#black sails pebble

[thatlittlesentientfox]

Here’s more of the bastards (not you miranda we love and cherish you) and their Problems

[kitmon]

Oh Yeah, That's Right | Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader

Summary: Newly graduated, you and Eddie take a trip to Lover's Lake to celebrate.

Pairing: Eddie Munson (Stranger Things, 2022) x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 9.3k

Tags: smut (18+ only), porn with a lot of plot but I promise it's worth it, drug use (weed), skinny dipping, swimming while intoxicated (don't do this, you will die), sex out in the open, Eddie is kinda a perv but that's just his way of flirting with reader, unprotected sex, Eddie refers to reader as "Pigeon" or "Pidge," it's just a nickname

Author’s Note: I've had this fic in mind since last June and omg I'm so excited to share this! It definitely is a labor of love and something that I wanted to be really good, especially since it is my first smut piece for Eddie (which is wild considering I've loved him for an entire year already) but I am very very proud and I hope that you enjoy it just as much as I do. Also, a big thanks to my bestie @queenimmadolla for beta reading and leaving me the most hilarious notes ever, I love you! And with all that said, enjoy!

The crunch of gravel under your boots is ambient bliss to your ears. Accompanied by the soft ebb and flow of the lake’s tide, the sound of untouched nature; the crickets and the cicadas, the skittering of small paws and the flustered flutter of birds and nocturnal creatures of the night frightened by the stuttering of your breath, taken by the glittering sight of Lover’s Lake at twilight, all glowing with the beams of the moon. Water striders glide across the liquid black mirror, the ripples in the water look like they carry diamonds on the crests of their waves before simmering into smaller crystals that turn fluid and slip between the gaps in the pebbles to return to their home. 

Eddie cuts through the silence of your appreciation with the harsh slam of his door, causing your shoulders to tense and your head to turn to look over the hood at him, his lithe frame strutting towards you as the corner of his lips reach for the dips in his cheeks.

His voice is deep and lilting as he speaks to you, “Told you I knew a spot.”

“Lover’s Lake isn’t a ‘spot,’ anyone over 16 and horny knows about Lover’s Lake,” you retort, eyes remaining unimpressed as he sidles up beside you.

“Well, would you look at that?” He teases as he spreads his arms out and studies himself in front of you.

You giggle, pushing your fingers into his chest and sending him back a step as you ignore him, walking towards the edge of the water. Your boots give way under the clacking stones before you shift your weight, crouching down with your arm around your knees as you pick at what the tide brings in; the forgotten shell homes of gastropods, the algae that grounds itself to the heaviest rocks and sways with the movement of the water like blades of grass in the gusts of April. You submerge your hand into the water and wrap your fingers around the flattest stone you can find, the water teasing the hem of your sweater. 

As Eddie’s heavy, less than subtle steps approach you from behind, you stand with a bit of effort as your unpracticed joints groan, examining the grey, marbled layers of the rock before leaning back and launching it over the water before it plops once, twice, three times before sinking on its fourth splash. Eddie whistles low and your head turns to watch him, all haughty hip-jut and sass-laced hands over sides.

“Not bad, Pidge.” He leans down and doesn’t even study hard before snatching a rock. “Not bad at all,” he mumbles before tossing it with an imperceptible flick of his wrist. The soft-edged stone sails over the water, jumping in six skips, effortlessly beating out your measly three.

“Show off,” you chastise with an unbothered smile as you stock off to where the grit of the shore is lessened by the flatness of the rocks, sitting gracefully before falling to your back to watch the unperturbed night sky glisten with smatterings of light that twinkle and wink down at you. Eddie falls beside you, grunting as he attempts to make himself comfortable over the uneven terrain. You sigh through your nose and turn to look at him.

“Now what?” You question.

He looks down the length of himself, pursing his lips as he takes a minute to inspect the journey from his chest down to his crotch, before turning to meet your eyes, a playful glint in the dark abyss of his own, “Wasn’t kidding when I said I was horny.”

“Not gonna happen,” you smile, matching his mischief as you place your arms behind your head.

He pouts in faux disappointment before brightening again, “Well, darn, then it’s a good thing I brought this to pass the time.” 

He reaches his hand into the denim of his pocket, struggling against the tight fit before brandishing a crumpled joint that had been stuffed away inside. You sit up with him and laugh in your throat as you watch him clumsily try to straighten it back out. The pink muscle of his tongue peeks out past the seam of his lips as he rolls the joint over the meat of his thigh like he’s thinning out pasta. Once it’s decent enough to smoke he brings it to his lips and mumbles out around it, “Would you do me the honor?” 

“Why, of course I could, Sir Dumbass-ington,” you tease with a jaunty shake of your head before reaching into your pocket, digging through your miscellaneous trinkets of gum wrappers, a pocket knife, and chapstick, silver flashing with the white light of the moon once you procure the boxy Zippo. There are vulgar engravings along the side, a relic of your father’s time in Vietnam now used to light Edward’s crinkly joint. You flip open the lighter with a satisfying clink, your faces suddenly shrouded in yellow, carving out the hollows and defining the angles of your faces as you lean it towards him. He dips the end of it into the flame, tutting at it while the stark light draws your attention to the soft slant of his nose, the whetted cut of his cheekbones, the hollow of his cupid's bow all puckered out as he sucks at the cigarette. He huffs in a good breath and, with voice strained, he declares, “Fuck, that’s some good shit,” coughing at the end of it as he hits at his chest.

“Well, don’t go hogging it all,” you laugh, reaching for the jay which he passes to you without complaint. Pinched between soft-tipped fingers, eyes closed, you sip at it and let the warmth of oncoming inebriation roam without restraint, the smooth burn of your throat oddly soothing and a relaxant that tames the tense energy within your muscles. You release it, hiccuping a puff of smoke before pushing it out past your lips where it floats up in waves of nihonga-like wisps, curling and uncurling before being swept up by the breeze where it sprints through the needles of pine trees and over the unbothered surface of the lake.

He watches the way the tendrils float past your puckered lips, puffed out in a sensual ‘o’ before they’re consumed by a stupid grin that pushes against the fat of your cheeks and causes your eyes to squint, all too endearing as the last dregs of smoke seep from where they can through the gaps of your teeth. You giggle as you pass it back to him, trying but uncaring of your failure to hide it behind grunts of fake throat clearing. He smiles at you, your incompetent subtlety comical, childish amusement infectious. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, eyeing the joint for a moment before bringing it to his lips for another deep hit.

“It’s just,” you cut yourself off with another stunted giggle, “I could be eating mushroom risotto in a clean, crimson booth, sipping on champagne while my good ol’ Papa raises his glass and nods his head at me and says,” you deepen your voice and make your features stony, squaring your shoulders and puffing your chest, “‘we’re so proud of you, sweetie’ before tipping his glass back to three ‘hip, hip, hoo-rah’s.” 

As you finish, you gently take the joint from him, savoring the image of the thick appendages cradling it between deft fingers as you bring it to your mouth and inhale, your shoulders rising with the movement, gathering like a frozen rubber band before slackening as the hashish thaws you free. You simper on the exhale, jolting with a few coughs through your nose as you try to cover your smile with your hand, the other examining the unironed creases in the rolling paper, “Instead, I’m smoking a squished joint in the dark, sitting on warm-ish gravel, with you.”

You bring your legs into you, tying your ankles together with the weight of your palm in your criss-crossed position as he settles the heels of his hands back into the rocks to prop himself up. You move into his space, leaning over him as you tilt your head to reach his level and emphasize your question, “Why is that?”

His lips are barely curled in a tempered smile as he takes his turn with the doobie, rolling his lips in to lick at them before clarifying for you, “‘Cause you love me,” a breath of hemp-tainted air, “duh.”

It’s laced with boyish charm, a sort of supercilious confidence that floats along the shreds of his exhaled fumes, the jab washing over him like dribbles of water gliding down the waxy feathers of a duck’s back, flicking his head and sending the droplets flying like diving hawks back into the water. It’s the kind of breezy personality that only draws you closer, impressed by his ability to pick up on the minute insinuations between each line of dialogue, enough to know that all you could ever want is to be near him.

“Oh yeah.” It's spoken as if you really did need the reminder as you smile that dopey smile, the fuzzy, assuaged feeling of the drug settling into that saturated calm in your chest as you finish with grin-impaired words, “that’s right.”

The roach is all but a barely-there nub anymore, leached at until the brown-grey paper and bud are dispersed in speckles of crumbly ash across the lake-beach. Your muddled mind, though preoccupied with your earlier thought of Eddie’s ringed fingers, registers the minimal amount left and compels you to pick it up between index and thumb. Eddie, just as stoned as you, gives easily, the joint falling into your dainty fingers just the same as you mumble, decisively, “I get the last hit.”

Despite having the joint in your hand, you move forward, one hand bracing you as you lean over his torso. His fingers hover around yours, not protective but seemingly as a product of his dazedness. He watches you, taking in the way your lashes brush the hill of your cheek as you close them, the slow-motion way your plush lips wrap around the paper, your cheeks hollowing as you suck. The embers at the end glow a violent crimson before crumbling to the rocks where they burn out into white ash. You hold the smoke in your mouth, your throat burning with the prolonged presence of the joint’s exhaust as you turn to face Eddie, eyes half lidded and mind running on autopilot. You don’t need to ask, he already understands, parting his lips for you as you close in, tilting your head before releasing the smoke into his mouth. You can feel the heat of his face radiating against your cheeks and lips, the tip of your nose brushing along the side of his own. Your lips are less than a centimeter apart, a hair’s width away from brushing as the smoke curls through the space left between you, catching in Eddie’s mouth. 

Once it all leaves you in a hot exhale, you flick the charred butt into the rocks and turn to flop onto your back, the rubble, though dense, cushions you with rounded edges and eroded stone faces, soft to the touch. You relax beside Eddie who does the same, laying back with his arms cushioning his head, having closed his mouth, exhaling the smoke through his nose like Smaug perched above his mountain of treasures. 

He hums, satisfied and made to feel all warm inside, the gentle sound of your exhale accompanying him before he asks, “Wanna play a game?”

That makes you smile; he couldn’t just enjoy the silence, it had to be filled with banter or grandiose speeches or ‘games’ but you decide to bite, amused by him always. 

“Depends,” you sigh, “what game?”

There’s an impish pause where, through the lapse in conversation, you can hear the smirk playing on his lips. 

“Truth or strip?” He turns his head towards you, and you follow, admiring the way his smile seems so uninhibited, roguish with his insinuation. You know it’s in poor taste to tease but you go on anyway.

“Mm,” you pretend to deliberate, pursing your lips from side to side, before giving in. “Okay.” 

His eyes light up with perverted hope, or more so astonishment at your agreement, mouth morphing from an awed slacken jaw to a lopsided grin. He moves to speak but you’re quick in intercepting him, “What do I get when I win?”

It’s back to astonishment, turning to lean on his forearm and gaze down at you, his eyebrows shooting up as he releases a disbelieving chuckle, “When you win?” 

“Mm-hmm.” Undeterred, you go on, trying on his haughty nature for a change, “What do I get?”

“Well, in the incredibly unlikely occurrence that you do win, I’ll…” 

He trails off, huffing a breath up that rouses his bangs, looking towards the sky for an answer strung somewhere in midnight thread, spelling it out for him behind the stars. He must find one there as he turns, benign grin aimed down at you that scrambles your chest with tender feelings that you force yourself to swallow down with a subtle bob of your throat and the added issue of a suddenly dry mouth.

“I’ll buy you that Cure album you’ve been wanting since August, even though the lead singer is a whiny little—”

You press your thumb over his lips, preventing him from finishing.

“I refuse to allow anymore of this Robert Smith slander,” you protest, removing your hand to tuck it back under your head. “You’re just jealous that he’s so attractive without even having to try,” you swoon.

“Careful,” he rolls his eyes at you, teasing, “don’t want any of that lipstick to ruin that pretty face of makeup you’ve got on.” He says this while trailing his index finger over the contour of your jaw, tickling your skin before you squinch up your face and rub your cheek to your shoulder to shoo him away.

“Ya know,” you roll over with a grunt to prop your head up on your hand while you lie on your side, “there’s something sexy about a man confident enough in his masculinity to wear lipstick.”

“Got any on you right now?” He asks, leaning closer, “Wanna test that theory?” He puckers his lips up and makes towards you. You waste no time in intercepting his tirade with your palm, lips connecting with gravel-roughened skin before you push his face away.

Dismissing the way he falls back to the ground dramatically, arms spread, and tongue lolled out as if your push was enough to seriously injure him, you redirect the conversation back to the initial topic.

“Okay, truth or strip,” you remind, mostly speaking to yourself and ruminating on the raunchiness of the idea, puffing a laugh out your nose as you wonder just what may have influenced it. “Seems like someone’s been taking a few too many trips behind the velvet curtain at Family Video but I’ll humor this,” you point a finger at him, raising your brows and lowering your chin as you eye him, “you’re lucky I’m stoned enough to play along.”

You start to hum out your first question before Eddie halts you, “Woah, woah, woah! We didn’t discuss what I’d be getting if I won.”

“Well, the reason we didn’t bring it up is because that’ll never happen,” you say, cheeky grin pushing against your cheeks as you press your finger to his chest where he glances down only to be met with your pointer finger flicking up against his nose. 

He wrinkles his nose before bringing his hand up to rub at it, sniffing when his thumb swipes at it, going on to insist with a nasally filter.

“Well, since you’re in a pandering mood, indulge me.”

“Okay, fine, I guess we can play pretend for a second,” you say with a minx-ish smile before flopping on your back again with an ‘oomph’ rattling up from your throat, dissolving into a hum as you play with your lips. You pull the puffy bottom one down with the tip of your finger before releasing it, the fat bouncing back into place before you speak.

“If you win, I’ll buy you a new pair of Reeboks.”

“What’s wrong with my Reeboks?” He asks incredulously, looking down the length of his body towards his scuffed, dirt-stained sneakers, the stitching all but frayed and loose, the soles uneven with wear. 

“You’ve needed new shoes since March, God knows what you got up to during spring break that you fucked ‘em up so bad.”

He ignores your suggestion and offers up his own, “That just won’t do, how about, instead...” 

He’s tilting his head to look down the length of your body, not lecherously though that wouldn’t be out of the question for Eddie, but almost as an excuse to hide the bashful tinge in his features.

“You let me take you out on a date? A real date. Not movie night but, like, dinner in that crimson booth you wanted with that fucking mushroom rice or whatever.”

“Risotto,” you correct him with an endeared smile.

“Risotto,” he nods.

The words don’t read as pushy, never pushy. Never entitled or expectant, just gleaming with that curious lift in the eyebrows and a hopeful shimmer in his smile. You mirror a similar girlish crinkle in the corner of your eyes, lips pulled at the edges as you speak, kind and gilded with the softest tone.

“Okay.” It’s so merciful that the vowels get swallowed by the click of the consonants.

Coming to an agreement, you sit up, shuffling a bit to sit with your knees brought up and secured with the linking of your hand over your wrist, Eddie following in the silent shift of bodies rattling grey and brown stones.

You sigh a breath through your nose that untenses your shoulders and relieves the pressure in your head a bit, bringing a lazy twitch of your lips as you ask, “Alright, who goes first?”

He flicks at a pebble on the ground, pouting out his bottom lip in thought as it skips in ‘tick, tick, ticks.’ 

“Rock, paper, scissors?” You nod and offer your fist, settled over the platter of your palm, Eddie doing the same before the barely audible pat of your hand against the other indicates a ‘one, two, three, shoot.’ He settles on rock, your gentle palm hovering in paper. You smile and gently drape it over his curled hand before he says, “Alright, fair and square, go ahead.”

You remove your hand as you tuck both under your bum before continuing in an unsure buzz, “Hmm, okay, the grossest place you’ve ever hooked up.”

He blows out a raspberry that trills his lips. “Easy! the men’s bathroom at The Hideout, second to last stall,” he gives easily, no hesitance, “Gotta try harder than that to win.”

It’s his turn and he squints down at the ground as he thinks before shooting his question, “Alright, most recent porn rental.”

You worry your lip, chewing at the corners and tearing at the chapped skin there. It feels too early to cave and for such an inconsequential question no less, but you know that if Eddie found out about the George Michael lookalike tape hidden between your box spring and your mattress right now, he would never, in a million years, ever let it go, so you figure you can spare a layer in favor of the never-ending humiliation you’d suffer.

You huff as you lean down to begin tugging at the laces of your boots but he tuts, “Shoes don’t count.” 

You scoff, “Since when?”

“We’ll be here forever if every unimportant article of clothing counts!” He explains with his arms spread at his side, dramatics on full display.

“You got a hot date sometime soon?” You counter with a lifted brow.

“Look, I’ll take mine off too so it’s fair,” he concedes, pulling at the laces of his ruined shoes. You sigh before continuing to pull your boots off, tossing them aside. You roll your socks off as well, tucking them inside your shoes so they don’t get lost in the dark.

Your toes flex, curling and extending without being encumbered, taking a moment to embrace the feeling under the pads of your feet, savoring the warmth that emanates from the erosion-softened stones. The rocks have been baked by the rays of the midday sun, cooling now that she’s hidden behind the jagged horizon of pine trees. Your fingers tease the hem of your sweater, ticking over the threads before you grip it and pull it over your head. Your modesty remains intact, though, by the white underlayer you wear. You spit your next question out with hardly any hesitation, “Last thing you masturbated to.”

He blanches under the white light of the moon, lips splitting apart. The momentary surprise on his face is colored by the flushing of his features and the attempted diversion of his throat clearing where he points his finger and eyes you with a look that reads ‘well, just you listen here…’ before it fizzles out as he decides against it. He compresses his lips, shaking his head and sighing as he starts to shrug both his vest and his leather jacket off, laying them over the rocks, the water creeping close to one of the splayed sleeves, teasing the faded and worn-out leather. Your lips curl, impressed for having got to him. 

It goes on like this for 20 minutes, invasive question after invasive question while garments continue to be strewn across the lakeside— belts undone with clinking clasps, buttons popped, shirts tossed to the side— until you’re both dressed only in your underwear. You’d think you’d both have the idea to be embarrassed being so exposed to the other but the both of you find it no different than when you go to the public pool dressed in bikini and swim shorts, though, to be fair, the fabric is much thinner than the nylon of your stringy swimwear and the way his milky skin glows under the celestial curtain of May is much different than when it burns in June. 

It’s Eddie’s turn as soon as he shucks off his black jeans, pale white chest and slender legs displayed with each clumsy wiggle of his feet. After nearly tripping twice over the denim, he grabs the garment and yanks them off from where they’re tangled with his toes, aggressively attempting to chuck them away but, with all his exertion, they flop to the floor with a pitiful ‘plop.’ You snort at his exaggerated display, laughing as he sits back down, leaning over on his elbow like a French muse lazed out on a chaise sofa; sultry, alluring, calling out like a siren with the way he exhibits the entire length of his body unabashedly. His breaths are heavy— that’s what draws your attention back to the present— mixed with his shared laughter as he trains his challenging gaze on you, all suppressed titterings hidden behind loose lips, aiming to get you on the same level as him; one item left. 

“Thought you were clever with that last one, hmm? Alright, what sounds do you make when you’re doing it?”

You laugh a choked, disbelieving noise at the audacity of the question, “You think you’re gonna pull a fast one on me, you perv?”

“Answer the question, why don’t you,” he implores, voice unconcerned with your accusation, that obnoxiously cocksure grin backing you into a corner. 

You narrow your eyes at him, scrunching your nose in petulant defiance before you falter in a histrionic groan of peevishness, rocking back while your legs are crisscross before leaning back forward to tell him, “I’m not gonna give you the satisfaction.”

What’s supposed to be stern becomes watered down with the way a smile is twisting your attempted snarl and Eddie remains just as calm as before, eyes becoming thin with the joy he gets from seeing you like this, all frisky and playfully mad at him. Oh, and half-naked, that makes him very happy.

You sigh, giving in to his hair-brained ploy as you reach back to undo the hook of your bra, fingers gliding over scratchy lace trimming and the creamy texture of the satin as you release the bond. The underwear falls limp over your chest, no longer supported and, as Eddie watches on, eyes vacantly focusing on the expanse of silken flesh beneath your collarbones as his tongue tempts the chapped skin of his lips, you stop yourself from sliding it the rest of the way over your arms. 

“Turn around,” you order, eyes stern.

“What?” He exclaims like someone has just committed a heinous wrong against him. “Come on! It’s just getting good.

“We never said anything about exposing ourselves,” you defend, maintaining your resolve. “Now turn around!” He grumbles but complies, scooting over the gravel until his back is to you and his hands are covering his eyes for good measure. He can hear the way the article flops to the floor as you toss it away, the atmospheric noise of your fidgeting and shifting is euphoric white sound to his ears as he imagines the way your ungainly arms and legs move with your undress. It’s a few more moments of shuffling before silence is restored.

“Okay,” it’s spoken with an underlying quiver, “You can look.”

He turns back to you with some awkward swiveling and finds you with your arms crossed over your chest, your knees brought up for extra coverage as your ankles cross over each other to protect his eyes from your area below. Your face is sheepish, lips twitching in anxious occupation as your eyes focus on your lacquered toenails to keep from finding his own stare.

His face morphs into, what was originally a giddied smile into a sympathetic gaze, features concerned with your sudden timidity. “We don’t have to keep playing, you know?” He tells you, more occupied with your comfort than any boyish fantasy.

“No, no, I’m okay, I swear.” You look up at him wide eyed before shaking your head to convey your fortitude. You straighten your back and take a breath to steady yourself, your once skittish expression softening as you lean closer to him and confide, “I trust you, Eddie.”

He beams at you, touched by your credence in him. “Not to mention, I totally need to smoke you in this game and crush that ego of yours.”

That amorous radiance at the center of his chest is smothered by your taunt and he rolls his eyes as he urges you to continue, “Yeah, yeah, now are you going to ask me a question or are you going to keep being a big sap?”

You giggle with your next query, “Okay, how big are you? Down there?” 

He grins at the question and raises his brows, “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”

You match his overdone eye roll before pressing him, “Just answer the question.”

He maintains his Cheshire-ish impression as he thinks on it before admitting, “A bit over six inches. Something like that.”

“Mmm,” you hum, a moderate expression relaxing over your features as you shoot him a level headed grin, “‘something like that?’”

“Don’t believe me?” He challenges, eyebrows shooting up in his bluff.

“Oh, I believe you,” you giggle at the tail end of your words before caving to your levity, laughing through your punchline, “believe that you’re full of shit!”

He acts mock-offended, choking on his words as he scoffs and sputters, placing a hand over his bare chest, “I have just about the right mind to lose on purpose and wipe that so-sure smile off your face.”

“Please do, that record will look absolutely lovely with the rest of my collection.”

“Hmm,” he twists his lips as he eyes you with a squinted stare, “unluckily for you, I’m of the least sound mind right now so the game’s still on, sweetheart.” It’s a dare spoken as he invades your space, so close that you can feel the heat of his words over your cheeks, his eyes darting to your lips with the endearment. Your smug exterior hardly falters as you counter, “And I still plan on winning.”

He leans back, licking the enamel of his canine as he lets his eyes rove over your nearly exposed figure before asking, “Your biggest insecurity.”

Your pleased act falls away at the question as you roll your lips in, scrunching up the side of your face in displeasure before you figure that the vulnerability of the answer is less of an expense than being fully exposed in the dead of night with your best friend.

“Maybe how much I need the attention and validation of others.” It looks like admitting that causes you physical pain as your face is contorted into all sorts of wincing motifs. 

“It’s embarrassing to have to say that out loud,” you whisper into your knees as you lean forward into them, the joints obstructing your lips as you go on. “Especially to you, ‘cause, like, nothing gets to you.”

“Hey, woah,” he stops you in your tracks at the inaccurate perception of him, “Who said nothing ever gets to me?”

You cock your head at him as you send him a look that asks ‘really?’

“C’mon, Pigeon, you know me better than that,” he encourages as he gently knocks your leg with his fist, rocking you with the impact. “That whole standing on tables and dungeon master shit, it’s just a front.”

You bite your lip at the admission, suddenly feeling inadequate with your assumption.

“I mean, yeah, most of it’s like one ear out the other but when it’s something real, that’s the kinda shit that hits deep.”

“You just seem so,” you struggle for the words, twisting your hands about before you find it, “Unbothered.”

“Yeah, well, I just do that to impress you,” he laughs at the ground, watching as his pointer finger twiddles with one of his discarded rings over the lining of his jacket.

You smile at his sudden demureness, leaning forward as best as you can with your legs folded up against you to capture his cheek in your hand and lift his gaze to you. He’s got that sudden starstruck look in his eyes, where they go all big and glassy and his beautifully full lips part as he stares up at you like you’ve emerged from the sky, twinkling in moondust and star particles.

“If you shed a tear once and a while when around me, I’d be even more impressed.” You rub your thumb over the thin, discolored skin under his eye, purple and green from lack of rest. The corner of his mouth ticks up as he moves to look down again at his set of jewelry, lengthy lashes kissing the very tops of his cheeks as a warm hue spottily decorates his skin. The movement displaces your hand before you bring it back around your legs, happy with your effect on him; capable of shutting up the biggest attention whore this side of the Mississippi.   

You disrupt the silence with your next question, “If you knew you were to go to sleep tonight and not wake up in the morning, what’s one thing you’d regret not saying?” 

His eyes glow as they flit up to you, taking away from his fiddling before that same reticent smile takes over and you’ve stupefied him once more. He laughs a breathy sound, a bit embarrassed, before he stands up and clears his throat.

“Alright, you know the deal,” his hands are on his hips, still maintaining that underlying sass, “turn around.” 

A giant grin overhauls your features, “I won?” 

“Yeah, you won.” His stare is soft and enamored as he gazes down at you, looking almost delighted to have lost if it meant he was able to see that precious stretch of your lips over your teeth and the choice twinkle in your eyes. “Now turn around.”

You giggle as you tuck your head into your knees, the sound carrying, though muffled, from where you’re burrowed. You can hear the way he balances from one foot to the other while he extricates himself from his final article of clothing, the rocks under his feet clicking with his distributed weight. You shriek as you feel him shoot his boxers at you, scrambling to toss them off of you while he tells you, “Open your eyes, butthead.”

Your tee-heeing filters off into throaty huffs once you’ve gotten the offending item off before looking back at him and falling into a fit all over again. You roll onto your back once you’ve seen him: both hands cupped over his groin to shield your eyes while he fosters a sheepish look over his face, lips curled in. 

You straighten, eyes squinted and smile beaming as you ask him through a mirth-induced rasp, “Can we get a little spin?” You twirl your finger with your request, leaning back on one arm while the other stays wrapped around your chest. He kisses his teeth, huffing through his nose before obliging you, shuffling on his feet to do a full round. That only serves in starting you up again, the sight of his protectively clenched ass sending you into another frenzy of uncontrolled witch-like cackles. 

“Oh, this is rich,” you sigh, wiping an imaginary tear of gaiety away before you settle back into relative calmness. “Well, now that you’ve been thoroughly humiliated, what now? I’ve still got a buzz going.”

His dismayed pout is replaced by a mischievous grin as he looks out to the dock, not all that far from where you’ve planted yourselves, looking back to you with an expression that nearly worries you with how wickedly no-good it is. Before you can even make out the first syllable of your interrogation, he’s booking it, sprinting along the shoreline, twisting his ankles with the way he slides over the insecure beach front. He’s whooping and hollering, screaming ‘aye, aye, aye, aye’ as his feet clomp over the landing before he jumps off the dock in a gangly flurry of limbs, hitting the surface in a crashing splash that manipulates the water that reaches out for your form, so near the waterside.

You gasp in your throat, hurrying to your feet and chasing after him, tripping once or twice over the rocks before you’re planting yourself at the edge of the dock. Leaning over on your hands and knees, you call for him in a voice that tries to maintain still, “Eddie?”

You give him a moment to reappear, eyes flicking over the water to catch sign of him. He doesn’t respond and an unrelenting tension tightens within your stomach as you grow worried, continuing to scan the water in attempts of deciphering his figure through the murky darkness of the lake. 

“Eddie!”

The water opens in front of you with his reappearance, but you barely have any time to feel relief as he leaps up, the feeling taken over by a looming dread as he grabs you by your biceps and pulls you over the edge. You squeal as you tumble to the water before the sound is swallowed whole once you’ve collided with the surface. It’s dark and near unnavigable and the only way you find the bottom is by flailing your legs, shooting yourself up once your feet are able to catch a boulder. You scramble to the surface, sputtering a choked breath between a brief coughing fit. Through the waterlogged fuzziness of your hearing, you can make out Eddie’s booming laugh. You push your sopping hair out of your eyes to regain your sight, though it’s also distorted by water droplets that cling to your lashes, and lunge at him with angry fists and a peeved growl. He’s too swift for you, though, as he snatches your wrists before they can make impact, but what you can’t do with your body you’ll do with your words.

“You ass! I thought you’d gotten hurt and– and you– urgh!” He’s still snickering at the way your cheeks puff out with your labored breathing and how your dampened hair has turned you into what resembles an unhappily drenched cat, but he tries to damper them at the sight of your flaming temper. 

“I’m sorry,” he attempts to apologize through the laughter, but you have none of it as you try to pull yourself from his hold, grunting as you yank your arms away from him, but he just ensnares you as he wraps his arms around your waist to keep you nearby. He tries to reason with you, his voice falling into a softer, more understanding tone once he acknowledges your distress, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.” 

He’s still smiling, looking down at your tetchy expression while a hand emerges from the water to brush your hair away from your face, petting you before coming back to hold your cheek in his massive hand. You ease with his touch and quit your huffing, though your eyes are still shadowed by the knitting of your brows, darting all across his face, so near and framed by brown, matted strands, made ebony by the lack of light, that stick in tangled swirls across the planes of his face. His bangs drip, disturbing his eyes as he blinks to keep the water out, the droplets landing over his nose and lips.

It’s then that you register the warmth of his hand between your shoulder blades, the heat of his sturdy chest against the plushness of your breasts, nipples pert and skin pebbled from the chill that ran through you from being dunked under. Even further, below that, where you’re still covered by now sopping cotton, you can feel the thick prod of something neat the junction where your vulva meets your thigh and your heart stutters, breath hitching and, suddenly, all you can do is look at Eddie with the same desperate expression he's giving you. His lips are parted, eyes clouded with lust as you take in the clumped length of his eyelashes that flutter with troubling water, the darkness of his brown irises, consumed by want and arousal, the beautiful slope of his nose as it catches the light of the moon, and the glossy plump pink of his lips that draws you closer. It’s all you can do to lean in at the same time he does and press your lips against his and, fuck, if this isn’t what they talk about in John Hughes movies then you don’t know what is. 

It just feels… right. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place or the final cassette needed to complete your favorite artist’s discography sliding against all the others on the shelf, leaving no gaps, slotting so perfectly together. You hum into his mouth, dragging your hands up to wrap around his neck, pulling away, not to exchange any words but to tilt your heads to the other side, deepening the smush of your lips. He can hardly contain his yearning as he does his best to bring himself as close to you as possible, nose digging into the softness of your cheek, teeth clipping the gummy flesh of your lips. His tongue begs your approval as it glides against the seam of your lips and you waste no time in allowing him entry, your muscles meeting in the middle, sliding against each other as you taste the herbal tang of weed on him though you’re unsure if there's any delineation between your taste and his as you suck at his bottom lip.

Eddie detaches from the mess of your kiss, saliva stringing between the two of you before it breaks, falling into the mix of water. He connects to the height of your cheek, placing a romantic kiss there that lasts what feels like forever as you sigh, closing your eyes as you take the wrist of the hand that he uses to hold you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever been lucky enough to touch. He starts trailing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and neck, nipping at the delicate skin occasionally between his love-pecks, laving his tongue over them when you shiver against him.

“Eddie,” you keen in a needy cry, the syllables soft and aching as he holds you to him tight, never letting you dip below the surface as his fingers dimple your skin with his relentless grip as he grows excited. He separates from where he was lavishing your skin in kisses and soothing licks to mutter, “Fuck, I’ve wanted you for so long.” It sounds lost, like he’s not speaking entirely to you, almost talking to himself, like he can hardly believe he’s got you, right here, wanting him back. 

“Eddie.” You draw his attention as you thread your fingers into his dripping head of hair, begging, “I need you, Eddie.”

“Fuck, I got you, Pidge,” he pacifies, connecting your lips again, murmuring into your mouth, “‘M always gonna take care of you.” 

You cry against him as his hands drift lower to your thighs where he urges you up, hiking your body higher and dragging you against his chest as he carries you, beginning to find purchase on the algae-slick rocks to bring the two of you to shore. He lays you down over his jacket and vest, supporting your head as he rests you there, protecting your back from the gravel, unconcerned with the safety of the treated hide as your more than damp skin connects with the lining and soaks it through. 

He’s clumsy, all adolescent vigor and enthusiasm, swallowing every sound you give him, complimenting every curve of your body with the hollow of his palm, tracing the contours of your figure with the calloused pads of his fingers. You’re no better, dragging him closer by the roots of his mane, scratching along the muscle and bone of his back, breathing wanton noises and arching into the divots of his form. When he leaves your mouth, you breathily whimper, feeling his amused chuckle rumble against the tender skin of your neck as he pays the planes of your body all the attention they could ever hope for. 

He licks the protrusion of your clavicle, kisses the notch between the bones before lifting himself with his arms and takes in the luscious sight of you; skin dewy, gathered droplets glowing pearly like the diamond stars above, lips swollen and spit-shined thanks to him, breasts heaving with the exertion of your lungs. His hand lifts to bring it over your stomach, dragging his thumb from your navel up between the line made by your ribs before he takes your breast into his palm and massages it. His eyes are foggy, unable to focus on anything other than the way the fat and tissue bulge through the gaps in his fingers. He’s brought back by the touch of your fingers ghosting over his cheek and brushing back a clump of hair, tucking it behind his ear. 

His eyes lift to yours, catching sight of your adoring smile made real by the way he worships you, touching you like you’re art. The corners of his lips lift in a sheepish grin, made embarrassed by the way he's been caught.

“So much for looking away.”

That has you throwing your head back, releasing such a sweet peel of laughter that forces Eddie to lay a kiss between the valley of your breasts, chuckling along with you, before taking you by surprise when he latches his mouth to your nipple. It makes your laughter blend with an approving gasp and a resulting groan, your fingers encouraging him with scratches to his scalp, the sensation making him moan over the skin, providing delicious vibrations that have you releasing gorgeous sounds, encouraging you to roll your still-clothed hips against his thick, hot, hard-on. You’re glad he bestows you with enough mercy as to not have you eat your words because he definitely is something like that. 

With a particular flick of your pelvis, the cushy head of his cock catches on your folds through the scratchy material of your underwear and he releases you with a pop, head tipping up as his eyes snap shut and he releases a stuttering breath.

You bring his head down for a kiss, soothing the scrunched nature of his expression before he separates with a huff, burying his head into the crook of your neck while he hugs your body close to him, asking, begging, “I need to be inside you.”

The desperation is enough to have you responding, just as wrecked, “Please, Eddie.”

He untangles himself at your go-ahead, leaning back on his haunches as he takes your legs and admires the way the soaked fabric of your underwear clings to your puffy lips, the white of the material leaving nothing to be imagined. He traces over the hem of the leg opening with his thumb, your coarse hair peeking out and tickling the pad of his finger before he brings it to slide through your folds over the cotton. You jolt and whine as he travels from your seeping hole up to your aching clit, rubbing it in caressing circles before he takes your legs and lifts them, closing them together and placing them over his shoulder so he can drag the garment over the length of your legs. He savors the way it guides his eyes over your perfect skin, all that’s been exposed and what hasn’t before he drags them over your feet, where you kick them off. He chuckles at your fervor before taking the item and tossing it away. He kisses the muscle of your calf, eyes still locked on yours before he takes your legs and spreads them once more. At the sight of your exposed cunt, all glittery and soaked, he releases a low groan, leaning down to lay a kiss just above your thatch of hair.

You arch your lower back to present yourself to him and remind him of what you’ve been begging for, mewling in an insistent, pettish way. He straightens a bit, leaning forward on his left arm as he gathers his ruddy and leaking length into his hand and pumps it once and then twice before rubbing the weeping head through your slick.

“Don’t worry, baby, m’gonna treat you so good,” he assures.

With his promise made, the head of his cock presses into you and you squeak. The sound falls into a satisfied groan, melding with the heavy grunt Eddie releases at the breach. “Shit, you’re so fucking tight," he rushes out, "and damn warm, too, holy shit.”

He leans over you again, elbows supporting his weight, and with his shift, his cock buries deeper within you, making you cry out as he nudges against your sensitive velvet walls, the thick veins catching against your nerves and making your body sing.

Given a moment for both of you to catch your breath, Eddie starts to rock into your wet heat, slow gentle thrusts matching the rhythm of the lake as the incoming waves lick at his knees. They’re yawning and slow, pitching both of your bodies with each snap of his hips against yours. Your arousal coats him and leaks out with each retreat of his hips, your creamy release raveling your mess of hair and squelching with each kiss of your pelvic bones. 

Your noises mingle together in high pitched keens and deep, gravelly groans and curses. You hug him tight, bodies mashed together as your arms hug him from under, nails fighting to keep him close to you as they scrape along his skin and leave glowing irritated markings where they pass while your legs lock at the ankles over his ass to keep his hips from venturing too far from your own. 

His head hangs low above your chest, watching as he exits and enters in and out of you, listening to the wet slap that disappears with the gentle crash and retreat of the waves. His bangs, still clumped with moisture, tease the skin of your breasts, dragging up and down with each of his thrusts, the chill droplets of water that dangle like crystal beads from the ends causing a rash of goosebumps to spread. His breathing is heavy, panting and gulping thick as he moves with you, fucked out on your pussy and the salt of your skin on his tongue when he kisses your chest. You watch as the muscles of his shoulders sway with him, his pale, near translucent skin, speckled with beads of water that you can't help but lean down and lick, kissing, biting every inch of skin you can reach, falling back once he ruts forward and prods at that spot that has your belly tightening and your cunt clamping over him.

“Shit, Eddie,” you gasp, the sound muffled to your own ears, taken over by the chirp of crickets and cooing owls, the croak of sleeping frogs that burrow in muddied soil and fall to rest, their heartbeats slowing with the chill of the earth. The head of his cock keeps tapping against that patch of nerves that has your body shaking and you plead with him, through the way you tighten your legs around his slender hips, to move faster and to hit harder. He understands your subtle request and delivers you firmer, quickened thrusts that have each one of your nerve endings chiming like a silver bell, feeling surrounded by his adoration of you with each kick of his hips that has you ringing in ‘ah, ah, ah’s.

He falls over you, unable to hold himself up anymore while also craving the complete touch of your skin as he winds his arms around your waist and presses his cheek to yours. His hold on you forces you still against him and intensifies the reach of his cock, his dick ramming into you and making your voice jump with each of his pounding thrusts.

The sound of him leaving and then sliding right back home, the clapping of skin on skin is lost to the night while your ramblings of how good he feels and how much you care for him, every word is captured just as every peck against your skin is memorized in a fizzing prickle against your flesh and every sigh and grunt is cataloged in the back of your mind; this is how he sounds, this is the rate of his breathing, this is how he loves.

The thought overwhelms you in a way that excites your senses, suddenly hyper aware of all of the little details: the smell of his cheap cologne invading your nostrils in an intoxicating burn, the feel of his hair, coated in product, made crunchy with hairspray and tickling your cheeks and your lips, the way he fucks into you in the softest, most adoring way. It’s the way he holds you and the way that he protects you, the way that he breaths your name like they’re the most essential set of syllables he’ll ever utter that makes you feel so good that you think you can cry and it’s the prick of your tear ducts and the sniffle caught in your throat that ensures it.

The way he’s moving inside you, you’re tumbling to that glowing end, breathing growing tighter, and Eddie can feel it. He can feel it in the way your skin is hot to the touch despite the late spring temperature and the way your cunt squeezes and chokes his cock every time he drives it back into you.  

“I’m so close,” you whisper into his ear, voice trembling, and he growls, the aggressive noise dissolving into a whimper as he lifts his head to look down at you. His eyes are lidded and the weight of his bottom lip hangs as he readies a strained response that gets caught in his throat.

He notices, then, the streaks along your cheeks, illuminated like liquid silver against your skin and his eyebrows grow taut as he reaches to hold your face and wipe at the water there. “You okay, Pidge?”

His thrusts begin to slow, afraid he may have hurt you, but you refuse to allow that, tightening your legs and securing your arms over his shoulders as you call for him to continue.

“No, no, don’t stop, please.” He returns to his set pace, and you moan for him in a blissed-out haze, turning to kiss his palm over every line, pecking the swirled pads of his fingertips and loving the feel of the grooves against your lips. 

“I’m okay, swear, Eddie," you gasp, head tilting back as you get lost in the heavenly sensation of his cockhead snatching against your walls. "Just feels so good.” You look up at him with sultry eyes that implore him to keep fucking into you and the sight of you all puppy-eyed has his abdomen clenching and his breath catching.

“Fuck,” he chokes.

You whine at the wrecked crack and desperation that laces his voice, reaching your hand up to pull his head down and kiss him, muffling your cries into his mouth as his groans echo within yours. His thrusts grow erratic and unmeasured, and you thrill at his increased speed, breath hitching with the way his thumb travels down your body to rub speedy circles into your clit, each flick causing fireworks to erupt behind your eyelids.

You flinch as you cum, the warmth in your stomach releasing in a white-hot wave of pleasure that has you shaking with the force of it, crying Eddie’s name as it springs like a bound coil finally allowed to relax. With the spasming of your pussy he has to pry himself away from you and pull out, fisting his cock in hurried tugs until he spills all over your stomach, painting your soft skin in streaks of his release.

You hum at the feeling of his warm cum coating you, finding it comforting as you draw him closer, cooing at him and holding his face in your hands as he finishes in stuttering waves before he falls over you, careful not to crush you under his weight. You find the smear of his finish between you not unpleasant and neither does he it seems as he negates it and releases a contented sigh with his head buried into the furnace of your neck, wrapping his arms under you to hug you tight.

You smile at his affection, nuzzling your nose into the side of his head, sighing with him before he admits, slightly slurred, “Fuck, you’re so fucking good.”

His profession has you cradling his head closer and squishing your nose deeper into his forest of hair, smiling like an idiot as you only chuckle in return.

You smile, kissing his head, before murmuring into his locks, “Not so bad yourself.”

You can feel his smile against your neck before he kisses it, and you giggle at his tranquil display of satisfaction.

“But don’t think I’ve forgotten; you still owe me Head on the Door,” you remind while sniffing up the leftover snot in your nose and wiping at your eyes with the heels of your palms. He extricates his face out of his little hovel and looks down at you with that troublesome glimmer in his eyes.

“I mean, may be a little hard, I’ll have to take down the whole door, but I’ll give it a try.”

“Eddie!” You chastise as he barks a booming laugh that has his stomach rumbling against your own. 

“Aw, c’mon, I thought my overpowering sex appeal would wipe that weirdo from your thoughts completely!” He groans in faux disappointment.

You giggle at his theatrics, “Nope, you better count your days because as soon as Robert Smith accepts me as his second wife, your bags are packed.”

He whines as he lays his head beside yours, cheek pressed to the scratchy denim as he moans, “You’re so mean to me.”

You pet his drying hair over his shoulder before pecking a kiss to his mouth, “It’s only ‘cause I love you.”

He hums a brief laugh, “Oh yeah, that’s right.”

[anncanta]

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Fandom: Dracula (2020)

Characters: Dracula, Agatha Van Helsing

Relationship: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing

Rating: Teen and up audiences

@alma37 @hopipollahorror @moremoveslessannouncements-blog

Read on AO3

Or read below

‘What happens if I win this game?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

Agatha leaned forward and rested her hands on the table.

‘We both know this is not just a chess game. I don't know what you have in mind, but the fact is …’ she glanced briefly at the pieces. ‘You are clever, cunning and competitive. But that is not the case here. You took me from the convent – kidnapped me – and brought me here. You could have locked me in a box, you could have raped me or tortured me –’

‘Agatha, your expectations exceed my wildest –’

‘Yet you offered me a game of chess. And I want to know why.’

There was silence for a few seconds.

‘The fact that I am here is enough to consider you the winner,’ said Agatha.

‘Are you so sure?’

‘Yes.’

For a while, Dracula silently looked at the table, the chessboard, the waves of hair falling over her shoulders.

‘Maybe I am not,’ he said suddenly.

The room changed so abruptly that Agatha did not have time to understand anything.

…They were standing on a castle tower, on a small platform, and far below them stretched the valley, the forest, and the river.

Agatha went to the parapet. She rose on her toes and looked over the edge. Jonathan must have jumped from here.

‘This is that very tower,’ Dracula said from behind her shoulder, confirming her guess.

‘Do you want to show me my future?’

Agatha turned around.

‘I don't know what I want anymore.’

He stood in front of her, very close, and the sunlight touched his face. Agatha was surprised to discover that he had long eyelashes. She raised her hand and touched his cheek.

‘It's not real,’ she said.

‘No, of course not.’

Agatha nodded.

‘Then kiss me.’

…

‘What happens if I win this game?’

The pieces were all mixed up. Agatha's lips were burning.

‘I'll lose,’ Dracula smiled.

‘I couldn't wish for more.’

***

The Demeter arrived at Whitby Harbor right on schedule. After making the last entry in the logbook, Captain Sokolov put it in a drawer and left the cabin. The autumn sun that greeted him on deck was cold and unfriendly, but after long weeks of sailing in fog, the captain was glad to see it.

Everything was fine, he assured himself. The voyage had gone well. No storms, no incidents. The passengers were happy, the cargo had been delivered safely.

And yet something was bothering him, stubborn and persistent. Elusive, like a pebble in a boot.

‘How many passengers did we have?’ Sokolov asked Valentin, standing nearby, looking at the rigging and ropes, muttering something under his breath.

The old sailor frowned.

‘Six. Three men, a child, and two women,’ Valentin spat discontentedly on the creaking boards.

The captain nodded.

‘Six.’

He waved away the images of a tall man in a black top hat and a thin woman in a nun's robe that appeared in his head.

When the captain went ashore, he no longer remembered them.

‘And the king had a daughter, with skin as white as snow and lips as red as blood,’ said Agatha, watching the captain's retreating figure. Dracula, who had followed her down the gangway, threw a warm cloak over her shoulders.

The sun had almost disappeared behind the horizon, gilding its edge.

Dracula leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘I heard she was the most beautiful of all. No woman could compare with her. I think that's why her name meant “morning dawn.”’

[the-last-quest]

A short fic based on this post because it’s been consuming my brain

[883 words]

Nine lowered himself on the lip of the cave, his shoes connecting with the ground as quietly as he could.

He almost missed what he was looking for, the light of the full moon outside not enough to reach into all the small crevices of the cave, only a small glimmer, not fully in the shadows, giving away that something was there. That thing being the metal arm belonging to the fox that he, and everyone else, had been missing for the past few hours.

Sails hadn’t noticed him yet, the pirate curled up into himself, and for that Nine was a little relived. As he made his way further into the cave his mind raced with things to say. He knew what he wanted to say to the other, but now that he was faced with it, he had no idea how to.

He made his way closer to the other, his footsteps silent due to years of practice. Everything was going peacefully until he accidentally kicked a pebble, the noise alerting the other fox to his presence

Nine froze as he made eye contact with Sails. He thought by now he would be used to seeing reflections of himself, but this was different. It was obvious that Sails had been crying, though now the tears were dry. Along with that he looked terrified of being discovered, seeming ready to bolt at any second. It reminded Nine in when he had felt like this, when he was younger, backed into a corner with no escape. He decided then and there he never wanted to see that expression on any of his brothers again.

Nine put his hand up in front of him to show that he didn’t mean any harm, he didn’t trust himself to speak. Only a small swish of his tails before Sails curled into himself again indicated that it was okay for Nine to come closer.

As Nine sat down next to the pirate he dug into his shorts pocket. He nudged the other lightly with his shoulder, drawing attention to what he held in his hand.

A blue and white bandana.

A bandana that had led Sails to run off and hide. A bandana that had fallen off when Sails and Mangey were play fighting. A bandana that hid a jagged clipped ear.

With shaky hands Sails took the bandana from Nine. He watched as Sails held the bandana to his chest before looking back up and giving Nine a shaky smile.

He decided to use that as a chance to speak, to say something that could tell the other he knew how he felt, that he was the same. But as he opened his mouth no words came out, his brain once again failing him as he had no idea how to handle this.

Now though he had Sails’ attention, he felt like he had to do something.

Nine took a deep breath, aware of the eyes that were on him, as he started to unclasp his black glove. He paused and squeezed his eyes, unwilling to look at his own paw as he removed his glove. It was silent for a moment, long enough for Nine to begin to regret what he did, until he heard a small, sharp inhale when Sails realized what Nine was showing him, the scars from being declawed.

Nine turned away from his paw before he opened his eyes again. He was met with Sails looking straight at him. This time though Nine couldn’t read his expression, a mixture of sadness and pity, but also an understanding.

He didn’t know what to think until Sails let out a small noise. It was a mixture between a laugh and a sob. Nine stared at Sails as the other fox devolved into laughter. Nine doesn’t know why but he joined in the laughter.

It felt like a weight was lifted. Everything was out in the open now and there was nothing to hide. The culmination of the stress and the shame, and most importantly the relief of not being seen as different tipped them over the edge.

It was a while until the laughter stopped. Nine leaned back again the stone wall of the cave, wiping away tears. He felt a weight drop onto his shoulder. Sails was looking up at him, a smug smile on his tear stained face. Nine rolled his eyes at the other’s antics but made no attempt to push him off, instead leaning his head to rest on top of Sails’.

They didn’t say anything. No long winded discussions on how they got their scars. No unpacking why they felt to cover them up. Just a mutual understanding that both of them had faced something that irreparably changed them physically, something that still affects how they view themselves.

Soon Nine would have to call in, letting the others know that they were safe. Right now though he could wait. Sure it wasn’t the most comfortable situation, he could feel Sails’ elbow digging into his side, and he couldn’t say he was totally happy, but he did feel somewhat content and based on the quiet purr Sails had started to let out he did too. It wouldn’t hurt that much to stay in this moment for a little longer.

[mossy-thing]

I wrote a new chapter!! Read it here or on AO3!

First | Prev | Next

And why it was Tomorrow came (and with his grey hand led us back)

Chapter 3

In which there is foreshadowing, a star, a revelation, and a lot of mistrust.

They had not slept like this for long years. They often slept in the same room, of course, a luxury like the small tower they had left behind now was not often among their finds, but usually, Maglor slept on the other side of the room, curled up like a cat beside his ever waking brother. Elrond and Elros nearly always slept together, in the same bed. Maglor only joined them when he had to, and Maedhros never did.

Not when one didn’t count the first few nights, that was, in the foggy beginning. Back when the air had still smelled of salt, when they still had others to fight orcs with, and when he and his twin had feared the Fëanorians like sheep feared a pack of wolves. Maedhros had held his brother, then, while he had held the twins, and sometimes, when the night had been the blackest, none of them would have been able to say who held whom captive anymore. Much had changed since, if course. But even though Elrond was taller, and stronger, and, or so at least he liked to think, a little wiser than on the day they had been pulled out from under his mother’s bed by callused hands and thrown onto a horse, the feeling of falling into a mattress, or a cot, or even a hammock at the end of a long day with little to do but ride and recite quenya poems as part of the education Maedhros gave them nearly resentfully had stayed the exact same. A boneless exhaustion, that had been kept at bay over the long stretch of hours as the sun sailed over the sky, singeing leaves and grass blades, and that had grown even stronger as they laid down long after Arien’s ship had vanished and Tilion’s began to sail.

Some nights, Elrond felt sure he would not find the strength to get up again in the morning.

He was not sure why Maedhros was sleeping with them now, why he was clutching his brother so tightly. Perhaps something had happened in that last battle. Something frightening. Elrond’s eyes slipped shut, and he wandered down the Path of Dreams before he had any chance to wonder what.

“She was here?” Elrond nodded, and Elros crouched down to frown at the sand like he expected it to spell out the woman’s full name and post address in black pebbles. Elrond was nervously rocking on his feet, glancing around. This felt wrong, like they would be discovered any moment now and dragged into a cold cellar, where the walls were slimy and the air tasted of mold. Elros, having caught his dread, stood, and crooked his head at him.

“Come now, nothing bad is gonna happen. This is a safe haven, remember?” He suddenly stood up straight and added, in a perplexingly good imitation of one of the few Maiar watching over the cottage, “Nothing will harm you here, children. You may run as you please.”

Elrond smiled, despite himself. “You even got the sorrowful tone right.”

Elros grinned. “That, I did. I will be an amazing actor one day. People will travel far to see me perform, and cry uncontrollably as I do.”

Elrond rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure.”

His brother’s plans for the future changed nearly daily, and one was as absurd as the next. When they had been very young, Elros had sworn up and down for nearly two weeks, which was the longest such a plan had ever lasted, that he would be the king of a powerful people one day, that he would wear a crown of seashells and be clad in robes lined with golden embroidered hems.

“And you will always come and visit me, right?” he had pleaded once, late at night, and for the first time Elrond had thought he might really mean it. “It would be so lonely if you didn’t!”

But the next day, he had seen one of the soldiers traveling with them carving a bone into the shape of a small duck, and had started claiming, with stars in his eyes, that he would be a whittling nomad one day, who sold otters of wood and smiling cats of ivory. “It’s true,” he had grinned. “I saw it in a dream.”

Now, he frowned at the sand, before giving it a kick and stretching. “What direction did she come from?” He looked down the seemingly endless dunes that stretched out on both sides, narrowing his eyes. “If we go there, we might be able to find her tracks.”

“She came from that side,” Elrond said and pointed down the beach. “And she was carrying a basket of vegetables, like she had been at a market.” He frowned thoughtfully. “If we go down that way instead,” he said, pointing down the opposite way, “We could find out where she was going, before she met me.”

“And where she went after.” There was a strain in Elros' voice, a tension in his movements. He did not sound excited at all. Elrond stepped closer and softly took his twin’s hand.

“It’s alright,” he said, when Elros looked at him. “We don’t have to go, if you don’t want to. We can forget this and head to the Cottage, and we’ll never mention it again.”

Elros tilted his head for a moment, like he was actually considering it, but then he shook it, and Elrond’s shoulders relaxed slightly.

“No,” Elros muttered, squeezed Elrond’s hand and added, a little more surely, “No, I want to find out who that lady is just as much as you do. So let’s go already, we have only so long before we wake up again, and then it might take weeks before we can go on together.”

They smiled at each other, though it still looked a little forced on Elros' part, and started walking.

Elros was right, of course, Elrond thought, watching the sky. It was nearing dusk, and the waves rolled softly over the fairy sand, making calming, rumbling noises as they went. He had always liked it best when he woke up at the beach. It calmed him, though he did not wish to visit it in the waking world, not for many years, at least, if he would make it that far. And even if he did, he most certainly did not want to see a beach with a Fëanorian at his side. There was something dark in his mind, something that stirred awake when a big hand gripped his arm or when heavy footsteps echoed outside of his view, and though he chose not to name it, he knew exactly what it was. And he could guess what would happen if he visited a beach with the ones who had taken him and Elros away from it.

Elros gasped, long after the sky had grown dark and stars had begun to appear, like careless paint strokes in the heavens, and the hand not already intertwined with Elrond’s pointed up. Elrond lifted his gaze and started. In the sky, like it had always been there, hung a ship. It took Elrond a second to realize what he was looking at.

They had seen Gil-Estel before, of course, but never so closely. In Beleriand, it was naught but a shining, wandering star, and it had taken some time until they had understood what – who it was that was moving it. Maglor and Maedhros did not mention it, not after the first night it had appeared at least, when the cold wind had nearly blown through them and Maedhros had said, rasping and dryly, “Surely that is a Silmaril, that shines now in the west?”

Maglor had only squeezed his hand, his hollow eyes fixed on the new star. For once, the minstrel had been utterly silent.

Only when they had begun wandering the Path of Dreams to the Cottage had they realized it was a ship. One of the Maiar at the cottage had taken all of the children by the hand one night, had floated with them up into the sky and let them watch as Gil-Estel sailed. Vingilot, they had called it smilingly. The enchanted ship of Eärendil the Mariner. Each night he sets sail and flies over the Sundering Seas, and each night the light of the Silmaril atop his brow pierces the stormclouds of your home country.

“Can we go and visit him?” a boy with fair curls holding Elrond’s right hand had asked.

That you cannot, the Maia had replied. For he is of the waking world, and would neither hear nor see you. But know that his arrival is a sign of the Valar. Know that his light is a sign of Hope.

They had seen Vingilot from afar then, a ring of dreaming children in the air, held aloft by a force older than Ëa itself. This was different. Far different. The ship was close, so close Elrond thought he could reach out and touch the silver wood, should he want to. The white sails were blowing in the night wind and the light of the Stone let clouds and waves glimmer and shine in colours Elrond had never seen before. How had he not noticed it? Had he been this deep in thoughts? Perhaps the sky had darkened and the ship had risen, and Elrond had not felt the change in the light.

Though, he thought, it was one thing to see his father’s ship from afar, to see it through the narrow windows when he awoke at night and blindly grasped for his skin of water by his cot, but to do so here? To be so close, achingly close, to the man who had loved their mother, who had given two pieces of his soul to gift him and his brother life, and be unable to touch him? Unable to speak to him?

This was agonizing. It was more painful than the Battle Song of their foster father, more tortuous than the cold glares Maedhros threw their way each day for stealing his brother’s love.

His hand ached, he noticed suddenly, and when he looked down, he realized Elros was gripping it so tightly that pain shot up his arms and bundled up right behind his eyes, he felt tears well up and slide down his cheeks. He pulled his brother closer, and they watched as the ship floated higher and higher into the sky, as it grew smaller, smaller, and at last became a star, of roughly the same size as it appeared in Beleriand.

“We should go on,” Elros was saying, his voice as quiet and small as Elrond felt. “Or we won’t find her.”

“I don’t want to go yet,” Elrond murmured, pressing closer, and Elros hummed in agreement. So they stood, their bare toes in the sand, still warm from the evening sun, holding each other and watching that distant star.

And then, Elrond saw the bird flying away from it.

It was not a very big bird, a seagull, maybe, though it was silent as it came closer, and circled slowly over the beach, down in a mesmerizing spiral of white feathers, until it settled onto the sand, stepped from foot to foot — and melted away. Elrond gasped as he stared at the being in front of him, watching as it grew taller, darker, and had at last turned into a woman. She was tall, dark skinned, with long, curly hair, and wore the same white dress she had when Elrond had last seen her. She seemed so familiar. There was just something in the way her brows knit together in worry, in the way her hands grasped at the fabric of her dress at her sides.

She was staring at them.

Elros took a step back, pulling his brother with him. “Well,” he hissed, “There’s your answer. She is a Maia. How else could she see us? How else could she turn into a bird and fly?”

Elrond only stared at her. She had not moved, only to stretch out a hand towards them, but now it fell at her side, limp, with an ever so slight tremor, and there was neither the hum of Song that was usually so evident around a Maia, nor a shake in the Air when she moved. She seemed, to him, like an entirely ordinary elven woman. And she had known their names.

Elrond took a careful step towards her, ignoring his brother’s gasp. It made sense that Elros was scared, of course. They both knew that Maiar who were not used to them, like those at the Cottage, could be a little unsure of what the Children’s bodies could endure, that their bodies could be too hot for touch, that they could twist the bones inside ones skin without a malicious thought, and even though Elrond was fairly certain Elros and he did not actually have bodies right now, he could understand that Elros was not keen on finding out to what degree they could still feel pain. There was just something about her…

“Will you disappear again?” she asked. Her words were quiet, but they still pierced through the air clearly, and Elrond had no problem understanding what she said. He looked at the sky. The night was nearing its blackest, and he knew Arien set sail here long before she woke them in Beleriand.

“Not yet,” he said.

“Elrond, come on,” Elros whispered, and pulled at his arm again. I don’t think she is a Maia, Elrond thought, and Elros answered, Does it matter?

Elrond frowned, but he had no time to think on it.

“How are you here?” She paused. “Are you here? Are you real?”

“We are real,” Elrond assured her, and frowned. “But… I’m not sure if we are here? We are –” He turned to his twin for support, but Elros was only staring past him, pressing his lips together so tightly they turned grey. “We’re dreaming,” Elrond settled on.

“So the question we should be asking is,” Elros said, “Are you real?”

Elrond looked at his brother again, surprised to hear him speak, but Elros was still staring at the woman, not paying him any mind.

“Of course I am,” she said shakily in the same moment Elrond thought, Of course she is.

Elros was confusing him. They had spoken about this decades ago, after all. These dreams were real. There really was this beach, there really was the little path through the woods, and there really was the little Cottage at the end of it. The other children in their white nightgowns were real, and they returned to Beleriand when they awoke, just as he and Elros did. For Elros to suddenly question the reality of their situation, of the woman standing right before them, who had grasped Elrond’s hands and wept at the sight of his braids, made no sense. Suddenly, he remembered their conversation in the little closet in the tower. Elros had known he had been speaking to a woman. Why had he not questioned it until now? Why had he not remembered?

“My name is Elwing,” she said suddenly, desperately. Her eyes were full of tears when he turned to her, shocked. He knew that name, of course he did. Maglor had made sure he and Elros knew where they came from. Family is everything, he used to say. Elwing was grasping at the frills of her white dress like they would give her the strength she needed to keep her voice from breaking. They did not, of course.

She wiped her eyes, looked at them, smiled. It was Elros’ smile, the one he wore when he fell and skinned his knees, but tried to convince Elrond he was alright regardless of his pain. “I am your mother.”

Comments are greatly appreciated. Whenever I have a rough day, I look at them. I know I have a hard time replying, but I read every single one and I am incredibly happy about your feedback.

[aneurinallday]

The Tragedy of James Steerforth

Chapter II: The Beach

Steerforth awoke to a blue dawn and the feeling of hard, uneven rocks underneath him. The storm had lifted and the rain had stopped, though the sky remained overcast. He was lying on his side on the pebble beach, surrounded by a throng of people - the Peggotty family, David Copperfield, his mother. Their faces were full of worry. Worry for whom? For him? Surely not. He’d ruined their lives by seducing Emily. Why on earth would they be worried about his wellbeing?

“My boy! My beautiful boy!” The usually haughty and imperious Mrs Steerforth was fretting over him, her black-gloved hands clutching at his arm, touching his wet face. “My sweet James! You’re alive!”

Steerforth swatted her away and sat up. He looked out to sea, but there was no sign of his boat - it had disappeared completely beneath the water.

“Are you alright?” David knelt beside him, tears in his eyes. “My friend, are you alright?”

Steerforth didn’t reply. As he looked around at their gawking faces, he felt a swirl of emotions. Guilt. Resentment. Gratitude. Embarrassment. He was a high-born gentleman, the son of a lady; and yet here he was, the object of pity, being looked down on by these servants and orphans. In their eyes, he must’ve seemed pathetic.

His cheeks burned with humiliation, which swiftly turned to anger. His pride fought his conscience, and his pride won. 

He struggled to his feet. His hair was bedraggled, his fine clothes heavy with seawater. He felt certain that he must look like a drowned rat.

“This is your fault, Copperfield,” he spat, “You brought me here to this accursed place, and got me involved with these wretched people. You introduced me to that silly wench and her half-wit fiancé. And now look what’s happened - I could’ve died!”

“You can’t possibly blame me for this,” David protested, “I brought you here to meet my friends. You ran off with Emily, and decided to sail back in the middle of a storm! How is that my fault?”

“I almost drowned because of you!”

“Shut up, Steerforth!” Ham interrupted, “Davy’s not to blame for anything. He’s never done anything but be a good friend to you - not that you deserve it. It was your own stupidity that almost got you killed.”

Steerforth’s mother spun around to glare at him.

“Don’t you dare speak to my James that way!”

“Be quiet, Mother,” said Steerforth, his stomach shrinking with embarrassment. “For once in your life, be quiet.”

Emily had fallen to her knees nearby.

“James!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’re alright. Despite what’s happened, I would never - I would never want anything bad to happen to you.”

“Spare me the performance,” Steerforth said. “I bet you’ve been saying all sorts of things about me, haven’t you?”

“No, I haven’t,” Emily protested, “I told them nothing but the truth - that you took me on a wonderful adventure and then left me. That I had to make my way back to England without you. But I never blamed you, not even once.”

She reached out for an embrace.

“Please, James. Let’s be kind to each other. We can be kind without being in love, can’t we?”

“Love,” Steerforth scoffed, “As if I ever loved you. As if anyone could ever - ”

“Enough!” Ham shouted, taking an angry step towards him. “You can’t speak to her like that! She deserves better. Better than you, better than me. You’ve got no right - ”

“How would you know what she deserves? Has she ever told you what’s in her heart? Has she ever confided in you?” Steerforth demanded, “She never loved you, Ham Peggotty. She never wanted you. Why do you think she jumped at the first chance of a better life - at the first gentleman to give her attention?”

“I might not be a gentleman, but I am a man, which is more than you can say,” Ham snapped, “She was my girl! You stole her from me, you strung her along, and then you abandoned her in the middle of a strange country. She had to find her own way home, by herself, in disgrace! What kind of man does that?”

“I didn’t steal her. She ran away with me. She chose me over you. And who could blame her? Look at what you’re offering!”

“You snake. I saved your life!”

“And what do you want for it? My gratitude? You expect me to grovel to a fisherman’s brat?”

“Please stop,” David interjected, placing his body between them as a shield. “This isn’t the time to quarrel. Let’s all go inside, where it’s warm and dry. Let’s share a drink. That’ll make everyone feel better.”

“Better for whom?” Steerforth snapped, “Certainly not for me. You can’t fix everything with saccharine platitudes, Daisy.”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t want your help. I’m done with it - with you. I’m done with your stupid friends and your stupid Yarmouth and your stupid face!”

“My precious boy!” His weeping mother tried to put her arms around him, but he pushed her off.

“Get away from me, you idiot. I hate you. I’ve always hated you. I promise, after today, you’ll never see me again!”

Watching the scene unfold with crossed arms, Mr Peggotty made a noise of disgust.

“Is there nobody in your life that you care about, Steerforth?” he said, shaking his head. “Is there nobody that you love more than yourself?”

“Please, everybody calm down,” said David, but Steerforth ignored him.

He needed to get away from this place - away from these people and their insufferable compassion. He needed to be alone.

“I curse all of you! I curse this whole ridiculous circus!”

While his mother wept, Steerforth stumbled away down the beach. She started to hurry after him, but was restrained.

“Let him go, Mrs Steerforth. Let him go. He wants to be alone.”

“I wish you nothing but the worst!” Steerforth yelled over his shoulder.

His mother collapsed on the ground, mourning the departure of her pride and joy. Agnes Wickfield and Mrs Peggotty tried to console her.

“There, there, Mrs Steerforth,” Mrs Peggotty patted her shoulder. “He don’t mean it. I’m sure he don’t mean it.”

Chapter III: The Calm Between Storms

[fletchysohot]

X.

Le grand rendez-vous

Who hasn't wanted a romantic italian summer romance with Kai Havertz?

WORD COUNT: 2.6K

The Italian riviera is exhilarating, from the way the sun makes the sea glisten the most beautiful shade of turquoise, bleeding into bright white when waves hit the cliff beneath the road, to the way white birds swoop in and out among white boats, with sails that disappear and reappear along the horizon like tiny meteorites in an endless sky. Driving along the coastline where the mountains meet the depths of the sea makes your breath hitch at every turn Kai takes on the small roads built into the rock walls of the cliff. You feel your knuckles turn white every time you grip into the handle of the door or edge of your car seat and your stomach drop whenever the car takes a sharper turn, grazing the pebbles of the road side. 

You look over to Kai as the wind plays with his hair, his features framed by a pair of dark vintage frames and a black tshirt that hugs his torso perfectly, his tattoo peeking out when he moves his arm. He looks like a heartthrob plucked straight out of an old movie. Like he will turn to you and feed you a line just for it to be followed by a million women swooning and fainting. You are mesmerised by the way his hands steadily hold the wheel of the vintage BMW cabriolet, guiding the car, traversing it between the cliffside and rock wall. You admire the way his face is not showing any sign of worry or concentration, as if one wrong move would not send the two of you tumbling straight into the mouth of the sea with glistening white teeth of the crashing waves a hundred of metres below. The way the corners of his pink lips curl upward resemble those of a cat laying in the perfect spot of sun, you think, content and happy - a man at peace. 

If you consider the past six months you don't think you have seen Kai look this way in a long time, his mind always torturing him about could-have-beens and should-have-beens. Even after games that he's won his mind would always trap him in a spiral of self pity for not doing better. It is almost as if you are not sitting next to the same man anymore, this Kai is not pale from the constant rain clouds and time spent indoors, instead his skin is glowing a light olive colour, reflecting the warm summer rays. 

“You're thinking again,” he chuckles.

“I just don't like looking at the sea right now.” You throw your eyes over your shoulder and your stomach drops as he nears the edge of the lane again to pass an oncoming car. 

“We'll be done with this road soon,” he soothes you, “schatz.”

You know he adds the last part to make your worries trickle away. He only uses that nickname on special occasions, in fear of it somehow wearing off, of becoming less special. Even though he is aware of the effect it has on you. 

“You called me schatz.” You smile at him, letting your cheek fall onto the headrest as you look at him dreamily.

“I know I did,” he chuckles, not taking his eyes off the road.

“You look happy,” you observe. 

“Yes, I'm with you, of course I'm happy!” He chuckles and the way his face lights up makes your stomach erupt in butterflies.

“I like you happy,” you sigh contently, “I like it so much.”

The car goes back to being silent, the italian radio station mixed with the sound of wind whizzing over your heads. You keep sneaking glances at the man next to you, your attention drawn to the fleeting views passing by the car.

—

The apartment you are staying in is small and quaint and humble in contrast to your spacious and luxurious house in England. The building is old, with old creaky floorboards and pale blue walls in the kitchen and living room faded from the decades of history that the bones of the home carries. The rooms are connected by heavy wooden double doors on rusty old hinges. The bedroom, much like the living room, is adorned by big windows framed by white linen curtains moving slowly in the breeze, beyond them a balcony overlooking the town below and the beautiful sea beyond the lively streets. The air of the space is heavy with the evening heat and humidity that mixes seamlessly with the smell of saltwater and wind that has seeped into every wall of the apartment over the decades. The distant bustle of the streets floats in through the open window making the apartment fill with life and warmth. 

“Do you like it?” Kai's soft voice startles you.

You turn to look at him, your mind trying to find the words to encompass how everything, the trip and apartment, feels. 

Even though the apartment is a stark contrast to what you would expect a professional football player to book as a holiday getaway, it is somehow perfectly Kai. Simple and humble, yet beautiful and extravagant in its own way. Special and one of a kind. You see him in every nook and cranny of the place. From the walls the colour of his eyes or to the sturdy and reliable furniture. A treasure tucked away from prying eyes. 

And there he is, standing in the midst of it all, in a loose white t-shirt and a pair of simple shorts, hair still messy and windswept from spending all day driving a cabriolet, illuminated by the aura of the apartment. As if he was made for this place. This moment. Made for you only. The light from the cheap bulbs and windows illuminating him like he is something sent from heaven. An angel that has been cursed to walk the world until he finds his true love and now, here, in this moment, he's looking right at her. His eyes glisten in the evening glow filled with love and care and excitement. 

“It's perfect Kai,” you say. Perfect seems like such a dumb and bland word to describe this place. You scramble for more words - superb, magical, breathtaking. None of them would describe the way you feel. None of them live up to the moment. 

He doesn't reply instantly, taking his time to walk towards you, slowly, to let his eyes take you in. Finally he cups your cheek with his palm, slender fingers tracing shapes on your cheek. You lean into his touch the same way a sunflower always finds the sun. Kai slowly reaches down and kisses you. Your lips move slowly, lazily, both of you aware that you have nowhere to rush, nowhere to be. You tangle your fingers in his ebony hair and his hand cups your lower back as a cellist would hold his beloved cello. You feel his muscles ease against your body bit by bit, Kai melting into your body, finally letting himself relax. 

“I think it's pretty great too.” He smiles pullin back and looking down at you. “I was thinking we could maybe go get dinner and explore the town?”  

“Only if you hold my hand the whole time,” you tease him.

“Who said there was any other possible way of doing this?” He kisses your nose letting his hand slide from your cheek, down your shoulder and arm finally finding your fingers, intertwining them.

You try to find words or a stupid question, to stay here, in this moment, not to leave this perfect bubble of love. To have him kiss you again in your perfect safe haven from the world beyond the doors. To lock him away from prying eyes and sharpened tongues that make him doubt himself. To protect him. 

But you know you cannot. He is not yours to lock up in an ivory tower, or in this case a small apartment by the sea in a small Italian coastal town. The worry lines on his forehead will come back and his muscles will tense again, this Kai in front of you, right now, is all but a mirage, smoke and mirrors. A sight only occurring once in a blood moon. A fleeting image that you are desperately trying to catch before it fades.

And then, like clockwork, as quickly as it appeared the air of peace and relaxation is gone. Even if he tries to hide it his shoulders become more rigid and the hints of self doubt and pain sneak back into his eyes. Your heart breaks seeing how easily, like it's second nature to him, Kai slides right back into the role of the tortured and haunted prodigy that will never live up to the expectations set on him by the world. Like Sisyphus always trekking up the hill just to be knocked down again when he thinks he's reached the summit. Never giving up or giving in - determined to bring every ounce of glory home to his team and family and friends.

“You ready to go?” you ask him, kissing his cheek. You are scared that if you stand here for a moment longer, look in his eyes for a second longer, you will break down. Fall to your knees sobbing. Beg for him to give up football. To move here. To run away with you. So the vultures can't get him. So he is safe. 

“Yes ” he smiles, leaning down to kiss you, as soft as before. His touch feather light against your body, like a warm summer breeze. 

—

The streets of the town are lined by citrus trees, the smell of oranges and lemons mixing with the warm sea air sends your head spinning. Kai swings your hands between the two of you as both of you exit the little pizzeria, bellies full of cheese and bread and wine. Cheeks already sore from smiling and laughing.

“That wine was amazing!” you say to him as you near the seaside. 

“It was phenomenal,” he exclaims, bringing your hands to his lips and kissing your knuckles.

Phenomenal. Another word that seemingly loses all its magnitude and weight if you were to try and use it to describe this place and feeling. It feels too overused and mundane if you were to use it as a verbal expression of your feelings. Many things are phenomenal - meals, songs, films or football games. But if you tried to describe the smell of the fruit trees lingering on the nightly streets of this city or the way waves crashing against the rocks by the seaside create a perfect symphony of background ambience to your walk it would not be phenomenal. It's too much of an overused word for that. 

“Do you wanna go in here?” he asks, pointing at a small outdoor bar, swallowed by flower vines and adorned by metal tables, music playing from the speakers, people milling around the courtyard. 

You nod enthusiastically. The place looks like pure magic, out of a movie. The kind of place people go to fall in love. 

You find a place to sit while Kai goes to fetch the two of you a bottle of wine and glasses. As he walks through the crowd you sigh happily. It's the way his face can't help but light up at the sight of you, every millimetre of his features filled with pure unadulterated love and joy. He slides into the seat next to you and pours the wine. The two of you begin to talk about the surroundings, looking at the people passing by. You tell him about how you think you should plant roses like these at home, a reminder of the trip always with you, growing and wrapping around the sleek and seemingly perfect terrace of your England home, breaking up the sterile feeling that the home has even after years of living there. He tells you about how the two of you must find out who makes this wine before you leave so he can import it, so there is always a piece of Italy with you, because never has he tasted a better wine ever. You debate about whether you should stay here another night or move on to Lake Como. Both of you captivated by the sheer beauty of the seemingly meek town that has rooted itself into your hearts.  You take turns picking the bottles of wine and making a game of it. 

Currently you are on your third bottle watching an old italian couple slow dance to the upbeat music. Both of you grinning at the seemingly oblivious pair, lost in their own world, moving to a beat completely opposite of the current song.

“You think that's going to be us in a few years?” you ask, chuckling.

“Definitely,” he says when you look at him, he isn't watching the elderly couple, instead his eyes are glued to you. 

“Kai...” you chuckle, blushing.

“Come on! I'll give you a taste!” He says getting up.

“Kai...” you laugh.

“Come on!” he laughs gripping your wrist. “I want to dance with you!”

He pulls you up from the seat grinning like a maniac, and you don't protest. His eyes are dark like the sky above, the light from the lanterns above illuminating them with flicks of light like stars. You let his limbs pull you after him, the two of you soon moving to the rhythm of the song. Suddenly the air around you is light and time doesn't matter. 

“What are you thinking about in that head of yours?” You ask him.

For a moment Kai forgets the missed penalties, the goals that should have been, the booing of fans at away stadiums and fans dressed in blue. His muscles relax and briefly his heart is not weighed down by worries and pain. In the moment, under the moon in this small quaint Italian town, he is not “Kai Havertz - football player”, he is just Kai, a man from Aachen, dancing with the love of his life under the starry skies, not worrying about tomorrow. The way she looks at him makes his heart skip a beat, as if she saved him from himself and nothing matters anymore, he's not pushing a rock up the hill just for it to tumble down again. He's not searching for glory, tripping and falling over his feet. Having her look up at him like he put the stars in the sky and pulled down the moon just for her, makes him feel like there is nothing he can't do. Having her in his arms, knowing she doesn't hate him, even if the whole world does, and knowing she is always in his corner is enough to bring him to his knees. She was sent from heaven above to save him from himself. 

“Just how much I love you…” he smiles. His smile is different. Brighter, more genuine. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just how much I love you.” You nuzzle your face into his neck, kissing the warm skin earning a laugh. The kind that makes even the deepest parts of his chest rumble. 

In that moment you feel like nothing matters, like no one can ever break this moment. Like in one of those postmodernism books your mother used to read on holidays, time is a construct, and you and Kai have briefly become timeless. Stuck in this moment that is filled with love and calmness, passion and excitement. Excitement for the future and what stands before the two of you. You realise that the magic is not hidden in the apartment, or growing in the vines of flowers everywhere or even bottled and corked here, it is instead rooted between you. Like a secret only you and Kai are in on. Finally the word comes to you. Finally you find words that describe the place, the moment, the feelings. Everything and everything and everything. It's all - Kai Havertz.

[sleevebuscemii]

i am about to have the ultimate rot weekend. biker shorts ON oversized star wars graphic tee ON bandana to distract from my hair that i need to wash ON i will be sitting on the COUCH watching BLACK SAILS and my only goal is to finish an entire box of FRUITY PEBBLES

[tigerlyla-of-metinna]

I want to tag you for Give me a character game: Eskel, Olgierd von Everec, Radovid, Cerys an Craite

Yay! Another one. Thankfully I'm playing TW3 again and have gotten re-acquainted with the characters while on a quest to become the imperial paparazzi to Emhyr. My replies will be longs, so check em out underneath the cut

How I feel about this character:

Eskel

I never find this guy hideous. In fact he is probably more popular that Geralt when it comes to TW3 game fandom. He's charming all around and cuddly!

Olgierd von Everec

I am torn between helping this poor sod or handing his smoldering skull to O'Dimm. Mr. Olgierd "David Beckham" von Everec is hands down the most well designed Redanian I've set my eyes on. He is desperation personified and how that drove him into signing his soul to the devil.

Radovid

...Mad Rad is a result of mistreatment. As much as I want to sympathize with the Redanian king, I'd rather relieve the North of him. He is so black and white in the game that I can't see the shades of gray.

Cerys an Craite

Cerys is an anomaly. She is that rare gem glittering under a pile of pebbles. Wise, patient, but feisty. The thinking Skelliger and it's just right to place her on the throne of the Isle than her impulsive brother.

All the people I ship romantically with this character:

Eskel

The guy has no interest in relationships imho (that means Im not sold on the Trisskel ship), but I've been meaning to launch a rarepair with the scarred wolf with an equally scarred lass: Cerys. Story is still rolling in my head but I dub the ship Cerskel!

Olgierd von Everec

The OG pairing Iris x Olgierd. The canon pair for me. But since that ship has sailed, Olgierd is the lone surviving von Everec, maybe Im up for a Shani x Olgierd. Im also down for Ciri x Olgierd since I saw a fanart of it and it piqued my interest.

Radovid

Honesty I wouldn't bother shipping him. But if I must, then his one and only Adda the White and no one else.

Cerys an Craite

As I mentioned above, I'll be launching the Cerskel (Cerys/Eskel) ship someday. Other than that, I ship her with Ciri as two powerful monarchs that finally, or at least, smoothen the animosity between their realms. Make love not war and all that. Apart from that, I paired her with Folan, if he didnt die in the Battle of Kaer Morhen.

My non-romantic OTP for this character:

Eskel

Wolf Brother Lambert. Eskel is the only guy who has the patience to put up with his prickliness. They share stories and frustrations over mugs of The Gauntlet or vodka.

Olgierd von Everec

As I am also open to a Shani x Olgierd, I am also shipping them in a non-romantic concept. Shani cheers a newly mortal Olgierd of the fun she had with Vlodmir and help him professionally with moving on. Kinda farfetch since Shani is a medic, not a therapist. But she is a kind and caring individual regardless of their colors.

Radovid

Radovid and Roche. If Radovid wins the war, Roche takes the role of mentor for his future queen Anais and an ambassador of her kingdom to Radovids' Redania. Roche will have to get used to trading his blue stripes with red.

Cerys an Craite

Yennefer and Cerys. The queen of the Isle sees Yennefer as one powerful woman who knows how to wrap a man, any man, around her little finger. heck, Yennefer even had a romantic history with Crach, so Yennefer acts as a good council when dealing with these menfolk who might see Cerys as a wet behind the ears wench. And having Yennefer in an advisorial capacity can be the bridge between Cerys kingdom and Ciri's empire.

My unpopular opinion about this character:

Eskel

He is clearly an expert in his own right, maybe even more than Geralt. Calling himself just a simple witcher is a disservice to his craft, and a wasted potential.

Olgierd von Everec

Now that I think about it, he should be handed over to O'Dimm for squandering his gifts and not treating Iris right.

Radovid

For a genius, he sure is dumb for not figuring out that Sigi Reuven is a name put together from his old enemy Sigismund Djikstra and Djikstra's loyal secretary(?) servant Ori Reuven.

Cerys an Craite

Instead of sending Svanringe to exile or death (as is the tradition of Skellige), she should've pardoned him because he played no part in Birna's schemes, even denounced her own mother: that shows character. As the heir of Bran Tuirsseach, Svanringe could be useful as an advisor or ally.

One thing I wish would happen/had happened with this character in cannon:

Eskel

Decides to stay in Kaer Morhen after the end of the game.

Olgierd von Everec

Visits Vlodmir's grave for the last time and we get to see this before he sets out for parts unknown.

Radovid

All his men becomes aware that their king is dead so I don't have to pass by any of them proclaiming "Long Live Radovid".

Cerys an Craite

Diplomatic talks with Emhyr, or with Ciri in the empress ending.

Whew! Thanks for the tag @gauntermetaverse

[thatlittlesentientfox]

a Diptych

[lostwcnderlands]

closed for @bornofthedawn -> “ we have no immortal souls; we have no future life; we are just like the green sea-weed, which, once cut down, can never revive again! men, on the other hand, have a soul which lives for ever, lives after the body has become dust; it rises through the clear air, up to the shining stars! ”

dirt caked beneath fingernails, desperate in the pursuit of buried treasure that it caused the pirate's fluttering heartbeat to skip a pace in his chest as he went deeper into the earth. his map had been meticulously inscribed; coded, and then reversed, to keep the location of x a secret even past his death (should it come prematurely). only his mind could unravel the instructions, and as he dug further than expected he ought, bast had started to wonder if his map had fooled even he. aurora's voice had existed only a figment within his imitation, a black space in his mind for the heart to fill. two weeks at sea, setting sail with the wind in their sails as if their quest was destined to succeed; and finally, the time had come.

yet... as the pirate dug, a swirl of fear rose within. it wasn't entirely due to the anxiety of potentially losing his mermaid's greatest treasure, not to mention his own, and damning her to a life of silence evermore; but for what could come next. the after, the unknown. bast had never feared that before.

fingers touched solid surface, and a nail cracked under the pressure of soil && pebbles && the wooden chest, but he didn't care. it had been found. relief surged like wildfire, electrifying him through his bones, and blue eyes cast a confirmative look to aurora now. she waited in the water, just by his hiding place on the island's beach. mostly rock, little shore or sand, and plenty of overgrown patches for hiding places.

he wouldn't let her help the search, but thankfully, it hadn't taken too long, and past bast had been wise not to bury it too deep in the earth. " it's here, i've found it now. " he breathed out, watching excitement tremor upon her, and took the key from his pocket to unlock the chest. it was still half buried, taking almost all his strength to shove the lid open under the dirt remaining, but every second felt valuable. sweat beaded across his brow, and dirty smudged every exposed surface, his hat && jangly jewelry thrown to the side after the job. but he thought of none of it, eyes widening as he found the pearl, once more struck by it's beauty. it sat in his hand, warm, almost vibrating, maybe due to the proximity of it's counterpart. handing over the treasure like it was life itself there protected in his palm, bast held his breath as it left his grasp... and rightfully into aurora's.

[theancientgod]

Slavic myths about the creation of the world

The World Tree

The Slavic World Tree is an oak, a sacred tree that is incredibly important throughout Slavic mythology. At its roots is Nawia, the realm of the dead/underworld. Here, the god Weles (Veles) dwells. The trunk of the tree is Jawia, the realm of the living. And among the branches is Prawia, the realm of the gods, ruled by the thunder god, Perun.

It used to be at the beginning of the world –

Then there was no sky or earth,

No sky nor earth but the blue sea,

And in the middle of the sea on oak

Two pigeons were sitting.

Two pigeons on an oak tree

They held such a council,

Happy debated and cooed:

How can we create the world?

We will fall to the bottom of the sea,

We'll bring out the fine sand

Fine sand, blue stone.

We will sow fine sand,

We will pick up the blue pebble.

From fine sand - black earth,

- icey water, green grass.

From the blue stone - the blue sky,

Blue sky, bright sun,

Bright sun, bright moon,

bright moon and all the stars

Białobóg I Czarnobóg

In the beginning, there was nothing but the sky, the sea, the God (Białobóg) who sailed by boat and the devil (Czarnobóg) emerging from the sea foam, who sat down to God. The idea of creating the Earth was suggested to God by the devil, who could not do it by himself alone. The devil immersed himself and brought out a handful of sand from the bottom. God threw it on the water and created the beginning of the Earth so thin that they both barely fit on it. God and the devil inhabited the Earth, the devil thought to push the sleeping God into the water, but he contributed to the expansion of the land from the side of God, from the east and from his own side, from the west. Both creators started a dispute that ended up with God going to heaven and knocking down the devil, who also went there, by lightning into the abyss.

The Cosmic Egg

Rod created the magical golden egg. The crust broke and out of the egg left Svarog, Lada and Chernabog. Svarog married Lada and then fell asleep. During his dreams, he saw the entire world, the perfection of it, its beauty and he didn't want to wake up. His wife desperately wanted him to open his eyes again so she gave birth to everything he dreamt of. While she was doing that, Chernabog silently watched. He grew envious of Svarog's beautiful world to be and he sat out to destroy it. But then Svarog woke up and threw him away.

He then stood marveling the perfection of the world. He decided to come to the centre of the world where he found the white stone Alatir. He decided to turn it into his forge. He created more weapons to fight Chernabog if he was to return.

And, oh, he was. But now as a dragon with hundreds of heads and an iron tail. Svarog couldn't fight him alone so he forged more gods to help him. The first one was Dazhbog, the god of Sun. Then Stribog the god of wind. And finally, Semargl, the god - dog of fire.

Combined together, the powerful gods defeated dragon Chernabog and used him as a bull. Namely, Svarog forged a plow and the gods made Chernabog pull it. The large canyon he made was the border that separated the world. The world where gods live is Prav and the dark realm of Chernabog is Nav. The only thing that connects them is Kalinov bridge which will later be used by souls who passed away.

The gods decided to move up and live in the Sky. So they made Lada give birth to a magical Oak, the world tree. Oak's branches were holding the sky, its trunk became Yav, the visible world and its roots grew down to Nav enabling evil things to climb up to Earth and Heaven just to fight gods in desperate need to continue the mission of Chernabog.

[agentrouka-blog]

You know how in the third book Catelyn thinks about how much grief might've been avoided if it had been Theon instead of Rickard Karstark's sons to die at Jaime Lannister's hands? Well, let's say this does happen. What if Jaime had kill Theon instead of the Karstark boys? What changes? Does this prevent the fall of Winterfell? And more importantly how does Balon react to losing his last remaining son to the Lannisters? Would he still want to attack the North? Or would he decide to get revenge and attack the Westerlands?

Balon didn't consider Theon a factor in his plans to attack the North. (And I doubt he would have bothered to attack the westerlands in revenge. He had bigger plans, and little love to spare for his last son.)

He was already scheming in that direction well before Theon showed up as Robb's envoy.

A great number of longships, fifty or sixty at the least, stood out to sea or lay beached on the pebbled shore to the north. Some of the sails bore devices from the other islands; the blood moon of Wynch, Lord Goodbrother’s banded black warhorn, Harlaw’s silver scythe. (...) Had Lord Balon anticipated him and called the Greyjoy banners? (.....)

"Do you think I gather my ships to watch them rock at anchor? I mean to carve out a kingdom with fire and sword . . . but not from the west, and not at the bidding of King Robb the Boy. Casterly Rock is too strong, and Lord Tywin too cunning by half. Aye, we might take Lannisport, but we should never keep it. No. I hunger for a different plum . . . not so juicy sweet, to be sure, yet it hangs there ripe and undefended.” (ACOK, Theon I)

But Balon also never intended to take Winterfell as quickly as Theon did. He meant to have Theon cause small disturbances at the Stony Shore near Torrhen's Square, and for Asha to take Deepwood Motte, to provoke a distracting response and then cut off the only land route in and out.

“Victarion,” Lord Balon said to his brother, “the main thrust shall fall to you. When my sons have struck their blows, Winterfell must respond. You should meet small opposition as you sail up Saltspear and the Fever River. At the headwaters, you will be less than twenty miles from Moat Cailin. The Neck is the key to the kingdom. Already we command the western seas. Once we hold Moat Cailin, the pup will not be able to win back to the north . . . and if he is fool enough to try, his enemies will seal the south end of the causeway behind him, and Robb the boy will find himself caught like a rat in a bottle.” Theon could keep silent no longer. “A bold plan, Father, but the lords in their castles—” Lord Balon rode over him. “The lords are gone south with the pup. Those who remained behind are the cravens, old men, and green boys. They will yield or fall, one by one. Winterfell may defy us for a year, but what of it? The rest shall be ours, forest and field and hall, and we shall make the folk our thralls and salt wives.” (ACOK, Theon II)

Theon made a bit of a botch of that when he inspired the remaining northmen to rally against him in one place he didn't have the men to defend:

"If only you'd had the good sense to raze the castle and carry the two little princelings back to Pyke as hostages, you might have won the war in a stroke." (...) "Your prize will be the doom of you. Krakens rise from the sea, Theon, or did you forget that during your years among the wolves? Our strength is in our longships. My wooden pisspot sits close enough to the sea for supplies and fresh men to reach me whenever they are needful. But Winterfell is hundreds of leagues inland, ringed by woods, hills, and hostile holdfasts and castles. And every man in a thousand leagues is your enemy now, make no mistake. You made certain of that when you mounted those heads on your gatehouse." (ACOK, Theon V)

Theon manages to hand the victory over his small ironborn force (and the remaining Stark-loyalist northmen!) to Ramsay Bolton, who burns the castle, which is a big blow to Robb. But the other ironborn remain at Moat Cailin, Deepwood Motte and Torrhen's Square, theoretically keeping to the plan to take over the north.

Of course, all that comes to an end anyway when Balon dies and the kingsmoot is called.

So, given Balon's end, yes, I think Catelyn is right and Theon's death would have prevented the fall of Winterfell and the "subsequent "deaths" of Bran and Rickon at ironborn hands, while the attack on the north itself would still have gone ahead and later stalled due to Balon's death.

Of course, we can't know what other plans Ramsay may have come up with to cause chaos in the North and weaken the Starks. He was happy enough to immediately make brutal moves on the Hornwood lands and was already undercover as Reek at Winterfell when Theon showed up.

So. Potentially a lot of things could still have gone in a similar direction without Theon's involvement.

[senjuushi]

Event Translation — Brand New Journey ~Italy Expedition Volume~

Episode 6: Fairy’s Coast

After they had finished eating, the group came to Amalfi Coast. They boarded a tourist boat that Benetta and the others had arranged, ready to sail across the sparkling azure sea. 

Master: 

Amazing...!

So beautiful...!

Carcanore: A clear sky and a shining blue sea... that’s Italy for you! How is it? You can see the Amalfi cliffs and the cityscape from here, y’know. 

Cutlery: It’s like the whole mountain has become a city...! 

Marks: I’ve been wondering this for a while; why is the ocean so blue? It’s as blue as paint, but if you look closely, it’s still transparent... it’s strange, but beautiful. 

Benetta: That’s just what the Italian sea looks like. Amalfi is filled with the natural beauty of Italy— the sea, sky, and sun, as well as buildings that were constructed by humans in eras past. 

Carcanore: Come to think of it, it’s always cloudy in England, isn’t it? You should enjoy the Italian sunshine while you’ve got it! Sunlight is nourishing, after all.♪

Cutlery: Look, look, (Player Name). There are some interesting things written about in the tourist guidebook. 

Cutlery: Amalfi is the place where the remains of the nymph who was loved by Hercules, the great hero in Greek mythology, were buried. 

Cutlery: It’s just a legend, but... it’s so beautiful here, I can understand why Hercules would choose this place. Everywhere you look, the scenery seems straight off of a postcard. 

Benetta: ...it seems like you’ve got the point. Let’s get off this boat for now, and switch to a smaller one. 

Carcanore: This one, over here. Let’s go to Emerald Island! 

Cutlery: ...huh?

Behind (Player Name) and the others, who were heading toward the smaller ship, Benetta suddenly crouched down, but immediately stood back up. He was now holding a few small pebbles in his hand. 

Cutlery: What are those? Rocks? 

Benetta: ...mementos of today’s trip. Take them home as souvenirs. 

Cutlery: Huh? Are stones a normal souvenir here? Surely, there’s something more fitting...? 

*scene changes to the entrance of a cave* 

After listening to the boatman for a while, they ride the boat through the entrance to a cave that connects to the sea. 

Cutlery: Hold on... it’s pitch-black in here. Is this really the Emerald Grotto?

Master: 

(It couldn’t be...)

(Are they going to dispose of us here...!?)

Marks: You’re not trying to trick us, are you?

Benetta: Look behind you.

Marks: Behind...?

Cutlery: Ehh... is there something sparkling over there?

Sunlight shines into part of the cave. Where the sun reaches, the surface of the water inside the cave begins to glow an emerald hue. 

Boatman: Get a good look, everyone. This is it! 

When the boatman stirred up the water with his oar, the surface glittered like jewels wherever the droplets fell. 

Marks: How does that happen...!?

Cutlery: So pretty...!

Benetta: The color is the same as your hair, Cathan. It’s the color of the beautiful and bewitching sea. 

Carcanore: Yeah, it really is. Your hair really looks like a jewel. 

Cutlery: Eh... is that so...?

Benetta: The island of Capri also has a famous tourist spot, called the Azure Grotto. 

Benetta: ...speaking of which, Bonito. You have relatives in Capris, don’t you?

Bonito: Huh? Ah, I’m not sure if they still live there...

Marks: Is the Azure Grotto the same kind of place as this?

Carcanore: If you’re interested, you should go there next time and see for yourself! 

Benetta: Ahh. Italy has so many beautiful sights, it would take a lifetime to see them all.

[septemberskye]

writing pattern game

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns! (from most recent to least recent, starting from the top)

Thanks for the tag, @hms-tardimpala ! I'm going to have to pad this out with some wips because I'm a very slow writer prone to abandoning projects and I do not have 10 published gbslgksj

the clear pebbles of the rain, title tentative (Baldur's Gate 3, wip)

The sun is brilliant. Blinding.

How Very Blue the Sea Is, aka No Worms (Black Sails, wip)

Abigail Ashe awakens to sunlight on her face.

a book of matches in his hand (Dishonored, wip)

Corvo yawns, closing his book around his finger.

a kind of peace that might even last (Dishonored, posted, complete)

“…and if anyone ever dares harm the Empress, he’ll have to answer to me,” Lord Shadwell says, glaring at Daud from under impressively bushy eyebrows.

The Potential Merits of Criminal Organizations (Dishonored, posted, unfinished) (don't read this)

“We’re to deliver the girl to the Pendleton estate at eleven. Be suited up and ready to leave at nine.”

Patterns:

pick. maybe. some shorter titles.

But! I like to begin in medias res (not a surprise), and establish pov character within a sentence or two. Most of them also convey pretty clearly where we are with the pov character in time and place (immediately after the nautiloid crash, with Abigail in the fort, shortly after Jessamine's murder). book of matches and a kind of peace can't do that because they're post- and pre- canon, respectively, and I think that's clear in the next couple of sentences, if it isn't from the opener.

If anyone else can glean anything from these, I'd love to hear it!

i'll tag @donotfeedthewildauthor @aevallare @little-engineer-who-cant and @again-please if y'all want to!

[jujurose222]

The Kick Inside CD Kate Bush

“The thought of you sends me shivery/ I'm dressed in lace, sailing down a black reverie/ My heart is thrown to the pebbles and the boatmen/ All the time, I find I'm living in that evening/ With that feeling of sticky love inside”