were usually held in other secured spaces and he would rather spend some time building with her parents or causing some ruckus somewhere in the island than constantly invade Tallulah and Chay’s home. Even if they got closer after the Egg Island, it didn’t mean that he stopped feeling awkward around his siblings.

But today… They was tired.

So they hiked to the top of the wall, turned off Philza’s collecting machine and fell in the middle of the potato crops, watching the clouds as they calmly danced around their always-perfectly-sunny sky.

Looking at them, she wouldn’t have to think about how much she missed pai Cellbit and Pa Roier every single day, about how scared Empanada looked and the way she was always clutching her scythe now or how she and mãe Bagi barely came out of their securated base anymore.

If he watched enough the fading forms of the fluffy clouds and the occasional birds that came and went, he wouldn’t have to think about the sharp shapes and bright colors he saw today when he woke up in his old room in pai Cellbit’s castle, full of new stinging scratches covering entirely his arms and legs, the canvas and room filled with red drops of paint and blood. Nor how it felt to burn the piece of art and bury the ashes aways before anyone could see it.

Yes. The Wall was nice. It was calm and beautiful and since her tio and siblings were sleeping like rocks somewhere well hidden he could sneak a few jumps in their trampoline before coming back to a second nap by the plants.

From time to time he would feel something bump on his hand and turn around only to see a cute, small tortoise calmly biting and chewing on a leaf of the crop, probably a fresh fugitive from Talullah’s pond. They could respect its chaotic nature.

“Holy fuck!” A shout nearby almost made him jump out of his skin, fastly turning around, sword in hand, only to see his tio in a similar situation, hand on his heart as he tried to regain his breath amidst his surprised laughter. “Gods, Richarlyson you scared the shit out of me.”

That fished an amused crackle out of Richas, who didn’t feel much like it, but got up and waved a few times, writing a greeting for the adult. She kind of was in his home, afterall.

“Hi, tio! Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Philza answered, putting his tools back on his trusted backpack once again, now already realizing what was the reason for his machine to have stopped working out of nowhere. He instead pulled a basket out of it.

It has been a while since he harvested his own potatoes by hand, but he had no hurry or plans today. Besides, it was quite a calming activity.

“Were you looking for me? Sorry, me, Chayanne and Tallulah have been spending a lot of time in our… other house.”

It was definitely a way to explain Rose’s protected sanctuary, but he couldn’t tell the kid about that.

A crossing thought made Philza’s body freeze and his eyes became wide. “Wait, is it about our trip? Is it time? Ok, I already got everything prepared but I still need a couple more minutes to leave Tallulah and Chayanne somewhere safe with someone and then we can go… Let me see who is already awake…”

A push in his arm stopped his sentence and called his attention to the dragons’ words.

“It’s fine! :D” Another blue sign quickly followed the first, the sentences being written fast and messily. “It’s not the time for our trip yet, don’t worry. I was just passing by here and decided to take a nap.”

The small dragon, a barely nestling, crouched and let their tail drag across the soil in a calming manner.

There was no rush today. Philza felt his muscles untense.

“Alright then. That is good.” The adult smiled, more relaxed. Richas never commented this with anyone, but sometimes his tios looked like they’re a thousand years old. “Sorry for interrupting your relaxing nap then, mate. As I said, I already got everything covered. The moment you need me, just call, ok?”

Energetic nods. Philza answered with one of his own and turned around, going back to his activity. It was already a habit at this point, to watch a kid with the corner of his eyes as he went on about his day, always aware to any danger or enemy that could appear. That is how he watched as Richas swayed in the same place when he turned around, expression falling to a neutral face as they broke their signs and threw them out of the wall before falling on the ground again, closing her eyes.

Richarlyson was a good kid. An energetic little shit rocketing from one place to the other with an adventurous and reckless spirit almost as big as his heart. Anyone who spent more than 2 minutes with him would see, clear as day how much he loved his parents and loved even more to give them gray hair, always ready for a playful chase, a harmless prank or a fun playdate with his siblings. They didn’t stumble on each other too much nowadays, but at any given time Philza would protect and take care of him just as much as his own kids if needed.

He was a good egg (literally).

That is why it was easy to see that something was off with her. Seeing her walking around without one of his parents or Bad was rare, but not an alarming sign itself, being as independent as they was. But that together with the way that her gestures lacked their usual uncontrollable energy, how he fell the moment Philza turned away and how tiredness clung in his form and brought shadows to her eyes and a weight to her shoulders was definitely something worth noticing.

Something had been bothering the boy and knowing his family and their history on the island… Well, not a single islander had been free from the horrors that permeated every corner of the place, but the brazilians seemed to receive a special - and not in the good way - attention more often than not.

Needless to say, Richarlyson probably had a lot to get worried and sad over, unfortunately.

All of them, the guardians, did their best to save their nestlings the best they could from the enemies and disasters that seemed to follow their every step. However there was just so much a small group could do against gods knows how many entities before their children also began paying a parcel of the price.

It was sorrowful to see the young one like this, but Philza wouldn’t pry. If the kid wanted to come and vent he would happily lend them an ear and give his best comfort. If Richas wanted to just hang out in silence and enjoy the refreshing breeze from the top of the wall then Philza would let him be, as well.

Therefore, he kept collecting the potatoes, humming one of Tallulah’s songs while putting them in crates and organizing the crates in a pile next to the security fence together with the other thousands crates that were already there.

Maybe he should follow Pierre’s example and start selling them to the Federation. Getting paid and becoming an official provider or something like that.

… Nah, he would rather die.

Philza turned around to get another round of potatoes, this time to make more avocado toast to nibble on until dinner, where his daughter would oblige him to cook actual true food for them - which is unfair, because avocado toast is a very good, healthy and energetic, fulfilling food! - when he saw it. ‘It’, more specifically being Richarlyson, who was still around three feets away from him, just like she was after the end of their conversation. Which didn’t make any sense since Philza had moved a good distance further away from his initial spot while harvesting and taking care of his plantation.

Hm.

Interesting.

He kept his gaze forward and his hands moving, not actively watching the kid but still paying attention for any kind of move.

A few steps away, he crouched to adjust a crop that had been almost removed from its spot, planting and firming it back on the soil before getting up again, his wings partially open to lower the sun rays hitting his back.

(With them being destroyed as they were, there was little use he could give them, but this would have to do.)

Pretending to stretch, he tilted his head just slightly amount, in the perfect angle to see that Richas, once again, had moved somehow in this short period of time and was now closer to him, laying on the ground with her eyes closed, a light snore coming out of her muzzle in a quiet ‘mimimi’ sound.

Philza held back a snort.

They kept this up for a while, almost as a game. Philza would continue his task, turn his head for half of a second and when he turned his attention back to the young one it was to see that they was already close again, “napping” with no worries, dead to the world as a rock, all across the field. There was a moment when the winged blonde could almost swear that he saw him crawling amidst the potatoes while following him.

Philza thinks he did a pretty good job in not laughing out loud at their antics, only letting out one or two small snickers here and there fly in the air before being swept away.

He was taking the toasts out of the furnace and storing them in pots when the little dragon “woke up”, yawning and stretching, an amused grin blossoming in his face.

“Hey, king, glad that you're awake. Just made a fresh stack of avocado toast. Here, take some, take some, make sure you have enough for any emergency or attack.”

A loud wheeze was pried from his lips at watching her previous grin quickly turn into a sour face at the sight of the toast, stepping away from them in a half of second.

Richarlyson quickly shook her head as she emphasized that he “would rather have a short and happy life instead, thanks” and that “Tallulah told me terror stories about these when we were in Egg Island 0_0 I am traumatized”, as the signs he placed on the ground said.

Philza had to hold himself on the fence so he and the toast didn't fall from the wall with the force of his laughter.

“Alright, alright.” He quickly acquiesced, putting the rest of the food in the remaining pot and disposing them all in his backpack, planning to bring it to the pantry later. “What if we shared these sandwiches Chayanne made me this morning, then? He is trying a new recipe and it's just delicious.”

The disgusted expression quickly melted away when they heard the mention of a new snack. Philza unwrapped it under Richas’ wide attentive eyes and offered him only to have his hand pushed away, the kid shaking his head furiously.

“What? Why? Did Tallulah tell you scary stories about her siblings’ cooking abilities too?”

Richas denied, looking a tad out of the place before apparently deciding on their words.

“You can keep it, tio! Chayanne made it for you and it's no problem, I am not hungry >:D”

Another sign.

“Besides, if I need some I can just go to Tio Bad's house and steal his refrigerator! I still have a lot in my backpack though.”

To show his point, the small one began pulling pot after pot of cooked goodies from his backpack: lasagna, soup, candies, more candies, chocolate, a not very good looking or even fresh bread, tamales… He proudly showed his collection, bouncing on the same spot before starting to put them back from where they came from.

This nestling…

“I am not saying that you don't have food. I know you're always prepared and I am pretty sure you even have one or two illegal items in your backpack too.” He rested his back on the tree behind him, careful to avoid hitting Missa's painting, smiling as his nephew stared at him with a mischievous glint in his eyes, bouncing on the same spot, not denying or confirming his suspicions. “But I still want to share a good sandwich with you, mate.”

Richas still didn't look convinced. He seemed to be listening, though. That was a good step.

“I am sure that Chayanne wouldn’t care too. He actually loves giving everyone good food and showing his skills to the island. Which is perfect. I can send him your thanks later.”

It was interesting how, even though all the similarities, every sibling was still very different from each other, in both their personalities and actions, and sometimes Philza liked to muse about it. At his words Richarlyson didn't nervously twist his fingers like Tallulah used to do when thinking hard about something or deviated his gaze like Chayanne when he knew what he wanted but thought that he should want another thing. Instead, the dragon fledgling watched him intently, looking for something.

They must have found it, because they smiled in an embarrassed manner and let his tail wag excitedly once, breaking the signs and walking to his side on the tree.

Philza handed them their sandwich and Richarlyson began eating, satisfied, small growling sounds escaping between each bite as they enjoyed the moment.

Without meaning to or even thinking too much about it, Philza answered back with a quiet, pleased caw, his right wing expanding to surround the little one, not locking her amidst his feathers, but creating a shield from the Sun.

(If only it could completely shield them from the dangers.)

“Do you like it?” Richas answered by taking a large bite and ripping the sandwich in half, ears wiggling in contentment. The adult chuckled.

“Good to know, king.”

They spent some time like this before a sign was placed, successfully calling the other’s attention.

“How is it to have feathered wings, tio? Yours are so pretty! :D”

Flashes began filling his mind. The feeling of the wind hitting your face, the sound of the birds singing and chirping when flying in flocks, the adrenaline of falling without a single fear of hitting the floor, of expanding his wings and feeling each one of your feathers bristle in the air…

A light touch in one of his primaries shook him out of his memories and his eyes automatically flew to the… mess that were his wings now, with weak muscles and feathers missing from some spots.

Grimly, Philza could surely think about plenty of adjectives he could give them, “pretty” definitely weren’t one.

It was quite hard to focus on that when the fledgling kept carefully touching and looking at them with so much curiosity, however.

“It’s incredible.” He sighed, a mix of longing and awe painting his voice. “They can help with so much stuff, like, I’m not even kidding. Mine are very roughed up, especially after Purgatory, but when they were in their prime they were perfect not only for flying but also for shielding, holding stuff, attacking…There is a lot you can do with them. You also will probably be able to do all of this and more when yours grows.”

“You could attack with them? 0-0”

“Pff, yeah. Actually, you would be surprised about how many people wouldn’t be prepared to have a face full of feathers swinging with full force when fighting an avian.”

At the mention, he shook his black, glistering feathers in demonstration, finishing his sandwich with a final bite when a snorted squeal cut the air.

Philza turned around to see Richarlyson rubbing a spot on his neck, their other hand pushing his wing away while a small smile grazed his lips.

Hm.

“Also, you see those muscles?” He purposely brought his wing down, letting all the black feathers hit and briefly wiggle on the young’s face and neck, pretending to not notice the way he squeaked and jumped away, shoulders bouncing with the uncontrollable giggles that naturally resulted from the tickles. Philza continued as if nothing happened. “Lot of people don’t think too much about them, but to be able to carry a whole person, the muscles, tendons and bones need to have a lot of strength. So, being punched by them usually hurts a lot more than attentive enemies are prepared for and gives you plenty of time to run away or finish the fight.”

Richas rubbed the buzzing, tickly tingles left by the sudden attack of feathers away, airy titters still escaping from their mouth while they squinted suspiciously at the blonde, who seemed distracted enough by his explanation to realize the onslaught of accidental tickles.

The dragon risked a step closer. The conversation continued to flow without interruption.

“That is also why it’s important to always keep exercising your wings, especially during their initial growth or periods of recovery. Have you been building your core strength, mate?”

Brushing off the previous episode aside, Richas nodded, not helping the excited thrill that filled the air.

“Yes! Tio Bad taught me how and pai Mike has been trying to build a machine to fly with me so he is studying a lot of mechanics about how it works and accompanying me with the exercises. Pa Roier also said he will help me when he comes back, since he used to watch a lot of tia Jaiden and Bobby training.”

Philza tried to not visibly frown at the words. How long has Roier been sleeping, again?

He would have to ask Bagi and Fit for news later.

For now, he had a kid to distract.

“Sounds good. If you need any help you can call me, I wouldn’t mind giving you a few tips. Even if crow wings aren’t that close to dragon ones, they still have a lot in common.”

“Can you teach me the attacks? I want to surprise Dapper the next time he tries to fight me.”

The avian laughed. “Sure, king. Come a bit closer.”

Richas gave two more steps in his direction with wide watching eyes. “Alright, it depends a lot on your wingspan but usually you will need to be in close combat to use these techniques, so that is something to pay attention to. A good tactic you can have is to use them as a distraction.”

With a mischievous smirk, Philza began quickly moving his wings around the kid, letting them get close and then moving them away before he could touch them, the feathers skittering freely across his neck and ears with each swipe. When Richas squirmed to one side to hide, trying to push them away while firmly pressing his mouth shut so no squeak or squeal would escape, Philza simply attacked the other side, even managing to slip a few wiggling of the fluff feathers on his belly and armpits when the shirt would move up enough to reveal a bit of the scaled skin, catching a new giggly growl every time.

“And, when the target is sufficiently confused by them is the moment that you attack.”

Before the words could sink in the kid’s mind, Philza striked, giving to one of his sides a quick tweak, successfully fishing a loud yelp and managing to free a string of snickers that only grew louder and gigglier as he kept the soft, light feathery tickles intertwined them with more and more surprising squeezes and tweaks.

“You can keep it up as long as you need. Remember: confuse, confuse and attack.” Swipe. Swipe. Squeeze. “Again: confuse, confuse and attack.”

Laugh, laugh, laugh.

Richas gave up trying to push his wings and hands away, instead trying to hug himself to hide his most ticklish spots. However, the playful, soft and silly tickling kept following them no matter how much they wiggled or squirmed around, totally surrounding him with those fluffy bristles that made every single patch of skin buzz with a funny kind of electricity, freeing more and more squeaks between peals of uncontrollable laughter.

She started walking backwards, trying to put some distance between her and the tickles, almost stumbling on his own tail by how hard it was wagging in adrenaline and joy.

Philza’s eye twirkled with a gleeful shine.

He stopped his playful attack, but the young one kept stepping away.

“Another good technique that you can use is to create a physical barrier with your wings. It can be dangerous since your enemy can get a hold of them if you’re not careful but very useful in the case you want to stop them from touching you or, in our case,” Richarlyson’s back hit something soft but immovable and suddenly the wheezy titters and snickery snickers were back in full force once again, bordering on a hysterical laughter when skillful hands began scribbling and scratching his ribs. “Preventing them from getting away.”

His fingers danced and burrowed themselves in the space between their ribs, vibrating on the spot, which made a funny kind of squeaky growl escape from the dragon, more high pitched, bouncy laughter and unstoppable wiggles taking over him when the hands kept running away and attacking all over his torso. They spidered over his ribcage to then poke his armpits, or washed down to sneak some digging and squeezing on his stomach and also even skittered across his spine, pulling all kind of yelps, chortles, snorts and high pitched, wheezy laughter over and over again.

It took a few more minutes and a bunch more of snickering and wiggling - which was actually even worse now because each squirm made him sink even more on the tickly feathers - before the avian eventually let him go, chuckling in amusement at the way Richarlyson fell on the floor and curled in a ball, shoulders bouncing with the leftover giggles.

An amused snort was pried from the adult when they showed him their middle finger, trying with no success to frown in his direction while still smiling and snickering non stop, remnant sniggers twinkling freely in the air.

“That is a surprise tickle avian attack for you. Now you already know a few uses for your wings in a battle.”

The dragon nestling ignored him, dramatically rolling and turning around and away from the avian, still fully stretched on the floor as if he had just survived a fight for his life and not some harmless playful sillness. Philza chuckled a bit more, not resisting and giving his unprotected neck one last tickle, which immediately melted the half heartedly pout in a smile and made him turn back again and hold a tnt as a threat, making the adult laugh and pull his arms up in rendition.

Richas showed off his tongue and then fell dramatically on the ground again.

(It was good to him in a lighter spirits, again.)

Philza then got up, stretching and shaking his wings fervently, wincing a bit when their muscles trembled a tad more than normal while holding them, probably from getting so much exercise after being kept so long hidden and immobile.

Maybe he should follow his own advice and build more of their core strength.

Letting them rest, he went back to adjust a few more crates around before checking on his communicator to see if Chayanne or Tallulah had woken up.

It was almost evening now, and yet it showed not a single signal of life.

Hm.

Well, he could give them their cookies tomorrow if needed, there was still plenty of time before the end of the week.

A light poke hit him right below his shoulderblade and suddenly a loud giggly yelp was ripped from his throat. He turned around quickly only to find his own nephew looking at him with a malefic grin in his expression.

“No.” He said, wagging a finger in warning at them, already realizing their intentions just by the slight slow drag of their tail and the step they gave in his direction. His tune tried to come out as stern, but he was pretty sure that even the kid could see there was no real heat behind his words.

Richas answered him with an excited thrill, ignoring the threatening caw - more like a soft chip but he wasn’t about to admit it - he gave her in return.

“No. Richarlyson, you do not want to get into this fight with me, ok, mahahate?! Hey! No! Lehehet go!”

There was indeed a valiant and grandious fight. One of the most playful, silly and joyful ones to ever graze that land, they said. The winner was never revealed at the end but passing friends mentioned listening to plenty of surprised caws and giggly growls falling like waterfalls from the wall, especially when certain two other kids woke up to the lack of their father and went to investigate his whereabouts. They said that the growing match continued until the sun set.

Who knows, who knows.

And since that day, if Richas decided to visit his tio Phil more frequently and if Philza would take the habit of turning off his harvesting machinery from time to time to watch the clouds, that is nobody’s business but their own.

#Richas: a// Philza: silly dad mode activated #qsmp tickles #qsmp tickling #YOU CAN PRY. YOU CAN PRY RICHAS RECEIVING THE COMFORT HE DESERVES FROM MY DEAD COLD HANDS #Ticklish!Richas #Ticklish!Richarlyson #Ler!Philza #This came to me as I was about to fall asleep making me promptly awake and write the idea down #Which was basically: Richas sad. Potatoes. Philza's wings tickly. Philza silly dad mode awakes.#Kanene's fic #Kanene's fanfic #Was sad so wrote this let's goooo fluffy soft cheer up tickles yesh yesh #Also I miss Romero Richas Lore pls bring it back pleaseeee

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nerevar-quote-and-star · 7 months

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Yet another wild crackship between my LDB and some Skyrim dumbo, but this time it's General Tullius, and it actually gets madder from there

Look, a lot of this surprised me too. It sure surprised @elder-dragon-reposes and yet it makes sense and that's the strange beauty of it

ao3 | masterlist

He could be forgiven for not seeing her at Helgen. Between Ulfric's capture and the following dragon attack, Tullius had his hands full with escaped prisoners and a town in ruins. Not to mention Elenwen's attempts to take over his execution. One half-elf caught in the crossfire was below his attention at the time. When she came into Castle Dour, a cold wind in her wake as she spoke about fire and death, he had no choice but to pay attention to her. Especially when she brought up things like "peace" and "ceasefire." This Last Dragonborn was out of her mind.

Yet somehow, she led him into an agreement to meet with the Stormcloaks at High Hrothgar.

Tullius isn't quite sure he likes that. She's as double-edged as any Thalmor diplomat with her words. As noble as her intentions appear on the surface, he's not sure he can trust her.

At High Hrothgar, the Last Dragonborn, Leara, leads both sides into an agreement where no one gets what they want, but no one is worse off, and she plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

She . . . plans to trap a dragon in a castle.

Tullius knows he was sent to Skyrim to tame the rebellion, but no one ever prepared him for how maddening the people of Skyrim were. No one is as maddening as the Nords' hero. Tullius cannot understand her. He's not sure he wants to, all things considered.

The Legate is amused by his consternation. He knows this even without her saying anything. But Tullius is worried. This Leara has the power to sway Skyrim in whatever way she chooses, and if she joins the Stormcloaks, then he has a feeling that the Empire might lose more than Skyrim before all is over.

He keeps an ear out for the Dragonborn's movements. His spy network throughout Skyrim is extensive: If she breathes in Windhelm's direction, if she says anything about the Civil War, then he'll need to be ready. This woman has slain dragons. He doesn't want to see what she'll do to a legion of mortal men. Tullius needs to be ready.

Tullius is not ready when Leara walks into Castle Dour again, armorless and prim as she waltzs into his war room. Legate Rikke greets her, but Tullius pretends to give half an ear. He looks like he's going through reports, but he's trying to keep an eye on the anomaly in the room.

Legate Rikke and the Dragonborn talk quietly together. And then the Dragonborn leaves and Tullius finally puts down his paperwork. Legate Rikke is frowning.

"What did she want?"

The Legate's attention snaps to him.

"She wanted to know about our support from Cyrodiil, sir." "Support?" "She mentioned your inability to negotiate a peace settlement, General."

Tullius recalled that. He'd told the Dragonborn he couldn't do more than accept Ulfric's surrender. But why did the Dragonborn want to know about the Imperials' ability to negotiate with the rebels? Didn't she already get her peace treaty and trap her dragon?

Tullius cannot wrap his head around her. Everything his spies have reported paints her as kindness. Even the coldest Nords seem to thaw around her. But Tullius can't base his understanding of such a power player like the Dragonborn on reports and a handful of interactions. He'd have to speak with her himself.

The Winking Skeever is busy when he steps in. A few heads turn, but otherwise, no one pays Tullius any particular attention. The Dragonborn isn't difficult to find, either: She's at a corner table with her nose buried in a dusty book.

Tullius makes his way over to her.

The Dragonborn is surprised to see him but still invites Tullius to sit at her table.

"I assume this is about my discussion with your legate earlier."

She's perceptive. But Tullius already knew that.

"Do you always discuss politics in a bar?"

At his question, the Dragonborn offers a little half-smile, her eyes dancing with amusement.

"Do you?"

No. Honestly, Tullius couldn't recall the last tie he even visited a bar or tavern other than while traveling. Perhaps he was working too late, but between the Civil War, Elenwen, the dragons, and (maybe) the Dragonborn, he couldn't afford to slack off. Why else would Tullius chase the Dragonborn down to the local inn?

"Have you read much about Skyrim?"

Her question surprises him.

"War commentaries mostly. Military history."

The nod of her precise head is measured as if she expected that response. Marking her page, she closes her book and shows him the cover. It's some thick tome he's never heard of, but the knotwork dragon design around the edges breathes of old Nordic craftsmanship.

"As Dragonborn . . . [she pauses for a long moment] . . . As Dragonborn, I am highly invested in the preservation of the Empire and Skyrim."

She chews her lip.

Tullius almost asks if she's about to join the Legion. He can't deny that he'd hoped that would be her ultimate decision, but sitting here across from the Dragonborn as she was now, deliberating over words and tapping her book's cover, Tullius knew she wasn't about to swear fealty to the Emperor.

When she continues, she speaks slowly.

"General Tullius, would you be willing to help me? I need to reach out to people in the Imperial City about a peace summit, and I don't know where to begin."

A peace summit?

"I take it Ulfric didn't put you up to this?"

Her frown is surprising.

"No, he didn't. I asked him."

The Dragonborn asked Ulfric if she could talk to the Empire about a peace summit?

Before he could ask what in Oblivion that was supposed to mean, the server brought a tea service to the table. Just as quickly, he was gone.

"Would you care for a cup, General? I'm afraid all they have is lavender honey." "I . . . would like that--" "Leara."

She supplied. Her lips quirked.

So Tullius found himself ensconced at a table in The Winking Skeever and discussing different politicians and diplomats back in the Imperial City with the Dragonborn – Leara. He's halfway through his second cup when she admits that she's trying to find a peaceful resolution to the Civil War that could please everyone. He calls her a hopeful idiot, but she smiles.

"You can't please everyone." "Well, I don't think I can please the Dominion, but I can tie them in legal knots."

Leara wiggles her fingers at him, her rings glittering in the candlelight, and Tullius finds himself speechless.

If the Dragonborn – Leara – can tie the Thalmor up with a loophole, how imminent would their retaliation be? Tullius is at once intrigued and put off.

She was mad.

"Here, you'll want to write . . ."

But by the Divines, he was going to help her anyway, wasn't he? If Leara could talk Ulfric off his warpath, then maybe there was something to her hair-brained scheme.

Tullius sees Leara a few days later. She's been to the Blue Palace and the Bards College, she tells him when he meets her again at the 'Skeever. She's combing through maps and treaties, drafting letters, and making lists. Her mind is running at speeds Tullius can't comprehend, and yet she keeps looking to him for advice.

As Leara stirs a lump of sugar into her snowberry spice tea and peruses another list, Tullius wonders if she did this with Ulfric when she went to ask him to consider peace.

Her penmanship is as poised as the rest of her. He cannot see her against the harsh stony backdrop of Windhelm, amidst the snow and vitriol. She's too civilized for Skyrim. She's almost too civilized for Cyrodiil, but Tullius won't think of that.

He doesn't have a chance to give it much thought anyway when she's asking him about neutrality and the terms of the Concordat.

It's late when Tullius leaves her the second time. As he leaves, she's carrying a stack of papers upstairs. She has a hopeful lift in her step.

Tullius almost smiles.

Almost.

The next morning, Legate Rikke drops a new report on his desk. It's from Captain Aldis.

"What's this, Legate?" "There was a break-in, sir." "And we're concerned with this, because?"

Legate Rikke's jaw tightens, her eyes are wide. Whatever it is has unsettled her.

"It was at The Winking Skeever."

She sighs. Heavy. It's a familiar frustration.

"General, I believe that the Thalmor were exercising their Concordat-given rights."

A pit settles in Tullius's stomach.

"They took the Dragonborn, sir." "On what grounds?" "It doesn't say. sir. It doesn't even mention the Thalmor at all. But you know–"

Tullius doesn't hear the rest of the sentence because he realizes his mistake. He should never have discussed the possibility of an armistice with Leara in a public room. Who overheard her? Who saw Leara's notes and lists and books? Who ratted her out to the Thalmor?

Tullius's fist clenches, his knuckles pale. The one person with a Divine's chance in Oblivion to bring a favorable resolution to the Civil War and the Thalmor took her like every Talos worshipper the Empire was supposed to turn a blind eye too.

He paces around his office. Legate Rikke has left him alone, and now all Tullius can do is think and walk. Turn. Think and walk. Turn. The cycle repeats throughout his office. He only suspects that the Thalmor took Leara. Without concrete proof, he can't accuse them or he'll risk something far more uncomfortable than paperwork. But if he does nothing, then every hope for peace in Skyrim vanishes in the Dragonborn's wake.

Tullius stopped in the middle of his office, standing at a crossroads. Was it possible to ascertain that the Thalmoor abducted Leara and to request her freedom without bringing Elenwen down on his head? Probably not. But . . .

Tullius recalled the wide eyes, the fear swimming in the teary blue when Leara was faced with Elenwen at High Hrothgar. At the time, Tullius didn't think much of the Dragonborn's aversion to her. Most people hated the Thalmor Ambassador on a good day. But the terror that flickered in Leara's face before she grew cold and distant and manipulated the entire table to her own ends came back to him.

No, Tullius knew Elenwen personally had the Dragonborn. There was a history there he couldn't see, but it peeked at the edges of his vision in brilliant horror.

Elenwen had Leara, and she wouldn't let the half-elf go lightly.

If Leara could cheat an entire room of warring politicians and soldiers while ensuring a truce, then Tullius could sure as Hell try to manipulate Elenwen.

Sitting at his desk, the General ruled out any official Legion channels. Those would be tied back to him and ruin any chance Leara had of negotiating her armistice. Something under the table, then.

Mercenaries were messy. Robbing Elenwen would take a different hand. He grimaces and drafts a letter.

General . . .

The messenger hawk returns the next evening. Tullius doesn't want to think about why the hawk returned so quickly. He just hoped his charade would hold.

(Writing Galmar Stone-Fist of all people to encourage a Stormcloak raid on Northwatch Keep was something Tullius knew he could never live down if it got back to any of his superiors in Cyrodiil. He couldn't trust that General Stone-Fist would take an anonymous tip at face value, but as Leara soliloquised late that last night,)

"The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

It's four long days of giving only half his attention to his job before an Imperial scout reports that the Stormcloaks attacked the Thalmor fortress of Northwatch. When the Legion got there, nothing was left but smoldering ruins.

"They had a dragon, sir."

Tullius didn't want to know how they had a dragon, but he was optimistic that it meant Leara made it out of there alive.

With the Stormcloaks, but alive.

He sleeps through the night for the first time in over a week. When Tullius wakes up, he wonders how he could turn to the rebels to save the Dragonborn. Effective, yes, but it went against everything he was supposed to represent.

But she's alive.

She would be dead or worse off if he hadn't done it.

Tullius uses that thought to bolster himself through the coming weeks.

Then, a letter addressed to Tullius comes by way of Whiterun of all places. He recognizes the slender script curling his name across the paper. It's a short letter asking him to retrieve her belongings from her room at the 'Skeever. Two things stand out to him: The first is the thank you. Tullius cannot tell what Leara means by it because he knows that Stone-Fist didn't know who sent the tip about Northwatch. And yet there's a tearstain on the parchment, small and alone as if any others were quickly dashed away after the first one fell. The second is that all her books, papers, the things she worked on for her peace talk were all hidden in a panel behind the bookshelf in her boardroom.

Tullius didn't even think of Leara losing all her work. He was more concerned about getting her out. He was more worried about her than anything else.

Tullius buries his face in his hands.

This was a familiar feeling. It'd been years since the last time he felt like this.

Although, Tullius gave himself a wry smile, he doubted he'd have betrayed the Empire for the Countess of Anvil's cousin.

Tullius goes early the next morning to retrieve Leara's things, hidden or otherwise. A member of his spy network is tasked with getting the parcels to a Lydia in Whiterun. Then Tullius watches as every connection he has to the Dragonborn disappears out the doors of Castle Dour.

It's back to the everyday humdrum of war, then.

Until, some months later, a familiar half-elf comes into Solitude. Now, she's accompanied by a dark-haired Nord woman in heavy armor. Her stormy expression and hawkish eyes remind Tullius of Rikke at times. Leara introduces her as Lydia, her housecarl. Then Leara is handing him a folio of papers.

"I've been corresponding with some of the Elder Council. I'm planning a summit in Whiterun."

He takes the folio from her.

"What's this?" "My draft for a permanent peace treaty. I thought that since you helped me, you'd like to peruse it. Of course, I need to get it to Jarl Elisif when you're finished."

That Leara is offering to let him be a part of her peace treaty isn't lost on Tullius. He sets the folio on the table but leaves his hand on top, protecting it.

"I can come back for it tomorrow." "I'll get it back to you tonight."

Legate Rikke coughs, obviously. Tullius adds,

". . . we can discuss it over dinner, if you like?"

Leara's smile is full.

"I would like that."

They don't end up talking much about the draft. But Tullius gives Leara some of his favorite brandy after their dinner of roast lamb and stewed vegetables. Her giggle is light and airy, and her hand is cool like spring water when he takes it across the table.

Perhaps he drank more than he should have, but liquid courage was a reassuring friend.

At the end of the night, Leara, tipsy and yet all grace, presses a petal soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. She pulls away.

His hands slide up her arms, callused fingers catching on the soft linen of her sleeves. And he pulls her back and kisses her, full and properly on the mouth.

Leara tastes of tea and winter and something floral and frosted. There's more than magic in her mouth – there's music and mercy. If Tullius wasn't drunk before, he finds himself intoxicated on Leara.

She strokes his face, smiling, always smiling, and then backs away. Her eyes are bright and liquid and as deep as Lake Rumare. In the low glow of golden orange firelight, she is beautiful.

He loves her.

He doesn't say it, and soon she's gone, slipping through doors into the night. An angel passing from the room.

The next day, he finds that she left him her address. It had been a long time since Tullius even tried to write a love letter. They were never his strong suit, but Leara had a way of inspiring madness in him. He wrote her.

And Leara wrote him back.

Again and again and again.

Tullius doesn't expect for his presence to be needed when the summit is called in Whiterun. The Empire has its own group of delegates to negotiate the terms of Skyrim's division. But still, Elisif the Fair says that General Tullius has been asked to attend. The young queen seems as if she can't quite believe it, but she was often wide-eyed and overwhelmed as it was.

(Maybe Julia was right. He should listen to Elisif more. But pretty soon, it was likely Tullius would never see the Queen of Solitude again.)

Leara is there in Whiterun, laying out the terms of the Armistice with the light and delicacy he'd come to expect from her. How many others here knew she was anxious that things would crumble apart, that things would come to blows, and that the war would escalate for all her efforts to temper the fire?

Ulfric's face is a dark stormcloud, but somehow the Jarl of Windhelm appears to hold his tongue around the Dragonborn. He watches her, defers to her, and in return, Leara smiles at him.

Tullius is simply in an advisory position for the Imperial delegates to mine information on the state of the Civil War and the Imperial Legion. He never speaks to Ulfric, and seldom to Leara during the weeklong summit. But he sees the Jarl speak to her between sessions. Leara is quiet and nods. Her eyes are faraway and thoughtful.

Tullius remembers that when she first brought the idea of the summit to him, Leara mentioned that she convinced Ulfric to agree to it. For the first time, Tullius wonders how Leara went about winning Ulfric Stormcloak to her side.

His chest burns.

When the Armistice is signed and Skyrim divided in two–

"Divided, you can finally be united."

Leara said.

–there is a feast. Leara is in demand all night. Tullius watches from the sidelines, some Cyrodilic brandy in hand as he watches one person after another flit around her, bees buzzing around a blooming rose. After a while, Tullius gets up and retires to the quiet of the Dragonsreach porch.

He isn't out there long when the doors open again. From the dark stairwell where he sat, he saw Leara flit by, orbited by Ulfric.

Tullius's hand tightened on his glass.

"You must be relieved that's over." "I'm glad we could reach a resolution."

She deflected Ulfric's concern with a wave of her hand.

But Tullius knew the truth: She was terrified of the summit. She was terrified she'd fail.

"What will you do now?"

Leara's question broke through Tullius's thoughts.

Ulfric shifted.

"There's much to do. Skyrim hasn't been in a state like this since the Second Era. I'll need to work quickly to bring stability to the east before we can truly reap any of tonight's rewards." "You have a busy schedule, Jarl Ulfric! [her laugh is musical] Even when my work ends, you still have so much to do!" "Leara . . ."

There's a hesitation in Ulfric's voice that Tullius never would have imagined from the man who Shouted High King Torygg apart. Leara's responding,

"Yes, Ulfric?"

is careful.

"I was hoping that you would come to Windhelm with me. To help me." "Help you? As an advisor? Certainly, but–" "Not as an advisor. Not . . . as you're thinking. Leara, surely you must know what I feel for you." "Oh."

If Tullius didn't fear being caught, he'd have stormed from the porch. Or over to Ulfric and pushed him off. Or something. His blood was rushing in his ears.

Certainly, he and Leara hadn't truly defined what it was between them. This week was the first time he'd seen her since kissing her that night in Solitude, and in this week, they'd hardly been alone together long enough to discuss anything beyond the summit and the usual pleasantries.

But her letters were candid and funny and full of ideas. Her mind spilled across the page in curling and shifting lines.

Tullius knew then that while he had Leara's mind, there was every possibility that Ulfric had her heart. She was as divided as Skyrim was.

"Ulfric–" "While Skyrim was at war, I knew I couldn't give you the attention you deserved. But now that we can have some peace, I wish to ask you for your hand. Leara, you ignite a fire in my chest that burns my heart when you are near. Please do me the honor of agreeing to marry me."

There's silence. Long, drawn-out silence. Somewhere on the plains, a wolf howls. Its cry echoes the pain in Tullius's chest.

"Ulfric . . ."

Leara's voice is choked, emotional but she is forcing it down.

"Ulfric, you're very dear to me, but I can't marry you."

It was only Ulfric's loud,

"You can't? Why?"

That covered the sound of Tullius's brandy glass slipping to shatter on the stone stairs.

Leara hesitated.

"I can't give you my heart because it belongs to someone else. I can't take it back." "Who?"

Leara quieted.

"Please, Leara, if you won't marry me, then allow me the courtesy of knowing who I lost you to!" "I–"

Leara choked.

Tullius's heart sped up as his hands shook. He was as anxious as Ulfric to hear her answer.

"You won't like it." "Who is it? Galmar? I know he was the one to pull you from that Thalmor pit."

Divines. That would just be the cherry on top of this entire fiasco, wouldn't it?

"No, not . . . It's . . . General Tullius."

The silence that followed was more deafening than any that proceeded it. Even from the darkened stairwell, Tullius could since the thunder around Ulfric, rumbling silent and yet violent.

"You won't marry me because you're in love with Tullius?" "If that's how you want to put it, yes, that's it." "Leara – I, he . . ."

For once, all of Ulfric's fine speeches seemed to fail him.

"Please don't be upset."

Leara's voice is as soothing as the first spring rain, as far apart from Ulfric's hurricane as possible.

There was a rustle of skirts.

"You are a very important person to me, for more than you can possibly know, but I can't give you the love you want. It's not mine to give you." "But Tullius–" "Has been so vital to me during these last several months. We would not have this peace if not for him. I needed him." "I need you." "I know, but I've given you all I can. I can't give you any more."

Tullius peeks around the corner far enough to see Leara on her tiptoes. She whispers something in Ulfric's ear, then presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. Tullius ducks back just in time to be hidden as Ulfric turns and leaves the porch. The doors shut behind him with a whisper of finality.

"You can come out now, General."

Tullius's knees are stiff as he gets up from the steps. Leara is waiting for him in the middle of the porch, her red hair a dark contrast against the white gold of her skin and the pale ivory of her gown. She's aetheric in the moon and aurora lights.

"I hope you finished your brandy before the glass fell."

His neck grows warm with embarrassment.

"Is that how you knew I was there?"

Leara's coy smile was her only answer. Yes, then. Well.

"Ulfric Stormcloak proposed to you." "Yes, he did." "And you turned him down." "Yes, I did. " "Why . . ."

Her hand was on the side of his face. She was perhaps a hairsbreadth taller than him, maybe an inch, but her hand felt so small against his face that Tullius couldn't help but reach up and clasp it with his own for fear that it slip away.

"I thought you were eavesdropping." "Well, I wouldn't say that–" "And, therefore, would know why I turned Ulfric down."

Tullius tries to swallow, but his throat is tight. Leara's hand is cool against his skin, and he takes comfort in that.

"You love me." "Yes, I do."

Her smile is radiant.

Tullius's hand slips from Leara's, but then his arms are around her waist, pulling her into him. She is slim and cool and everything a flower in winter might be. He buries his nose in her neck, amidst the frost and flowers.

"I love you."

She doesn't reply. She only tightens her arms around his torso. They stand there in the quiet of the night, away from the celebrations but togehter under the stars.

Later, when Tullius returns to Solitude for the last time, he packs his things for the return to the Imperial City. He takes his bags to the docks.

And there Leara is waiting for him, Lydia her housecarl in tow. She smiles at him, full and vivid.

"You're late. My trunks are already on board. Right, Lydia?"

Lydia rolls her eyes.

"All eleven of them, my Thane."

Tullius chuckles, quiet.

Leara's hand finds his, and he helps her up the gangplank of the Imperial Naval ship. It would be a long voyage, but Leara had never sailed before, so that would be their mode of transportation back to the Imperial City.

"What will we do when we get there?"

Leara's question is teasing and free of the burden of being Dragonborn and peacemaker. There were still the Thalmor to worry about, but after the ruin of Northwatch and the signing of the armistice, Tullius hoped they'd think thrice before going after Leara again.

"I'll buy you expensive teas and you'll drain my accounts on tea and books."

Her giggle rang out amidst the sounds of the ship preparing to leave the harbor.

"Oh yes, that must be why I've gone and married you."

Tullius pulled his wife to his side and slipped his arm around her waist.

"Must be."

It couldn't possibly be that she was the most maddening thing in the world and she drove him mad by proximity.

Madly in love.

What nonsense.

fin

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meowdy-all · 7 months

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Yall im UPSET! There are nearly 3k fics for Bones (TV) on ao3, and i can't fund any on Booth! We have Sweets centric and Bones Centric, hell even ZACK centric fics, but i can't find any on our favorite badass sniper!!

LOOK AT HIM!! There's so much to do with his character! Abused as a child? Give him angst. Ex Army Ranger? Give him Trauma. He's literally a main character, and we dont have more on him? Why dint yall LIKE HIM?? I Love Him! He's great! He's sassy!

I just want a good LENGTHY fic centered on him.

#seeley booth #bones tv #temperance brennan #lance sweets #special agent seeley booth #angst #childhood trauma #You can pry this man from my cold dead hands #hes great #why dont more people like him #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #ao3fic #ao3feed #zack addy #jack hodgins #angela montenegro #character centric

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buddiesmutslut · 2 months

Note

🐰

I've had this idea forever, but I got a burst of motivation the other day and finally started it. It's also mostly done, & I've had so much fun writing Eddie being drunk

His jaw suddenly aches with the need to sink his teeth into that bicep as it flexes while he takes his turn at the pool table. He wants to bite, to feel that muscle and skin between his teeth, to taste the salty sweat against his tongue.

He grinds his teeth together and flares his fingers to try and dissipate the need to squeeze Buck as tightly as possible with his hands and his arms and his teeth and his legs.

“What’s the face?” Karen asks nonsensically as she palms his eye heavily. He thinks she meant it to be empathetic, or maybe she meant to poke him, who knows. They’ve had a lot of shots.

“Wha’ face?” He slurs as he flinches and jerks back from her still flailing hand, getting dangerously close to his eye.

“This face.” Ravi answers helpfully, squinting his eyes and leaning forward into Eddie’s space before he pokes Eddie’s cheek from the opposite side, as if to illustrate the face he means.

“It’s jus’ my face!” Eddie swears, leaning as far back into his seat as he can to get away from all the appendages suddenly in his space. Ha. Appendages. That’s a really fun word.

“Appendages.” He says to himself, huffing a chuckle at all the different constants and how it tickles his mouth when he says it slowly.

#911 abc #eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #buck x eddie #buddie fanfic #drunk Eddie #911 fanfiction #You can pry Karen & Eddie bestie-ism from my cold dead hands #cute aggression

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sehrgefaelltmir · 8 months

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i’m writing a new müllendowski fic cause i have no self restraint 😤

#someone actually stop me #you can pry these mfs from my cold dead hands idc #robert lewandowski #thomas müller #fc bayern #müllendowski #mullendowski #football rpf #football fanfic #my fics #this is how im coping with the leverkusen game tbh 😒

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pinkomcranger · 7 months

Link

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Alan Wake (Video Games), Alan Wake 2 Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Saga Anderson/Alex Casey Characters: Saga Anderson, Alex Casey (Alan Wake), Logan Anderson (Alan Wake) Additional Tags: Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Established Relationship, Secret Relationship, Nerves, Sharing Body Heat, Making Out, So much kissing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, exchanging gifts, Teasing, Puns & Word Play, More than partners, Romance, I avoided angst for once, Logan is the best daughter, reassurance, they love each other your honor, I love them so much they get a happy ending, IT'S STILL VALENTINE'S DAY ON THE WEST COAST, ignore the fact I live in the midwest, this still counts, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, no beta we die like Taken Series: Part 3 of moving through the special days Summary:

Should they go out on a date? The idea makes her grimace a little, she’s not opposed to it, but there’s the minor hiccup of having to leave the city because no doubt they’d run into colleagues. She can’t count the number of times Casey has raised his eyebrow at her during their day, inside and outside of the office. He hasn’t been the least bit convinced by her reassuring smiles, not even her daily habit of kissing his dimples had hidden her nervous air.

#alan wake 2 #saga anderson #alex casey #logan anderson #andercase #saga anderson x alex casey #sagacasey #writing #alan wake fanfiction #fanfic #my writing #they own my heart #they own my soul #saga anderson deserves happiness #saga needs more fics where she's not the bro #you can pry this ship from my cold dead hands

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fangirl-docintraining · 5 days

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Shout out to past me who wrote ahead for this fic so I’d have stuff to post because OB hours are KICKING my ass and I haven’t had energy to write.

Please please send comments or message me or whatever I always get so excited!! I need the energy boost it gives me lol

Also see below for pic of: me coming to tumblr after two days of twelve hour shifts 😂

#dallas winston #darry curtis #hopefully this reaches its target audience idk #johnny cade #ponyboy curtis #sodapop curtis #steve randle #the outsiders #two bit mathews #the outsiders musical #you can pry my special fanfic writing time from my cold dead hands #fanfic #ao3

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ghosttotheparty · 2 years

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love me softly p13

part 12

tw: implied emotional abuse; implied disordered eating; body insecurity

Eddie shifts to wrap his arms around Steve’s neck, closing his eyes as he listens to Steve take a long, shaky breath. Steve’s hands press against his back firmly, holding him close before his arms wrap around Eddie’s waist so tightly he lifts him up a little bit.

Eddie tucks his fingers under the collar of Steve’s shirt, sliding his hand over his skin. He’s so warm it feels like he’s been sleeping, and Eddie knows his rings must be freezing, but Steve just sighs, burying his face in Eddie’s neck.

“I got you,” Eddie murmurs, lightly dragging his nails over Steve’s skin and feeling him shiver. Steve exhales.

Steve lifts his head, turning his face just enough to kiss Eddie so hard Eddie’s back arches, and Eddie kisses him back, pushing a hand into his hair to cradle the back of his head tenderly. He tilts his head, letting his lips part as Steve’s fingers spread over his back. (He has bigger hands than Eddie. It’s like Eddie can feel his hands across his whole back, across his whole body. Steady and strong.)

Steve takes a sharp breath when they part, panting as his head falls forward, and Eddie presses his lips to his forehead tenderly, sighing and tugging his hair and scratching the back of his neck gently.

“Okay?” he whispers. Steve just shrugs. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Steve lifts his head just to lean in so their foreheads meet. Eddie closes his eyes, moving his hands to hold Steve’s face between them. His cheeks are soft.

“Felt like I was dying,” Steve says weakly. Eddie’s eyes squeeze, and he exhales.

“I know,” he breathes.

“No, you don’t, Eddie,” Steve chokes, a tear falling down his cheek. Eddie wipes it away. “You don’t get it, I— I…”

Eddie nods, his hands tightening on Steve’s cheeks as Steve takes a shuddering breath.

“I do, baby,” he says softly. “I know.”

Steve lifts his head, looking at him desperately, but he seems to see the honesty in Eddie’s eyes, and Eddie pulls him in when tears well in Steve’s eyes.

“You did so good,” Eddie tells him quietly, whispering as Steve’s shoulders shake. “You hear me?”

Steve exhales, his hands gripping Eddie’s shirt in fists.

“You were so brave,” Eddie murmurs, combing through his hair.

He holds him for a while, here in the little living room of the trailer, swaying slightly as he whispers to him softly. Until Steve’s grip on his shirt loosens and he pulls away slightly, taking a little breath.

“Alright?” Eddie breathes.

Steve nods, sniffling, resting his cheek on Eddie’s shoulder.

“‘M sorry,” he says softly, and Eddie stomach tightens.

“Steve, look at me,” he says firmly.

Steve lifts his head, looking at him, his eyes shining with unshed tears, and Eddie touches his face, leaning in to kiss him chastely before he speaks, softening his voice.

“Don’t you ever apologise to me,” he says, looking into Steve’s eyes. “Especially about something like this.”

Steve’s lip quivers, and Eddie brushes his thumb over it.

“Okay?” he whispers. Steve’s hands tighten on his shirt. “You need me, and I’m there.”

Steve closes his eyes. Eddie kisses his forehead.

“Okay?” he whispers again. Steve nods.

“Okay.”

He holds him for a little bit longer before they part, and Steve looks around. At Wayne’s hats and mugs, looking at every single one like they’re whispering to him. He has his Mona Lisa smile on again as he looks, like he’s full of wonder and curiosity, looking around a house that isn’t his, a house that’s lived in.

A quiet Woah escapes Steve when they go to Eddie’s room, and Eddie laughs a little bit. He always forgets how chaotic his room actually is to an outsider.

The wonder in Steve’s eyes lights up even more as he looks around the room, at the posters and tapestries and shitty spray paint Eddie did when he was fifteen. Eddie waits, his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants.

“When I have my own place I want it to look like this,” Steve says, his voice light.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.”

Steve looks at Eddie, smiling, and Eddie melts a little bit, watching until Steve looks past him. His smile falls, and his eyes widen, and he blinks, staring at the wall that’s partially covered with his own art. Eddie’s smile grows.

Steve steps past Eddie, dropping his bag to the ground, looking at the wall like he’s at a museum.

“You kept all of them?” he asks in a small voice.

“Yeah,” Eddie says. “‘Course.”

Steve reaches out and touches one.

“I did this one today,” he says softly, like he’s just remembering it.

“Yeah, I put it up as soon as I got home.”

Steve is silent for a moment, staring at the wall with his back to Eddie before he turns back to Eddie. His eyes are sparkling, and Eddie thinks he’s going to cry again, but Steve just steps toward him, catches his face between his hands, and kisses him.

It’s so intense that a noise escapes Eddie before he can even close his eyes, and he reaches up to hold Steve’s cheeks. Steve smiles against his mouth before his teeth catch Eddie’s lower lip and tug at it.

Eddie pushes his hands into Steve’s hair, gripping it in his fists. Steve licks into Eddie’s mouth the way he likes, and Eddie’s knees feel weak. If he falls over he won’t be surprised.

His lips are almost sore when Steve finally pulls away, and he sighs, letting his head fall forward to rest on Steve’s neck as Steve plays with his curls.

“Hey, Eddie?” Steve says quietly after a moment.

“Mhmm?”

He’s quiet for a moment before Eddie tugs his hair.

“Can I wear one of your shirts? Or— Or a hoodie or something?”

Eddie grins, pressing a kiss to his neck.

“Yeah, of course.” He leads him over to his closet. “Take your pick, honey.”

He leans against the wall while Steve looks, watching the way his eyes are shining, the way his fingers touch the fabric as he looks through the closet, so softly it’s like he’s scared of breaking something. He settles on a black sweatshirt that Eddie got back in ‘79, plain and heavy and bleach stained. Steve gazes at it before he lifts one of the sleeves to his face, holding it to his nose for a moment before he rubs it against his cheek softly.

Then he drops the sleeve and reaches to the collar of his shirt (a blue polo; Christian camp counsellor attire that makes Eddie’s insides turn soft), closing his eyes as he pulls it up over his head. Eddie pulls his hair over his face, looking shyly at his chest, his arms, his belly. Admiring.

He looks so soft. Wonderfully squishy.

Steve glances at Eddie and snorts as he’s pulling Eddie’s sweatshirt over his head.

“What?” he asks quietly, smiling as he fixes his hair. Eddie can hear the insecurity in his voice, hiding behind his smile.

“You’re pretty,” Eddie says, twisting the hair that’s pulled in front of his face. Steve kind of scoffs, looking at the ground, and Eddie drops his hair. “I’m serious,” he says firmly. “C’mere.”

Steve comes over shyly, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, and Eddie leans against the wall, looking at him. They’re about the same height. Steve is a little taller. Just a little.

“Can I touch you?” Eddie whispers when he’s close enough that their noses are brushing together. “Just here?” he adds softly, gently setting his hands on Steve’s waist. Steve nods.

Eddie carefully pulls up the hem of the sweatshirt, slipping his hands under it to find Steve’s skin. He was right.

Eddie smiles as he presses his fingers into Steve’s waist, watching as Steve smiles too, bashful as he avoids Eddie’s eyes.

“Pretty boy,” Eddie whispers, watching Steve’s cheeks turn pink. Steve shakes his head at the ground, his hands sliding up to hold Eddie’s shoulders. “Stop,” Eddie breathes, and Steve meets his eyes.

Eddie hesitates for a moment, his hands squeezing Steve’s sides gently before he speaks quietly.

“I love your body.”

Steve’s hands tighten on Eddie’s shoulders.

“Really?” Steve breathes.

“Mhmm.” Eddie kneads the soft flesh above his waistband. “So beautiful, Stevie.”

Steve’s Mona Lisa smile is back. His face relaxes as Eddie touches him, his eyes fluttering shut, and Eddie’s chest aches.

After a few silent moment Steve pushes Eddie’s shoulder back so he’s pressed against the wall, his eyes still closed as he presses their foreheads together. Eddie’s hands slide over Steve’s skin, over his waist and his back, over his belly and up under the sweatshirt further to run across his chest, which is just as soft as the rest of him.

Steve’s fingers push into Eddie’s hair when he kisses him, and Eddie tilts his head, squeezing his eyes shut and furrowing his brows.

When Steve pulls away they’re both breathless, and Steve tugs him away from the wall, wrapping arms around Eddie’s neck and hugging him tightly. Eddie tilts his head enough to presses kisses to the side of Steve’s neck.

“You okay?” he asks softly after a moment, pressing his hands to the small of his back.

“Tired,” Steve breathes.

“You wanna lay down?”

“Mm.” Steve kisses him again as he pulls away. “Can you put on some music?” he asks as he goes to Eddie’s bed, still looking around the room. Spotting the ashtray on Eddie’s bedside table, the abundance of pillows Eddie’s collected over the years.

“I don’t have any Toto, babe.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, grinning. “Play your music.”

Eddie grins and goes to shuffle through his tapes. He turns the volume down low before the music starts, and then goes to lay with Steve, who wraps his arms around him tightly, his head on Eddie’s chest, his cheek squishing against him.

“Who’s this?” Steve asks after a few moments.

“Metallica.”

Steve hums quietly. He tucks a hand under Eddie’s shirt after a moment, sliding his fingers over his skin, and Eddie drags his fingers through his hair gently.

“You okay?” Eddie asks after the song ends, just before the next one starts. It’s a heavy song, they all are, but it’s quiet enough across the room that Eddie can hear Steve speak even though his voice is soft.

“My parents… aren’t very nice to me.”

Eddie combs through his hair, looking up at the ceiling.

“I know, honey.”

“When they came home, they…” He trails off, his fingers pressing into Eddie’s flesh.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Stevie,” Eddie says softly.

“I know,” Steve says, his head shifting on Eddie’s chest. “‘S just… It’s kinda been, like… rolling around in my head all day.”

Eddie runs his other hand up Steve’s arm, squeezing at his bicep. (It’s soft.)

“What happened?”

Steve takes a deep breath, and Eddie thinks his eyes are probably closed. He plays with his hair.

“Dad… said I’m a lost cause,” Steve says finally. Eddie blinks at the ceiling. “Think he finally realised I’m not gonna follow in his footsteps, and he just… gave up on me. Which, I mean—“

He shifts again, and Eddie wonders if he can hear Eddie’s heart pounding. His hand tightens on Steve’s upper arm again.

“I guess it’s nice that he’s not gonna force me to go into his business, but it’s not— it’s not great to be, like. A disappointment. I guess.”

“Steve…”

“I know, Eddie,” Steve interrupts quietly. “‘S fine. It’s just… Whenever they come home I always know they’re gonna some shit to say. Dad’s always going on about my future, about marrying a girl from a respectable family and having a son and…”

He trails off again, and Eddie hears him swallow. Eddie’s not a girl. Or from a respectable family. But Steve’s still here in his bed, his legs tangled with Eddie’s, his fingers warm against Eddie’s skin. Eddie tugs his hair lightly. Steve sighs.

“And Mom…”

Eddie aches.

“What’s your mom say, baby?”

Steve sits up after a second, setting his chin on Eddie’s chest and looking at him, his eyes shining with vulnerability.

“You really like how I look?” he asks in a small voice. Eddie’s heart splinters like dry wood.

“Yes,” he says softly, firmly. “I love how you look, honey, you’re fucking gorgeous.”

Steve blinks.

Then he tucks his face into Eddie’s neck, sighing heavily. Eddie wraps his arms around him tightly, holding him close. He cradles the back of Steve’s head in his hand tenderly, playing with his hair.

“She likes to complain about what I eat,” Steve says after a moment. “Says I’m gonna get, like, fat, and…”

“Look at me,” Eddie says, tugging his hair, and Steve lifts his head, sighing as he meets Eddie’s eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly as Motörhead sings about fire. “No matter what, even if your body changes, you’re always gonna be beautiful. Okay?”

Steve’s lips turn into a little frown, a pout.

“And your body’s gonna change eventually,” Eddie says softly. “You’re only seventeen, baby. If you’re forty-five looking like you do now, you’re weird.”

Steve giggles, lowering his chin back to Eddie’s chest. His eyelashes flutter. Eddie dies a little on the inside.

“Think that’s her problem,” he says softly.

“What do you mean?” Eddie tucks Steve’s hair back fondly.

“I think… I think she’s not happy, like, with her life. But she was… happy in high school. Prom queen and all that shit. Then she… got older. Had a baby. And now she’s just… I don’t know. Obsessed with getting back what she used to have.”

Eddie brushes his fingers over Steve’s cheek. (Also soft.)

“And I feel bad for her,” Steve says, his eyes glassy like he’s zoned out, staring at some spot by Eddie’s face. “I want her to be happy. And like… comfortable with herself. It just…” He sighs shakily. “I hate it when she says stuff like that to me. Gets stuck in my head. Like voices.”

“You’re really sweet, Stevie,” Eddie says softly, touching Steve’s cheek so lightly that it probably tickles, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind. “You ever want me to argue with those voices, you let me know.”

Steve blinks up at him, almost smiling.

“Thank you, Eddie baby.”

Eddie’s cheeks flush, and he tilts his chin up, wordlessly asking for a kiss.

Steve sits up, shifting so he’s leaning over Eddie, and he presses his smiling lips to Eddie’s, leaving a lingering kiss. When he pulls back, and Eddie opens his eyes, he’s gazing at Eddie’s lips, smiling.

“What’re you smiling at?” Eddie whispers.

Steve just leans back down and kisses him.

Five songs later, Eddie has Steve on his back underneath him, his fingers tangled in his hair, and his lips are sore, but neither of them are stopping. Steve’s legs are around Eddie’s hips, his warm hands holding Eddie’s neck. He’s letting out these soft, weak noises that work their way under Eddie’s skin, and he can feel them in his bones.

Until Eddie hears another song start, a guitar riff slower than the other songs that have played.

“This song makes me think of you,” he says after a moment, between kisses.

“Mm. Why?”

Eddie grins, pulls back and slowly leaning away from Steve, whose eyes widen. He’s smiling.

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah,” Eddie says quietly. He pulls at Steve’s (Eddie’s) sweatshirt, making him sit up, and Steve’s eyes are sparkling. Eddie kisses him before the lyrics start.

“When I saw your face,” he sings quietly, dramatically, watching Steve’s eyes widen, his eyebrows raise. “I became a prisoner of your eyes… And I would do just anything, to stay and be with you…” He forces a rasp to his voice, knowing it’ll make Steve giggle. It works.

Steve giggles again when Eddie sings Don’t you hear me crying?

He covers his mouth with a hand that’s covered by the bleach-stained sleeve, watching and listening and giggling as Eddie serenades him dramatically, his cheeks flushing pink when Eddie caresses his face as he sings Now I’m a prisoner of your eyes… Eddie tugs his hand away to kiss him between verses.

Steve starts laughing during the next verse, cackling as Eddie persists, his eyes gleaming with tears. Good tears.

“As each day goes by…”

“Eddie—”

“I’ve given up completely…”

“Eddie, please—”

“I’ve locked myself inside your heart…” Eddie presses a hand to Steve’s chest, looking into his eyes before he sings, “And thrown away the key,” as he mimes throwing a key theatrically. Steve is still giggling, trying to catch Eddie’s hands, but Eddie won’t let him, dancing dramatically as he sings.

“You’re so annoying,” Steve laughs, trying to cover Eddie’s mouth, but Eddie catches his hands and holds them to his own cheeks as he sings louder.

Steve allows him to finish the chorus again, squealing when Eddie runs a hand over Steve’s whole face dramatically, somehow pushing him away and grabbing at him at the same time. He tugs Eddie into a kiss as Eddie is in the middle of a line, but Eddie lets him, falling forward so Steve falls onto his back again, licking into his mouth and pulling on his curls.

The lyrics stop, and the guitar riff that makes Eddie feel like he’s on top of the world starts. He leans onto his side, propping himself up on his forearm that’s resting by Steve’s head, and as Steve sucks on his lower lip, he slides a hand under the sweatshirt. Steve’s hand tightens in hair and Eddie feels his lips curve into a smile.

They kiss. And kiss. And kiss. Until Eddie’s arm is burning from holding him up, and his scalp is sore from Steve playing with his hair, and he has to pull away to gasp for breath.

But even when he pulls away to breathe, he buries his face in Steve’s neck, pressing kisses down his warm soft skin.

“You remember,” he says breathlessly between kisses. “At Munchy’s party… When I said I was gonna make you listen to Megadeth?”

“Mhmm,” Steve hums softly, his fingers combing through Eddie’s curls and getting snagged. “Is this them?”

“Mhmm.” He presses kisses under Steve’s jaw and chin. Soft, soft, soft.

“They’re good.”

Eddie opens his eyes, his teeth teasing Steve’s skin.

“I like them,” Steve says casually, like it doesn’t flip Eddie’s whole world upside down, like Eddie’s blood cells aren’t glowing.

Eddie lifts his head, holding himself up shiver Steve, whose eyes open after a few moments.

“What?” Steve says softly, his voice almost disappearing under the music.

“You’re the man of my dreams.”

Steve grins so brightly his eyes squeeze shut, and he pulls Eddie back down.

They have dinner on Eddie’s bedroom floor. Frozen lasagna that Eddie presents as though it’s a home-cooked meal, and when Steve looks up at him as he takes the plate with both hands, Eddie thinks he could look into his shining eyes for the rest of his life and be happy.

He falls asleep that night with Steve’s face pressed into his neck, his warm breath on Eddie’s skin, and a hand pressed under Steve’s sweatshirt (Eddie thinks maybe Steve will just keep it.) to knead at his waist until he feels Steve relax completely, heavy against Eddie.

part 14

read the whole thing on AO3

tagging: @justalittlefungi @uvgroovy (comment to be tagged in part 14!!) (i think most ppl are following along ao3 now but whatever love u guys)

#prisoner of your eyes is so steddie coded it may show up in future fics we shall see #also you can pry soft steve harrington from my cold dead hands #he has a soft belly and i stand by that until my last breath #anyway #go drink some water and eat something yummy and take your meds if you haven't <3 #love u #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #love me softly

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