#the Caribbean is wet to be but i also lived next to the sea

[pumpumdemsugah]

It's raining and thundering and my window is wide open : )

The sound of rainfall on leaves always reminds me of the Caribbean and it's very loud right now

[theringers]

often - charles leclerc

summary: you’re unbelievably desperate for your boyfriend all night.

request: Hope u dont mind me requesting #79 and #82 w charles or lando😃 have a good day!!

prompt: 79) "Look at you, grinding against everything, you're really desperate for it. Aren't you?" 82) "Yeah, that's it, baby, just like that."

a/n: this is short & unedited so i apologize for the lack of “story” but this just came to my brain and i needed to write it down so enjoy also sorry if the gif is malfunctioning i’m ready to throw my phone at the window so just ignore lol

warnings: nsfw, dirty talk, 18+, teasing, obvi i had to include some public stuff bc it’s my brand

The live music was loud and blaring through your ears. You had requested a few songs and enjoyed drinks while you waited for the band to get to your request.

Charles stood up from the table to head towards the crowded bar. “Need anything, mon amour?” He looked at you.

You lifted your cup and smiled. “Another?” He nodded at you and walked towards the corner of the room. He knew you had a tolerance like no other and could outdrink him on any occasion. It was just humorous to him at this point.

“Are you excited for your trip?” Your friend asked from across the table.

“Oh, so excited. Charles and I haven’t been able to get away for a long time. It’s much needed.” You sat in your bar stool day dreaming about the blue waters of the Caribbean Sea and how you were about to spend weeks out there on the relaxing water.

Your friend took another sip of her drink. “I’m insanely jealous. Too bad Pierre and I can’t tag along.” She frowned.

“Next time, I promise. We’ll plan a trip just the four of us.” You both started laughing. “Or better yet, just the two of us. Girls trip.”

After a few more laughs, Charles walked up to your table with a drink in each hand. Pierre followed with the same. “Thank you,” you smiled at your boyfriend as he handed you another. You couldn’t remember how many this had been but you were feeling good and really enjoying yourself.

You sat all the way back in your barstool, but kept your drink at the table. This was the best possible solution to avoid drinking too quickly. Every time you needed a sip, you had to scoot yourself closer to the table, take a sip, and sit back. It was working pretty well.

Charles leaned over and spoke in your ear over the sound of the loud music. “I’m going to need you to stop doing that.”

You looked at him, confused. “What am I doing?”

He waved his hand around. “This.” He leaned in closer again. “You keep rocking your hips back and forth and it’s driving me crazy.”

You sat up and moved yourself closer to the table, rocking your hips at a painfully slow, yet discreet, pace. Your eyes found his and his focus was solely on you, sipping the remains of your drink.

“Anyone want another drink?” You asked the table as you hopped out of your seat.

“I’m good, I think I’m ready to head home soon actually. Pretty long day,” Charles said.

Your friend scoffed. “Nonsense, it’s only 11 o’clock.”

Charles looked at her with his head hung, then back at you. “Fine. One more drink.” He looked at Pierre. “See, this is what we have to deal with.”

You waited in the line for drinks and returned to your table. As soon as you scooted back in your barstool, Charles leaned over. “This is our last round of drinks. I’m going to need to take you home after this one.” You didn’t look over at him. You just kept your eyes straight ahead and smiled.

After more casual conversation with Pierre and his girlfriend, Charles called the car home. He took your hand and lead you out of the bar after leaving a hefty tip for the bartender.

Sliding into the back seat of the car, he acknowledged the driver and then went silent. You followed in after him, sliding across the seats. Your short sundress rode up creating friction between your clit and the car seats. You let out a soft moan, but ignored it, hoping no one else heard you. That was not the case.

The car started to move and Charles leaned over to you. He rested his hand on your thigh and whispered in your ear. “I heard that.” It sent chills up your spine.

The rest of the ride was silent, trying to focus on getting home without jumping each other’s bones in the backseat of the car. As soon as you arrived home, you both drunkenly stumbled in the door.

You shouted at Alexa to play some of your favorite music. Often by The Weeknd came out of your speakers.

Charles sat down on the couch with his hands on his knees. A deep breath escaped his lips as he took in the dark apartment around him.

“What’s up?” You asked, walking over to him.

“Long day,” he said. You nodded in response.

Leaning down towards him, you spread your legs to straddle him on the couch. You sat back with your weight on his knees, looking at him. “I love you,” you said to him.

“I love you too, mon amour,” he said. You felt his hands grip your waist. You began to slowly shift your hips around - starting with back and forth, and a little bit of side to side.

“I had a really fun time tonight,” you said.

“Me too, I’m glad we decided to go out.”

“It’s always a good time with them.” You were lucky enough to play matchmaker for Pierre, setting him up with your best friend. It was a win-win. He got a beautiful girlfriend and in return, you got to have your best friend accompany you on vacations, to races, PR events, galas, the whole nine. It was a smart move on your part.

You looked down at Charles, focusing on his messy hair. He was always such a perfectionist about how he appeared, but that all went down the drain when he drank alcohol. You kind of loved it, seeing him let loose a bit and not care so much. You ran your fingers through his messy locks and smiled.

“That dress looks so sexy on you,” he said. His eyes absorbed your body all over and his hands began to move up and down your sides.

“I knew you would like it.” You started to move your hips with more intensity.

“You want to tell me about what happened in the car?” He asked.

“I think you know what happened in the car.”

He had a smug look on his face. “I don’t, actually. Enlighten me.”

“Well, since you want to play dumb,” you grabbed one of his hands off of your side and guided it under your dress. “I’m not wearing any underwear. And I forgot I wasn’t until I slid in the car.” His fingers massaged the skin of your inner thigh.

“That’s hot.” He dipped a finger between your folds and felt the wetness pooling. He swirled his finger around a few times before sliding it inside of you. You moved your hips slowly, meeting his finger. “Look at you, grinding against everything. You’re so desperate for me, huh?” He smirked. You rolled your eyes at him but continued to move your hips. “You couldn’t even help yourself at the bar tonight. Or in the car.”

“I just couldn’t stop thinking about fucking you,” you said. You leaned down to unbutton his pants, grinding your body against his thigh in the process. You let out a moan and he just watched you in awe.

You pulled his pants down, his hard cock springing free. You got back on top of him and hiked your dress up above your hips. You positioned yourself on top of his cock and started to slide back and forth, creating euphoric friction for both of you. Your folds were wet and warm, making him grunt. “Shit, baby,” he said. His head fell back against the couch as he guided your hips. “I need to be inside of you, now.”

You pulled away and quickly sat down on his cock. He kept his hands positioned on your hips as you ground them onto him. You wrapped your arms around his neck and let your head fall onto his shoulder.

You put the weight on your knees and began to bounce up and down on him. He placed his hands on your ass for support. “Oh yeah, that’s it baby,” he said. “Just like that.” A throaty moan escaped your lips right into his ear.

“You feel so good,” you said. The rhythm continued and he spread your cheeks. He was itching to pound into you but he loved the way you looked bouncing on his cock.

He reached for the strap of your dress, pulling it down to expose your breasts. He took one in his hand and massaged it roughly. “Shit, babe. Look at you riding my cock like such a good girl.” He wasn’t one to talk dirty too much, but with alcohol involved he was an open book.

“I’m all yours, baby,” you said, leaning back. You ran your hands through your hair while riding him and made eye contact with him - driving him crazy.

You could feel him start to thrust up into you, an indication that he was getting close. You leaned back down to his ear. “Cum for me, baby,” you said.

He finished with a grunt and a tight grip on your hips. You rolled off of him and laid your head down on a pillow. After all that alcohol, the couch was seeming like a perfect place to crash.

Charles returned with a towel and a glass of water for you. “You did so well, baby. That was hot.” He said, smiling at you and handing you the glass of water.

You giggled and stuck your tongue out. “You’re welcome.”

[blouisparadise]

Upon request, here is a rec list of bottom Louis fics where Harry radiates sex appeal. We hope you enjoy this fics! If you find our rec lists useful, please support them by liking the post and reblogging it to help spread the word. Happy reading!

1) Gimme Gimme | Mature | 5957 words

He dragged himself to his bedroom and flopped down face-first onto the bed, groaning, and started thinking about that new neighbor. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe this was the time for him to actually try and find a love interest that lasted longer than 2 weeks. He rolled over and sat up on the bed, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked out the window.

And what he saw was probably the most amazing thing on the planet.

Walking into his new neighbor’s house was a man in a suit, carrying a briefcase while his Porsche sat in the driveway.

2) Under the Vanilla Sky | Explicit | 8006 words

Who the hell wears a hat like that on a yacht?  That's one of the things Louis thinks when he sees Harry from across the deck of the most expensive, ridiculous boat he's ever been on.  He also thinks he'd like to get closer.  Just to see what's under those aviators.  Just to verify that, yes, in fact, those white swim trunks might be a little see-through when wet.  Just to see if someone could really be that hot in real life.  On a yacht.  In the Caribbean sea just off the coast of St. Barts.  

Here's what really happened on that yacht.

3) Sweet Like Cherry Vodka | Not Rated | 8039 words

When he exits the building he instantly sees him. He’s leaning against his white Mercedes Benz convertible. The car makes him look more expensive. Of course, the navy blue suit that fits tightly around his broad shoulders — making Louis want to fall to his knees, mind you — also helps to get the message across. He looks up from his phone, his sleek black aviators block Louis from seeing his dark eyes.

When Louis knows Harry's watching him he smiles. A grin grows on Harry’s mouth, his strong jaw moves cockily while he chews his gum. How does someone make chewing gum so hot?

“Need a ride sweetheart?” Harry calls to him, the statement adds to his cocky demeanor.

“You know I do, silly.” Louis laughs at how ridiculous the older man can be.

4) You And I ‘Till The Day We Die | Explicit | 10807 words

Prompt 124: A fic inspired by Groupie Love by Lana Del Rey, where Harry is a Rockstar and Louis is his cute little boyfriend who tries to hide himself in the middle of the crowd. (Preferably set in the 80s)

5) Guns N Roses | Mature | 14069 words

Harry's an assassin, Louis is a government agent. They hate each other but not really.

6) My English Love Affair | Explicit | 19198 words

Note: This fic is locked and can only be read by AO3 users.

The thing about sleeping with a member of a famous indie band is that the inevitability of having a song written about you is most likely a hundred percent. The second thing is that in the end, nobody's supposed to find out it's about you.

The one where Harry writes a song about his English love affair and Louis sleeps with someone in White Eskimo and all he gets is a stupid song written about him.

7) The Way The Storm Blows | Explicit | 21649 words

Louis doesn’t have a habit of thinking about Harry’s dick.

That would be weird, seeing as they’re best mates, and they share a flat, and they’ve spent holidays at each other’s family homes. Their friendship hasn’t ever risen to a point where Louis should want to see his mate’s dick, and he’s happy to keep it that way.

Except, all that Louis can think about is exactly that. The size of it. The shape. The amount of people it’s been in.

Maybe it’s the tequila talking, or the fact that Louis’ just recently walked in to an eyeful of Harry taking turns on some slags that he’s never seen before, but. Louis’ mind can’t stop obsessing over the idea.

8) Even The Best Laid Plans | Explicit | 25190 words

Louis wants to have sex with someone and decides Harry is the perfect alpha for the job.

9) A Trail Of Honey Through It All | Explicit | 27086 words

The boy in front of him, well really, the man in front of him, was like something out of a confusing wet dream. Built, tall, tan and muscular, his skin glistened with sweat after a long day of working outdoors with his hands. He was wearing a cut up old American football shirt, the bottom hem was torn and the sleeves were cut off to the point where the t-shirt was really just a loose tank top. The shorts he had on had clearly been full length jeans at one point, and were now just crudely cut off above the knee. His white socks were pulled up too high on his calves, and the brown work boots he had on were old as fuck, the leather peeling along the edges of the soles. Curly brown hair stuck out from the edges of his backwards snapback, and there was a smudge of grease wiped along his brow bone. The smattering of hair along his jaw proved that he hadn’t shaved in a week or two, the hair growing in thicker across his upper lip and around his chin. His sinfully bowed mouth was pink and plump, and Louis was suddenly hyper-focused on the way that he chewed at the toothpick stuck between his lips. He looked like he needed a shower. Louis wanted to lick him.

10) Carnelian | Explicit | 30631 words

Louis finds himself donating blood to the most beautiful being he's ever seen.

11) Take My Pure (And Wash It All Away ‘Til I’m Cured) | Explicit | 40629 words

They're all 19. Louis is a twink, Harry is a frat boy hunk. Harry for some reason wants his makeup done for pride, and Louis is just trying so very hard to stay clear of all alleged fuckboys this year.

12) In The Still Of The Night | Explicit | 68568 words

The Dirty Dancing AU where Louis is a feisty omega who wants to change the world, Harry is an alpha from the wrong side of the tracks, and nobody puts Louis in a corner.

13) Waiting On You | Explicit | 76576 words

“Vampires,” Louis says with disgust, glaring over at the vampire who is noisily slurping from the woman’s neck nearby.

Zayn gives the neat fang marks on Louis’ neck a meaningful look.

“Can’t live with them, can’t live without them,” Louis finishes, ignoring Zayn when he rolls his eyes.

Louis takes a long sip of his milkshake, presses his fingers against the marks on his neck, and definitely doesn’t think about the vampire who left them there.

14) Your Name is Tattooed on My Heart | Explicit | 86809 words

Note: This fic has mentions of top Louis.

Louis is ready to find the love of his life, but first he has to stop falling for the punk rocker next door.

15) Beyond The Point Of Weird | Mature | 108331 words

Louis meets Harry one night and well... Of course things lead from one thing to another. How could Louis not be interested in having a go at the ex-Rockstar who'd starred in his first wet dream?

When Harry asks him to pretend to be his boyfriend to help him clear up his image, Louis agrees because why the fuck not. Yet it kind of feels like the only 'fake' part of their relationship is the title they chose for it... And then it gets confusing.

Louis' pretty sure he walked right into a trap - one he's not quite sure he wants to escape.

Check out our other fic rec lists by category here and by title here.

[looking-for-another-world]

Not Alone

summary: Bucky spends Christmas alone at the compound. Or nah?

pairing: Bucky x reader

warnings: 18+, tiny bit of angst, mentions of family toxicity, cursing, explicit smut, dirty talk, like one allusion to reader being plus-sized, soft!bucky, really sappy - you have been warned

words: 6321

a/n: This is my entry for @honeyhan-123​‘s HOLIDAY SPIRIT WRITING CHALLENGE. I had the prompt “Finding the perfect Christmas tree / decorating it” and looking back, I might have slightly diverted from that oops. This was so much fun to do though. This is literally my first finished piece of writing in years, so be nice to me, ok? Right, tmi. Anyways, this has gotten way out of hand in terms of how many words I wanted to write. I might make 3 separate files of it when I’m in the mood to figure out links, but for now here’s the entire fic in one. Enjoy! Also, I hope your 2020 is going to be amazing ❤💫🥂🎆

Prologue

As soon as Bucky stepped into the kitchen of the Avengers compound, his super soldier senses made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something’s wrong.

It was Dec 23, one day before Christmas Eve, and everyone except him had gone away for the holidays. Clint was visiting Laura and the kids, accompanied by Natasha (apparently, the boys had been nagging their mom for a solid 2 months whether Aunt Tasha would be staying with them), Wanda and Vision were traveling around Europe, Tony had taken Pepper to some little island in the Caribbean Sea, and Steve and Sam had booked a cozy, remote cabin in the woods to go skiing, hiking, getting drunk (well, Sam at least) and most importantly, getting away from being the Avengers for a few days.

Initially, Steve had Friday book the trip for three persons, but Bucky had refused. This was the first Christmas since many years that he was starting to remember who he was, really was, and although Steve was pretty much everything he considered home, he had preferred to spend Christmas where he actually came from.

In the end, Steve had reluctantly agreed, not wanting to push his best friend, but insisting that they at least spoke to one another on the phone every day. And so, Bucky had spent his day wandering the streets of Brooklyn for hours, fulfilling his best friend duty on his way home and telling Steve how much everything had changed and yet, strangely, still felt familiar. He could hear Steve smile through the phone; he felt the same. That’s when Sam had burst through the door of the hut, screeching “All I want for Christmas is you” next to Steve’s ear and ruining the moment. Steve had said his goodbye, leaving to stop Wilson from inhaling another bottle of Eggnog, and Bucky had wished him good luck with the bird brain. He returned to the compound, more mentally than physically exhausted, and headed straight to the kitchen, suddenly remembering that he hadn’t eaten something in hours. And there it was: A small puddle of water on top of the counter, as if someone had taken something out of the fridge and put it there for a moment. Only that there was no one to do that. He was supposed to be alone.

It couldn’t have been him: his soldier and assassin training had left him with an urge to leave everything neat and tidied; no traces. Silently, he made his way back into the hallway, calling the elevator and going two levels down, to the first level that was officially “Avengers territory”. Going back up, he searched every floor without coming across anything suspicious. And then, as the doors of the elevator opened to the 18th floor with a slight swoosh, he sensed it: There’s someone else on this level. He tensed up. His super soldier hearing going into overdrive, he snuck along the dimly-lit corridor until he heard them: sounds coming from the last room to the left, the entertainment room, stacked up with books, movies, consoles, a pool table, anything you could think of to pass your free time. He tried to hear more intently. The person on the other side of the door barely produced sounds; all he could make out was their shallow breathing. Someone with a normal hearing wouldn’t even have caught up on it.

Bucky conjured up a blueprint of the room: even if he could get through the door unnoticed, there was no place to hide. The whole design of the room practically screamed: “Look who’s coming!” His only advantage was the element of surprise. Trying to calm down his nerves, he took a few deep breaths and braced himself. Not wanting to have his arms in a position he could easily be taken hold of in, he stepped back, raised his right leg and kicked the door down, storming inside, met by a piercing scream and a loud splash as the bucket of ice cream you had been holding met the ground.

“(Y/N)?!”

“What the hell?!”

“Why are you here?”

“I fucking live here in case you haven’t noticed! Why are you kicking the goddamn door down like I’m some HYDRA agent trying to slit your throat?”

“Because-”, Bucky stops, guilt washing over him. Guilt and anger with himself. Even HYDRA wouldn’t be so dumb as to blow their cover like that, and they’d do a bit more than get the kitchen counter dirty if they wanted to make their presence known. “Because I thought you were one.” His voice is low now, almost a whisper, his eyes unable to meet yours, fingers fumbling with the hem of the coat he didn’t have time to take off. And seeing him like this, you understood: He thought someone had intruded.

You let out the breath you were holding. “I’m sorry, Buck. I wasn’t thinking. I should have let you know about my change of plans and that I’d be spending Christmas at the compound.”

His ears perked up at that. “You are? I thought you were going to visit your family.” You smiled sadly and now that his mind and body weren’t overtaken by adrenaline anymore, he took in your state for the first time. You looked pale, your eyes red-rimmed, like you had been crying. You were wrapped in the navy-blue blanket twice your size that Wanda had given you for your birthday. It went all the way down to your ankles where the legs of your sweatpants were peeping through, showing just a small stripe of skin before the fabric of a pair of green fuzzy socks covered your skin again. The ice cream you had dropped started melting on the ground, slowly dampening part of the expensive rug the pool table stood on, which you didn’t seem to notice. “What happened?”

You let out a mixture between a snort and an unconvincing laugh. “I talked to my mom on the way to the airport. She started complaining about how much I’ve been letting them down this year, bringing up things I didn’t even think were an issue anymore, and how she hoped I would pull myself together this time, for the sake of Christmas and our family. So, I figured I’d probably have a more fun time being alone in my room and sleeping for like 2 weeks than I’d have being with them.” The last part was meant to sound casually, but Bucky didn’t miss the twitch of your lips and how your eyes started to gloss over again. He wanted to say something to comfort you, but his mind didn’t know where to start and so he just kept staring at you wordlessly, which you took as a sign of annoyance.

“Don’t worry. I won’t bother you with that shitty Christmas music or candy or anything of that kind. I’m not gonna ruin your alone time. Just pretend I’m not here.”

He frowned at that, then, and as his tongue still seemed to be tied, he did the only thing he felt was appropriate: He put your arms around you and hugged you, hard, all-consuming. “I’m not worried you’re going to ruin my alone time. I like having you around. I’m sorry your family are like that, when they’re the ones letting you down.”

You’d liked to reply to that, thank him for his sweet words, but you were sure you’d start crying again the second you stopped biting down on your lip. So you reciprocated the hug as best as you could; after all you were lacking Bucky’s strength. Bucky squeezed you shortly and let go, and when your eyes locked again, you couldn’t help but mirror his warm smile. Jesus, this guy certainly made you feel things. No surprise you were crushing on him so hard.

“We’d better clean this up”, Bucky said gesturing to the now empty ice bucket head and your eyes widened as you noticed the mess you’d made. “Shit!”. Tony had spent an insane amount of money on that carpet, even for his proportions. He’d shoot you to the moon for that.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.” Bucky jogged back to the elevator, returning a minute later with a wet cloth and a roll of kitchen towels which he handed to you. Getting to work, you suddenly became aware of how much closer than usually you two were. You could smell Bucky’s aftershave – something resembling cedarwood – watch the muscles in his arms flex as he tried to rid the fabric of its B&J make-over, study the stubble on his perfectly sculpted jaw, his hazelnut locks, his plump lips. Oh god, his lips. Just thinking about having those lips kiss every inch of your body got you worked up. Get a grip, for fuck’s sake!

“So you’re really planning on skipping Christmas? It’s your favorite holiday”, Bucky interrupted your thoughts, shooting you a glance to see you shrug your shoulders. “I don’t want to see my parents right now, and I can’t imagine celebrating Christmas on my own. So yeah, guess I’ll be taking a break from it this year.”

“You’re not on your own, though. You’re with me. We can celebrate.”

You felt a pleasantly warm sensation in your stomach which you tried to ignore, quirking an eyebrow at him instead. “You hate Christmas.”

“I don’t hate all of it, I hate what it’s become. I hate that most people care more about what useless shit is in their stockings or under the tree than about who they’re spending their time with. I hate how every shop starts putting up Christmas stuff before it’s even October. They don’t even call it “Christmas” anymore. I mean seriously, xmas? What’s that even supposed to mean?”

Despite yourself, a small giggle escaped you at how upset he could get about it all and realizing he had started ranting without wanting to, Bucky had to stifle a laugh as well. "Point I’m trying to make is ” he concluded “I wouldn’t mind spending Christmas with the right company.”

Oh, and that’s supposed to be me? Right company?“, you shot back. "Sure thing, doll. You’re like an expert on Christmas, I can’t go wrong with you. Also, I like having you around. ” He furrowed his eyebrows. “I’ve already said that, haven’t I?”

“Yeah, you have. But that’s okay, I like hearing it”, you laughed, your hand briefly touching his arm. You were becoming kind of needy, it appeared. Bucky didn’t seem to mind though, or at least he didn’t let it show.

Looking down, you noticed with an internal sigh of relief that the ice cream puddle had given way to the water and the kitchen towels. All that was left was a wet patch that would hopefully disappear overnight.

“Guess that’s as good as it gets”, you joked. “Thanks for helping me.”

“It’s the least I could do, after scaring the shit out of you.” He took the dirty towels from you. “Guess we’re Christmas buddies then” he grinned. It was surprising how excited he seemed to be all of a sudden, but you didn’t let yourself linger on that thought. “Well, as the official Christmas ambassador, I have to let you know that this place sucks. There’s not even decorations.”

That was true. The past weeks had been incredibly hectic, even more than in previous years, and since almost everyone would be gone over the holiday season anyway and Bucky had emphasized several times that having the tower turn into Santa’s village would most likely lift his dinner, rather than his spirits, Tony hadn’t bothered to put up decorations.

Bucky gave you an amused look. “I see you’re getting into it. Alright, what do we need?”

“You mean, like everything?”

“Yeah, like the ideal setting. Can’t be that difficult.”

You gave him a sceptical look. “Oh no, not at all. We just need the decorations, music, candy, ugly Christmas sweaters, stuff to bake cookies, a firepla-”

“Okay, okay, I take it back.” Bucky raised his hands in surrender. “This is too much. What’s the most important thing?”

“The tree”, you replied without thinking. “The tree is the most important, to me at least. When my dad used to tell me he’d be bringing the Christmas tree home tonight, I’d spend all day glued to the window of my room, waiting for his car to steer into the driveway. It’s the one thing we ever did as a family, all three of us, decorating the tree. Everything else would be pretty much Mum and me, since Dad would be out working. The tree is … it just wouldn’t feel like Christmas without it.”

Inadvertedly, your brain had walked down memory lane to pictures of baubles in gold and red and purple and every color of the rainbow, mingled with the scent of fir and your dad’s bass voice singing “Have yourself a merry little Christmas” to you while you were sitting on your lap, and suddenly another wave of sadness hit you and you had to fight back the tears that were starting to well up again. You swallowed thickly before looking back at Bucky and were met with an understanding look. He had noticed your struggle but chose not to bring it up again and you were grateful for that. Grateful for him.

There were a few beats of silence before the super soldier offered you a tentative smile and said: “So Christmas tree is your final answer?” Another giggle.

"That’s my final answer.”

Part 1

You woke up to a sky the color of granite. Gloomy light and heavy clouds. Your heart jumped a little in your chest at the prospect of another downfall of snow. What’s Christmas without snow, right? Too comfortable to get up right away, you snuggled back into your pillow and let your mind wander.

It was embarrassing, really, but thinking about spending the whole day with Bucky filled you with a mix of anticipation and nervousness you usually felt before first dates. Prior to your job interview last February, you had spent hours and hours hooked up on research about the people you might soon be working with – the fucking Avengers! -, but Bucky’s story, or at least what was known of it to the public, had fascinated and moved you the most. It was hard for you to wrap your head around how someone could endure the most appalling things you could possibly imagine, and that for decades. Someone like the ex-Winter Soldier could barely be human anymore, filled to the brink with hatred and disgust for the world and the people in it, that you were sure of. And then, when you got the job and got to know him – he was the exact opposite. Sure, he was careful and hard to read, especially at the beginning, but he was kind. He was funny. He was emphatic. He was a nerd. He was sweet. And when you moved in to the tower and the two of you spent more time together, your feelings towards him grew stronger, and you found yourself imagining waking up next to him, his lips on yours the first thing you taste in the morning. Cupping his cheek and watching his eyes crinkle when he flashes you his million-dollar smile. Stroking his hair while he reads his favorite passages out to you or rambles about how all the things he’s just discovering now are not quite as good as what they had back in the days, but some of them are not bad. Being pressed down by his weight as you get to explore all of his gorgeous body and find out what sounds he makes when he’s buried in you, filling you up, making you feel so good as you’re begging him not to stop because he’s hitting just the right spot and you never want to let go of him, so good, please Bucky, please don’t stop, oh God, I’m so close baby, fuck…

The loud buzzing of your phone jerked you out of your trance and made you sit up straight in your bed, your heartbeat thumping in your ears, cheeks heated, fingers you didn’t even remember putting there coated in your arousal. Breathing heavily, you stretched your neck to see who the caller was: Mum. Oh, hell no. In a sudden burst of resurging anger, you declined the call, threw your phone away from you and let yourself fall back against the headboard with an audible huff.

Finishing the job wasn’t going to happen after yesterday’s events started rolling in, so you forced yourself out of bed and into the shower, washing away the heat of your little daydream with water as cold as you could bear. Putting moisturizer on, you focused your thoughts on today. If Bucky still wanted to help setting up everything for Christmas, they should get started as soon as possible. An actual Christmas tree was a bit too much to ask obviously, but maybe they could find a fake one and some funny tree ornaments to go along with it? Sweaters shouldn’t be that much of a problem either, they practically threw them in your face around this time of the year. And the Christmas music could easily be taken care of by Spotify.

You started listing the essential ingredients for three or four kinds of Christmas cookies in your head when you left your room to get breakfast. Closing the fridge door, you tried to decide where and in which order to go to get everything you needed on time (or should you split up?) when you noticed the yellow, blue, pink and green dots on the cold metal surface, dancing around in a carefully studied rhythm like colorful fireflies. Frowning, you turned around.

The huge panorama windows were decorated with beautifully woven ice flowers up to almost half of their height and framed by several strings of Christmas lights, cheerfully blinking against the grey sky outside and bathing the living room area in a colorful hue. Now that you stepped closer, the living room looked different as well. The couches and armchairs were covered under thick and fluffy-looking plaids and pillows with different Christmas-themed motives; a very kind looking Santa Claus on one, a couple of reindeer holding cups of Eggnog and singing “Jingle Bells” on another and the slogan “Tis the season” in as much glitter as could be fitted on so small a space emblazoned on a third. There were decorations, too: a nutcracker next to the tv, an angel’s choir holding candles on one of the couch tables, a snowman, a sledge, a rocking horse, a squirrel in a scarf… You couldn’t even decide where to look first. Too preoccupied to take everything in, you didn’t notice Bucky’s presence until he cleared his throat. “Do you like it?” You turned around to meet him, dumbfounded and still trying to understand what was going on, even more so when you saw the sweater he was wearing: fir green and depicting a penguin wearing a Christmas hat. You let out an incredulous laugh. “Did- did you do all this?”

Bucky lowered his gaze briefly and gave you a sheepish smile. “Pretty much, yeah. I’d hoped you’d sleep in. Gave me enough time to set everything up.” Your mouth opened and closed, unable to find words. “I-“ “Wait!” he interrupted. “There’s more.” He outstretched a slightly shaking hand and seeing that you didn’t respond, hastily withdrew it. Finally though, your body and mind seemed to have rebooted, and you grabbed his hand with both of yours. It felt hot against yours, hot and slightly raw. Bucky shot a surprised look from your intertwined hands to your face and you could’ve sworn that his cheeks blushed slightly. Is this even real?

Squeezing your hands slightly, he walked past you and into the living room, pulling you with him. Around the corner, out of your line of sight, there was a slightly smaller lounging area with the best stereo sound system Tony could get his hands on and without tv, designed for the numerous occasions you fancied actually spending time with each other and being able to face each other when chatting or playing games instead of just staring at a huge screen in unison. Now though, the bean bags had been moved to the side and in the center of the room stood – a tree. Not just any tree, but a fir tree about 10 or 11 feet high, almost filling up the room with its size and emanating that unmistakable scent that always took you back to fond Christmas memories. Next to it, on the ground and on several of the bean bags Bucky had piled up a seemingly endless number of boxes containing Christmas baubles of all sorts, ranging from the traditional ones to typical Christmas motives, Disney characters, and even the most absurd things such as very small-sized fruits and vegetables.

You couldn’t remember when your heart had last felt so light and full. If Bucky’s hand hadn’t anchored you, you might have just floated up through the ceiling and into the sky. And why not? Who knew what else might be possible after all this had felt so much like a dream already? Giving yourself no time to think about overstepping boundaries and the like, you threw yourself into Bucky’s arms, feeling rather than noticing his strong arms instantly enveloping your frame. “Thank you.” Your voice was muffled because you had buried your face in the crook of his neck and because you were close to crying again. Sensing your state, Bucky started tracing soothing patterns on your lower back and mimicking his movements, your hands started stroking his broad shoulders. “My pleasure, doll.”

He held you like that for several moments, lightly swaying to and fro, taking deep breaths with you. And after a while, when you’d quieted down a bit, you noticed that not only your heart threatened to jump out of your chest; Bucky’s heart beat a lot faster as well, hammering against his ribcage so much that you could almost feel it against yours. You drew back a little so you could see his face and were met with a look you’d never seen on him before, a look that went straight to your groin. His hands tightened on your back, like he was afraid to let you go, and your nose lightly brushed his. And just as you were about to close your eyes… his phone rang.

The noise startled you so much that you jumped in his arms and Bucky let out an audible sigh. “That’ll be Steve. Be right back.” With that, he let go of you to grab his cell from the kitchen and you felt like someone had just emptied a bucket of ice water over you and snapped you back to reality. More than that, you did feel cold. Had your body grown used to the heat radiating off him so quickly? Also, and that was the most important: What the fuck did just happen?

Bucky returned about 10 minutes later and found you in almost the same spot where he’d left you, now sitting awkwardly on one of the empty bean bags, desperately trying to regain composure. His heart still fluttered from being so close to you, and as he wanted this day to be anything but awkward, he’d spent a good 7 of those 10 minutes away thinking about how to proceed. In a manner he hoped would come across as relaxed, he sauntered over to the closest bean bag and picked up one the boxes filled with baubles. “Soooo”, why was his voice so squeaky? “let’s get started, shall we?”

He couldn’t see your heart slightly sink in your chest because the magical moment had officially passed of course; he just had eyes for the warm smile you offered him in return. “Sure.” You got up to take hold of one the boxes as well when he remembered something. “Hang on.” You raised your head and could make out something slightly mischievous in his orbs. “I won’t be the only one wearing an ugly Christmas sweater.”

—

4 hours later, any sign of awkwardness or discomfort between the two of you had officially gone to the wind. As instructed, you’d put on the ugliest Christmas sweater you could find (an awful mix of pink and gold in the shape of a Christmas elf with actual bells that jingled whenever you moved), Bucky had put on some music and you’d gone about your business. At some point (probably after your fourth cup of cocoa with rum and Bucky’s third pint of Asgardian mead he’d snatched from Thor’s quarters), you decided to forego any sense of aesthetics and just put up as many ornaments as would fit on the tree. As a result, it now looked as if the slightest gust of wind would make it collapse on the spot, but you two were oddly proud of your work. Taking cocoa and mead with you, you decided to have a small break and moved over to the living room area.

There were a few beats of comfortable silence, Sinatra softly buzzing in the background. Then, out of the blue, Bucky asked you to tell him your favorite joke. You were too tipsy to question how he’d come up with that, so you pondered his request for a moment and then answered. “I hate Russian dolls. They’re so full of themselves.”

Bucky sat up on his spot of the couch and gave you an odd stare that made you wonder whether he’d understood you at all, and then burst out of laughter, almost spilling his drink in the process and making you laugh in return. You’d never really heard his laugh, just the occasional snort when he deemed something worthy of a reaction, but this was a sound made from the gods themselves and you could listen to it all day, every day, for the rest of your life.

Slowly, his fit came down to a low, melodious chuckle. “Honestly doll, sometimes I want to kiss you all over.” “Don’t hold back.”

The words had come out of your mouth before you could stop them. They didn’t remotely sound as teasing or nonchalant as you had meant them to. They sounded sincere, almost desperate. Because they were. And suddenly, as you watched Bucky’s expression falter, you felt remarkably sober again. Oh god.

Part 2

Carefully, Bucky stood up, moved over and sat down next to you. “Are you serious about this, (Y/N)?”

Heat crept up your skin, all the way from the swells of your breasts to your ears. You’d honestly never felt that put on the spot. Unable to answer, your gaze fixed the carpet, hoping that if you stared long enough, maybe it would do you a favor and swallow you whole. Bucky was now less than inch from you, close enough for you to smell his shampoo, his breath fanning the side of your face, making things only worse for you. Your heart sank deeper and deeper until you could feel it in your stomach, heavy like a rock. This day had been going so well. Why did you have to ruin it with your stupid inebriated brain? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

And then you felt his flesh hand cup your face, softly turning your head to meet his eyes. Those beautiful, cerulean eyes. “Because I’d really, really like to kiss you.” Frowning, you shook your head, your synapses refusing to process that bit of information. You swallowed several times before you found your voice again. “Please don’t mess with me, Bucky”, you heard yourself whisper, at which Bucky violently shook his head. “I promise.” And then his lips were on yours and you kissed him back.

It started out innocently enough, slow, tentative kisses, allowing the other to back out in case they changed their mind. Only that he didn’t back out like you thought he would. And you didn’t back out like he thought you would. Realizing how effortlessly your mouths pressed against each other, how right his lips felt on yours, you gradually grew bolder. You turned slightly to mirror his position and your hands went up to his face, feeling the stubble on his chin and jaw before carding through the silky strands of his locks at the back of his neck. One hand in his hair, you let the other explore more of his body as you felt up his biceps, his back, his chest abs. A content hum escaped his throat which only spurred you on. One hand in his hair and one bunching up the fabric covering his chest, you pressed yourself closer to him. His grip on your face tightened as he opened his mouth and his tongue caressed your bottom lip. Greedily, you welcomed him in your mouth and let out a deep sigh as your tongues met for the first time and the two of you fought for dominance over the other.

Bucky’s hands wandered down your body to the hem of your shirt and his lips soon followed suit. You let out a whimper when he sucked at the sensitive skin of your pulse point, determined to mark you. You’d never really liked hickeys, but this was different. You wanted everyone to see, see what had happened between the two of you. While your hands tangled in his hair, his slowly made their way under the fabric of your sweater, exploring the soft skin of your hips, your waist, your belly, cool on your right side, burning on your left.

It was so much more than you’d ever dreamed of, almost too much to bear, and yet his touches only made you more impatient, more needy, more desperate to have him. “Bucky…” It was barely more than a sigh, but Bucky’s head shot up at the sound and his eyes met yours. “What’s it, sweetheart? Talk to me” You took a moment to take him in, tracing his glistening bottom lip with your thumb. “I need you.” Bucky pressed his forehead against yours. “I need you too, doll. So much. That’s why I’m so scared of messing up with you.” You took his face in your hands again and pressed a kiss to his forehead, his eyes closing at the sensation. “There’s no way in hell you can mess up with me, James. Don’t hold back. Take me.” Bucky let out a shuddering breath. “Please.”

It was like a switch had been flicked. Bucky leapt forward and buried you under his weight, making you sink into the soft cushions. Kissing you even more passionately than before, he positioned himself between your legs. The bulge in his pants now clearly noticeable, he started grinding down on you and the friction made you pool with lust. You let out an audible groan that made Bucky’s cock twitch. Steadying himself with his metal hand, he clumsily lifted your shirt up your body with his right hand so the fabric bunched up over your breasts. Eager to assist, you arched your back to unclasp your bra and pulled it up as well. Bucky’s hand immediately reached out to palm the newly exposed skin while his tongue darted out to massage your already swollen buds. He went from left to right and right to left, making you stick your chest out as much as you could, before suddenly taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking greedily on it. You cried out in pleasure and his dark eyes went to scan your face, lip drawn in between your teeth, eyes pressed shut, your breathing getting heavier by the minute. Too mesmerized by the sight of you, he didn’t notice your hand that wasn’t tangled in his hair move from his back to the front of his pants until you massaged his erection through the fabric, running your palm up and down his impressive bulge. He let go of your breast to take a deep breath and used his right hand to feverishly rub your clothed pussy, causing you to yelp in surprise. Your hand gripped his wrist, urging him to slow down. “Don’t want to finish off like that. Need you inside me.”

Bucky’s answer was an appreciative growl. He stood up, freeing himself first from the sweater that was becoming increasingly hot and then from his jeans and boxers. His size was impressive, the tip swollen and glistening with pre cum and you couldn’t help but rub your thighs together in anticipation.

“Uh-uh. Let me take care of that sweetheart.” His voice was now a husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. Agonizingly slow, he unbuttoned your pants and pulled them off you, groaning when he got a glimpse of your drenched panties. Sitting back on his haunches, he pushed your knees apart and ran his palms up the inside of your thighs, then softly ghosted over the purple cotton, before hooking his thumbs under the waistband. “Show me your pretty pussy, (Y/N).” In one swift motion, the piece of clothing was gone, and Bucky let out a low hiss at the sight of your wet folds. “Fuck, doll. You’re ven more beautiful than I imagined.” You were at a complete loss for words, but Bucky didn’t give you time to respond anyway. He took a hold of his erection and coated in in your juices, your overstimulated body jumping at the sensation, before locking eyes with you and carefully sliding his tip inside you. You both let out a needy whimper when he filled you up, going deeper and deeper, your pussy obediently swallowing him, until he bottomed out.

Bucky was still on his haunches, giving you time to adjust to him, intertwining his fingers with yours. “You okay?” You nodded. “You can move.” Bucky started thrusting in and out of you, accelerating his pace when it became obvious that you were in as much pleasure as he. Soon, he was mercilessly fucking you into the couch, snapping his hips forward and pulling out until just the tip remained inside you, and then repeating his actions, over and over and over again. When he used his metal hand to draw circles on your clit, you were a whimpering mess beneath him, uttering incoherent curses and multiple variations of his name. You felt the familiar sensation build up in your gut and squeezed his hand to hold off, but he wasn’t having it, only increasing his efforts. With a muffled scream, you came all over his dick, your whole body shaking from the intensity of it. The sight of you coming undone combined with your cunt convulsing around his dick pushed Bucky over the edge as well and his thrusts became sloppier as he painted your walls with his seed and then collapsed on top of you, both of you panting and bathed in sweat.

—

Your second time together was slow and gentle, taking all the time you now knew you had, making sure to leave no inch of your lover’s body unattended to. The third time was rough again, Bucky fucking you against the shower tiles, cold water pouring down on you because you’d accidentally changed the setting when Bucky had lifted you and neither of you had noticed. The times that followed took place in various places of the Tower; the pool table where Bucky had found you the day before, the kitchen island, Sam’s bed (which seemed to give him a particular kind of satisfaction), in several of Tony’s cars, at one of the panorama windows, your front against the shining outline of the city (and the fake ice crystals) while Bucky took you from behind, all the while whispering sinful things to you that drove you insane, how often he’d sat in his room fucking his fist to your image, your plump lips that were just made for his cock, your curves that made your entire body jiggle when he drove into you, that beautiful ass of yours, imagining your sweet voice begging him to make you feel good. After all, it appeared he’d thought about you as often as you had about him.

—

You woke up to a rose-tainted sky and soft kisses peppered across the back of your neck, your shoulders and along your spine. You giggled into your pillow. Bucky’s strands brushing your bare skin gave you a tickling sensation. “You’re up early.” Bucky hummed into the crook of your neck, making your skin vibrate. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about before heading out for my run.” You turned around to face him, his hair tousled, eyes still glossed over from sleep. Nobody should be allowed to look that gorgeous. “What is it?”

“Steve and Wilson will be back from their trip in a few hours and they will pester me about my crush on you and whether I’ve finally done something about it.” He rolled his eyes and your smile grew wider. “What are you going to tell them?” Bucky reached for your hand and gently squeezed it. “I’d like to tell them that I asked you out on a date and that you agreed, but that wouldn’t be entirely true, would it?” You quirked an eyebrow. “So you’re asking me for permission to lie to your best friend?” Bucky laughed at that, that kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle. “Y/N, would you like to go out on a date with me?”

You tilted your head to the side. “Depends. Does that mean we’re gonna have to sleep in separate beds again?” Bucky raised your hand to his mouth and softly kissed your knuckles, then he stretched his head and planted a kiss on your forehead. “No way. What do you say?”

“Yes.”

[isnotys]

Cruel Summer Pt 2

Summary: After a stressful couple of months, the twins, Emma and you decide to take a well-deserved trip to a Caribbean island. However, it’s not all that peaceful because your more-than-obvious crush on Grayson is making you lose your marbles.

Warnings: anger (?)

Part 1

I didn’t even think twice about it, I couldn’t. Otherwise, I’d say no.

We didn’t even go to our rooms to get anything, I had my phone and wallet with me and he had his, that’s pretty much all we needed. So we just took a cab downtown, and when we arrived at the town square, there were a few tents. We decided to stop there and have a nice breakfast and look around. We got off the taxi and Grayson grabbed my hand, as if I was gonna get lost. It was a possibility because we turned our phones off, that way we could explore the city without Ethan trying to make it about himself and how he was being left out. He can be a bit of a drama queen. 

Our first stop was a farmers market. They had pretty much everything here. Grayson’s face lit up when he saw all the avocados they had, it was really endearing.

“Look! They have so many avocados here! We should move here, y/n!” 

“Because they have avocados?” He appreciates the simplest detail in everything, it’s so adorable.

“No, because they have beautiful beaches AND a lot of avocados,” he is practically yelling out of excitement. It’s kind of contagious. He smiles and scrunches his nose in the cutest way possible. He might be a huge, grown man, but he's such a soft boy. 

I smile at him as if I can’t believe a human could ever be so perfect. I can’t hide anything, so I just say, “well it did say that Rincón was all about the beaches.”

He laughs a little and looks at me, staring at me deeply like he was reading something he didn’t understand. I feel my face burning and again, not because of the sun. His large muscles make him look sort of intimidating, but the way he just smiles at the simplest things or laughs ridiculously loud, lets you know that he’s just a big goofy teddy bear. The love I feel for this man begins to be a weight I can no longer carry. It’s not even about his irresistible lips, his sexy beard, his breathtaking eyes, his contagious smile, his Hemsworth-like figure, it’s not even about all that. Though he looks perfect on the outside, he’s even more beautiful on the inside. He’s so kind, caring and passionate about everything he does. He really wants to make a positive change in this world, and boy, I’ve never laughed so hard until I met him. He’s so much more than he lets people see and I love that. I’ve always thought that it’s good to be underestimated and he’s sort of the embodiment of that. I’m about to say something when the server calls out his name. Our order was ready. 

When he comes back with our food, my bravery is gone and he hands me the most appetizing açai bowl I have ever seen. Colorful, fresh fruit as a topping with crunchy granola and a touch of Nutella because it can’t all be healthy. No Nutella for him, obviously because he's dairy-free and that’s, “way too unhealthy.”

After eating, he wanted to try the smoothies because they’re made from fresh fruits that were displayed right there on the table. 

The center of the town square, which was in front of a cathedral,  had a few huts made from concrete where there were more vendors. They had all kinds of stuff; from food to jewelry, to books. It was a really cool place to explore on this beautiful day.

Grayson was looking all around after getting his smoothie, he seems really excited to be discovering this new place. He did say he wanted to travel more and this is the perfect place. No one knows who he is here, so we’re just peacefully walking around. Also, these beaches are perfect for surfing. He looks like he’s trying to soak it all in. His face is a little red from all the sun he’s been exposed to and his tanned muscles are glowing under this sun. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time otherwise, there’s no way I would be able to keep it together. 

“This island is so pretty and the food so far has been great.” You can barely see his eyes because he’s smiling so big. Who would ever be able to stay in a bad mood being around him?

I break out of my trance-like state to say, “Yes, you really seem to be enjoying yourself here Gray.”

“I am. It’s really nice to get away from all the negative energy and just be outside. To really enjoy life with great people, that’s what I always wanted.” He smiles and playfully shoulders me.

“It really shows that you're in a different state of mind now.”

“Yes, change is good, even if it’s scary. Especially after all that has happened in the last few years. It’s just nice to feel free for once.”

“There’s my favorite Gray, Cheesy Gray!”

“Don't make fun of me y/n!” 

“No, I'm not making fun of you, Grayson! I know exactly what you mean. The last few years have been difficult for all of us, in different ways. It’s just so refreshing that you always remain so positive and kind and mature through all of it.” For the first time, I felt like I could actually breathe around him and be honest about what I was feeling.

“You know what? No more dwelling on the past, peaches.” He finished his smoothie and held out his hand for me to take it.

I took it and he lead the way to the shops that were nearby. 

We spent the next few hours of window shopping. All the stores were very, um. surf centric so to speak; selling bikinis, surfboards, wet suits, and with a few crystals here and there. After walking around well into the afternoon, we decided to go into this restaurant called Boca’s, which means mouth in Spanish, apparently. That doesn't make much sense, but I thought it was interesting. 

Over the course of what I’d call a very late lunch, and not that early dinner, we had the most amazing ~dairy free~ brick oven pizza. 

He looked all serious at me with those piercing hazel-green eyes and asked, “So what’s with you lately? You’ve been skipping out on a lot of our hangouts and that’s not only painful because you are leaving me to be the third wheel, makes me feel that there’s something wrong. You certainly hangout with Emma a lot. I don't know, it just seems like you are avoiding us, or me?”

I swear to the Almighty Taylor Swift that my heart dropped to my ass and my hands were sweating so much I could fill a glass. I’m sure Grayson could read the expression on my face, my eyes were open wide with fear and my face was as red as the lobster people were eating on the table next to us.

“Listen, I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Ugh, you’re just so damn difficult to read, y/n.” He says clearly frustrated. “Is it that you’re dating someone. Is that why you’ve been keeping your distance?”

I need to say something now before I really get myself into some trouble here. “Look, Grayson,” I say trying to keep my voice steady and a straight face, “I’m fine and I don’t have anything against either of you two and I’m definitely not dating anyone, not that that’s relevant to this particular issue. Yes, I am a little awkward, but I have known Emma a lot longer than I’ve known you guys and I was a little hesitant to come on this trip because I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable. After all, you don't know me that well and I know you guys hesitate to let people into your lives because you’ve been burned before. As have I.”

He looks down and even disappointed. I am so confused, what more does he want? For me to be a 100% honest and make this friendship more awkward than it already is? So we then end up complete strangers and I have to live the rest of my existence not being able to have Grayson Dolan in my life?

Not a chance. 

“Ok, you know what? You might be right, but I still see you as a close friend. You can trust me and even though Emma has been my friend for longer than you, I trust you just as much.” He says as he looks outside. He seems a little pissed off and I can’t figure out why. I’ve been following him around all day, now I’m the one who’s getting pissed off. What more does he want? He suddenly speaks again, “let’s go we’re gonna miss the sunset.” He pays for the food and we take a cab to the lighthouse that’s a few minutes away.

He doesn't say anything during the short drive and I don't either. I’m mad too, I don't know why, but I am. The ride there though quiet is breathtaking. The sun has begun to set and the sky is overtaken by a bright orange that we can see through the palm trees. As well as, the sea peeking through the huge, beautiful houses. 

We made it to the lighthouse and walked around a bit. 

“We should take some pics for Instagram, y/n.” Grayson says after what felt years of silence.

“Ok.” I said. I step under an archway made out of branches so he takes the photo. 

“You look pretty.” He whispers as he hands me the phone to take his photo. I blush and then die a little on the inside. 

After taking his picture, he puts his arm around me so we can take a selfie. I smile and try to play it cool. This boy needs to chill or I’m gonna lose it. 

We were looking into the water after taking a few pics and he says, “There has to be a way we can get to the beach below without jumping off of that cliff. Which I’m not completely opposed to, but I know you won't do it.”

“Well, I’d like to survive to see another sunset. Though this one is beautiful enough to be my last one.”

“You try to be so deep sometimes. As if I don't already know you're a writer.” He teases and laughs with his big goofy smile, I could die right here from how cute he is. 

“I saw a gate when we came in, I think we can sneak in through it.” I don't let him even start talking and I grab his hand. I wish I was this brave all the time. 

We sneak in through the gate and we get to the beach. We take off our shoes and I feel the warm sand between my toes. That calming sound of waves crashing in the background and admire the last few rays of sun peeking through the horizon. 

Grayson grabs my hand out of nowhere and asks, “So why aren't you dating anyone? I want an honest answer, no more bs.”

I don't dare look at him, but I say, “I am too much of a Rachel Berry and not everyone is willing to put up with that.”

“I’m not sure what that means, but I know that that’s not just it.” He says as he grabs my face, ever so gently. At this point I am so mad that he keeps insisting and asking and pushing, but also very short of breath so I just snap. 

“I love you!!! Ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?” I scream at the top of my lungs, pushing him away. Thank goodness there aren’t many people on this beach. 

He looks up at me, grinning like a devil. 

He then grabs me by the waist and kisses me slowly, but firmly. I place my hands on his neck and he smiles while he kisses me and pushes me closer to him. His hands play with my hair as he deepens the kiss and the pink sky turns darker and darker. I feel a warm feeling in my chest that spreads through my body. After all this time, I finally feel at ease and I’m exactly where I belong, in his arms. 

The End

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Wet Sugar” [Part 2 of 30]

Summary: Erik opts to keep his distance from Yani and focus on Klaue and getting to Wakanda. Erik also meets his new temporary roommate...

NSFW. Mature audience only. As always, thanks for reading and please comment/reblog if you enjoy the series. Hi new readers, happy to meet you on this new Erik journey. Part 3 on the way....

"To every hundred niggas that came and gone missing Only a handful will go the distance I swear I seen this shit coming as if I was living up under the plumbing While niggas was riffing and mumbling 'bout, what they could do I was cooking gumbo whipping the voodoo I was in the jungle running with Zulu's We was looking past the struggle while life was moving so fast You had to be shopping at Ginsu To the top of the food group Doing what I want and how I should too

Stepped in the waters The water was cold Chi in my body But it didn't touch my soul Stepped in the waters The water was cold…"

Anderson.Paak – "The Waters"

He tells her his name, his real name, and the girl who talked to animals allowed her big wide eyes to ease up on their sharpness.

Yani sat back and allowed the water to catch her back as her body disappeared under the small wave of balmy liquid that lifted her away from him. Erik stayed put, watching her backstroke away from him and further out into the sea. He wanted to follow her, felt his toes grip the sand under his feet to cast off after her, but he felt stalkerish and remained where he was.

She was real.

Yemanjá.

Erik felt the blood in his body coursing through him, the thrumming of searing red in his veins making him clench and unclench his fists.

Disǎ.

He sat back in the water and let it buoy him up, his eyes following the path of Yani's body swimming. He found it odd that he could look at this woman and think of his ex-girlfriend Disǎ who he left behind in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

No, maybe it wasn't odd, because the way he was reacting to this young woman treading about in open water was the same way he reacted to his first love…Disǎ.

The voice.

Like Yani, Erik had only heard Disǎ's voice before he met her, and something about the tone, the lilt, the inflections, the sonic soothing he received from it made him weak for her before he even saw her face. He felt a weight drift down on him. He put Disǎ through hell, denied her things that she wanted, made promises he couldn't keep, and she left him. Refused to connect with him ever again. Walking into that relationship had been an exercise in self-flagellation. Love was something he never sought out because he knew he was not made to love and settle down.

He was a mover, a nomad…he had no real home, not really, no place to lay his head and call his own. Rootless. He had to be rootless in order to finish the path that had been laid out for him. A path that started when he found his father dead in his apartment. Dead and alone.

Erik had to keep himself emotionally dead inside and alone too. All that love ever did for him was rend his body in half and grind his bones into dust. So he knew something was wrong when he heard Yani's voice speaking to a damn lizard in a tree, recognized the tell-tale signs of that dangerous pursuit into madness. He had only ever felt that way before with his ex. All that fucking back and forth with Disǎ when he graduated from M.I.T., joined the Navy, made Special Ops, and then headed into the work of a mercenary for a greater good…it stripped away a relationship he held dear and couldn't hold onto because he was never around. And that feeling, that feeling of wanting someone was seducing his conscious mind as he watched this girl swim.

Life was about choices.

And sometimes choices meant letting things be.

The heat and the dazzling sunlight and the beauty of the pale blue sea were probably just fucking with him anyway. Plus, he hadn't gotten his dick wet in a long time, and to come across a woman with a body like that…naked, on an isolated beach…well shit, no wonder he was feeling punch drunk with lust.

Nigga, get your shit together.

Yani wasn't feeling him anyway, every time she looked at him it was like she had an extra sour lemon in her mouth.

Erik dragged himself out of the water and put his trunks back on.

He didn't bother to look back at her when he left.

###

After lunch, Klaue left a message on Erik's cell to meet him in the third house. His private abode.

Erik meandered down the compound walkway toward the house. It was perched closer to the edge of the hillside overlooking the sea. Erik caught breathtaking views and when he entered the house after a retinal scanner cleared him, he felt like he was entering an ancient Zulu enclave. Nothing in the house matched the light-colored airy Caribbean theme of the other houses. The dark shadowed interior of dark-grained wood and dark furniture enveloped South African artwork, with a plethora of large carved wooden masks, and plenty of drums. Djembes, dunduns, a three drum bata set, bougarabous…

Erik stepped in front of a djembe and rubbed his fingers across the skin. His fingers ticked up and he began beating out the rhythms he learned as a child from his Uncle Bakari when he used to drum for his grandfather and mother when they taught capoeira back in Oakland. The heel of the palm, then his fingers struck the skin harder, faster, and the acoustics picked up the sound and drowned the room with the ferocity he slapped down.

Erik rocked his shoulders and let his head droop forward, his locs flopping over his eyes as he allowed the drum vibrations to move through him. He let his head bob as he remembered days back in Oakland on school lunch tables, pounding out beats with his fists when there were no drums, or finding the hollow parts in his chest or thigh when he would strike his own body with his open palm to create the percussive boom bap to help his childhood friends spit bars in ragtag cyphers. He felt the moist sensation in his mouth as he shaped his lips to beatbox in time to his drumming. It all came back to him vividly, joyfully, and he couldn't help the curling of his bottom lip as he bit into it, thinking of his days running the streets, just being hood wild and free.

He ended the cadence with a slowing down of his hands until only his fingertips were caressing the edges of the drum.

"Well look at you."

Klaue's voice brought him out of his reverie and Erik stepped away from the djembe.

"Hope that wasn't some artifact," Erik said.

Klaue shrugged and headed over to a round old-world wooden globe. He pulled the top back and inside of the globe was a hidden bar filled with various liquors and libations.

"Share a whiskey?" Klaue asked.

"Sure."

Klaue poured them healthy amounts in crystal tumblers and handed one to Erik.

"Interesting décor."

"I wanted to have a bit of home away from home. Of all my hideaways, this place is my favorite."

"It's pretty sweet. Quiet too."

"Not for much longer. Once everyone is here, I'll need you to keep your foot on their necks."

"Newbies?"

"Most you know from the Kabul job. Is your man Tahir still a no show?"

Erik took a deep drag of the whiskey. It was aged to perfection. He let a bit of it linger over his teeth before swallowing.

"They still got him on that no-fly list. He's chillin' in Damascus. He can do any other jobs you got, but Africa is a no go."

"Too bad. Good man. And that is what we need. Good men."

Erik studied Klaue's face.

"What's the problem?"

Klaue glanced at him.

"You can always read me so quick. It's Huntsman. I really don't want to use him, but I can't find anyone else with experience on the borders."

"Tahir will probably be tied up the next six months—"

"Too long to wait."

"W'sup with Huntsman?"

"He has issues…with you."

"That's his problem. He don't even know me."

"Ah, but he knows your reputation. Something about you sticks in his craw."

"You don't have to use him."

"With no Tahir available, I'm afraid I do. Unless you have someone else."

"Nah. I culled away my last team. I only have three that I stick with now and we freelance for DynCorp most jobs. Those guys are already under contract."

"Timing is key with these next two jobs."

"You still toying with using submersibles?"

"I will need our pretty blue metal for that."

The holy grail. Vibranium.

"I got some leads that I hope will pan out soon," Erik said. He could sense Klaue chomping at the bit.

He really did have some leads.

One was from a friend of his mother's who worked with the British Museum. She had passed on some information about some museum exchanges up on the horizon, a collection of fifteenth-century West African armaments and masks. It wasn't the collection he was looking for, but it was part of an exchange program originating out of Benin. Erik and Klaue would be heading to Angola in a month to set up an arms deal and then slip into the Northeastern part of Nigeria to covertly meet with some members of Boko Haram and the Nigerian government. Klaue played both sides of every deal he made. Erik planned on slipping into Benin and checking out the newly constructed Royal Benin Museum. His research uncovered plans for the museum to start receiving indigenous stolen art on a rotating basis from European museums that held plundered artwork from an 1897 British invasion in Dahomey. Erik needed to see for himself if any pieces contained vibranium.

His tongue gently tapped against his tattoo inside his lower bottom lip. He could feel the irritating cutaneous sensation tickling his gums from the traces of vibranium used in the vibram tattoo ink. The itchy tickling only happened when he was near pure vibranium. Like the pure vibranium emanating from Klaue's prosthetic arm.

Klaue picked up the whiskey bottle again and Erik took another half tumbler of the dark amber liquid.

"I want you to move down here in this house when all the men are here. There are some conversations we need to have in private."

Erik didn't question him. It took him this long to be invited to stay at any of his safe houses. That meant that he was now part of the trusted inner circle. He would just have to watch out for Huntsman. He was Klaue's boy for the last seven years, but Erik was aiming to be the only righthand man. Getting to the safe house was the culmination of meticulous, deliberate, and patient planning. Their first meeting in Iraq gave the man an intro to who Killmonger was. They didn't meet again until an arms deal in Kosovo proved fruitful when Erik's new team was able to assist Klaue through a mutual trustworthy middle man. It was then that Erik first showed Klaue a small amount of vibranium he stole from some arms dealers he tracked down to a small forgotten village in Iraq.

Erik ignored Klaue after that, turned him down for several jobs before Klaue started hinting that he may need to return to Wakanda and steal again. Then and only then did Erik drop word that he was down for any excursions into his father's country. The two men teamed up within months to help one another scour the earth for any pockets of vibranium they could find. On those missions, they only worked with each other and two other men, Tahir and one of Klaue's boys, a fellow South African who asked very little about the blue magic. A year later, Erik was now sipping brown liquor in the man's private home.

"Let's take a walk," Klaue said.

Erik followed him down a pathway that led to another section of beach hidden from where Yani's cove jutted out.

Klaue took off his sandals and his feet touched the sand.

"Hot!" he said slipping the sandals back on.

Erik's flip-flops felt too thin for the sand in this particular area that was littered with a few broken seashells.

"What do you want out of life, Killmonger?"

Erik stared at Klaue. The whites of the man's eyes were a little pink, and there were tiny spiderwebs of broken blood vessels cresting his nose. The man did like the sauce a little too much. Erik had personally witnessed him overconsuming alcoholic beverages to the point of falling over and having to be carried off by Erik or his other men.

"Money. What else?" he answered.

Klaue let his eyes trace the horizon of ocean before him.

"You know, at one time I was a billionaire."

"Really? How you fuck that up?"

Klaue guffawed and his laughter made him rock back in his sandals and clutch Erik's arm for balance, spilling a little of his drink on the sand.

"I sold my entire cache of vibranium to a Tony Stark creation."

Erik's eyes fixed on Klaue. He had a history with Tony Stark himself, but he didn't let on about it.

"I was operating out of an old shipping tanker in Johannesburg. Had my entire supply of vibranium warehoused there. Perfect set up. And then these fucking enhanced bastards show up with this thing…"

Klaue's right wrist rubbed his left arm while still holding his drink. His eyes grew course looking and his accent flared up.

"I'm no fool. I make a deal and billions are dropped into my offshore accounts. I'm set. Ready to retire and live out the rest of my life here. But then Sokovia goes down, and fucking Stark goes back and…."

Klaue's jawline clenched tight and his left arm closed up his mechanical fist.

"Billions wiped out. Like it never happened. And I'm left to start all over again."

"You kept your entire supply in one spot?"

Erik wanted to laugh at the man, but Klaue was tipsy, and a tipsy Klaue could get agitated and rachet up to bastard behavior in mere seconds.

"I had a fortress set up on that tanker. It was safe. After everything was taken away, I learned of a small portion hidden away in what I thought was a discreet location…"

"The Mosul statues…"

"I still don't know who really took it. S.H.I.E.L.D. maybe. The Pentagon. Perhaps even that ass Stark…fucking Iron Man…Iron Prick."

Klaue raised up his tumbler toward Erik's face.

"When I ask you what you want, Killmonger, I need to know the God's honest truth, because when I finish off these next few jobs, I'm going back to the source. With your skills and mine, we could steal even more vibranium than the first time I went in. I'm the only person who went into Wakanda…and lived to tell the story."

Erik's jaw clenched.

The first time Klaue went in.

With the help of his father, Prince N'Jobu, a man who only wanted to bring the vibranium out to help his woman and her people. All those in the diaspora.

Erik gulped down all of his whiskey.

Focus.

Erik fought back the whispers in his mind to kill Klaue where he stood. Because of this cretin, his father was killed. Because of this shit stain of a human, his father was unable to save his mother. Because of this devil, his family had been destroyed.

"What's the story on that place?" Erik asked.

"It's my white whale. But that's a story for another day. I want to talk Angola logistics now."

Erik wrenched his eyes away from Klaue and gazed out at the water. He had to hold onto his mental acuity. His own temper could carry him over the edge and destroy all of his plans. This was the long game. He had to hold on and not give in to the rage festering in his belly. He couldn't wait to crush this weak maggot. And like his Uncle, King T'Chaka, Erik would take great pleasure in destroying Ulysses Klaue.

###

Yani stood by the intercom at the front gate. The guard on duty, Jamie, watched her try her best to carry on a discreet conversation with her cousin Kendall who stood on the other side of the gate.

"Twyla just said she couldn't watch her today. C'mon now Yani, take your baby!"

Yani could hear her Sydette babbling a mile a minute behind the thick metal divide.

"Can you keep her for me, just for a couple of hours? I have to finish one more house and then I can leave," Yani said, the pleading in her voice not moving Kendall one way or the other.

"I would if I could, but I'm going to hang out with Bunny and Gregory. They might let me record some things at their place. I can't have a baby there with me. You know they smoke—"

"Kendall, please—"

"Yani, I can't watch you pickney. Sir, please open the gate."

Yani and Jamie could see Kendall on the security viewscreen holding Sydette in her car seat with her baby bag slung on his shoulder.

Yani's eyes glanced at Jamie.

"Open the gate please, Jamie," Yani said, defeat and weariness in her voice.

Jamie punched in the gate code and it slid open.

"I'm sorry, Yani," Kendall said. His deep dark chestnut skin was shiny and he sported a fresh baldie cut. He shoved Sydette's car seat handle into her hand and Yani grabbed the baby bag.

Kendall ran back to his idling work truck and hopped in with gardening equipment uncovered in the rear.

"Don't be late tomorrow. Tell Freddie Mr. Klaue wants the trees and the bushes by the front and middle house trimmed."

Kendall just waved and drove off, his truck backfiring as he left.

Yani rubbed her hand gently over her daughter's soft dainty curls. Sydette was sweating from the heat, the dampness making her baby hairs stick to her scalp.

"Mommy is glad to see you, but I have to work. I need you to be a good girl today for me. Yeah?"

Jamie gave her a serious look.

"Don't tell anyone she's here, please Jamie? I don't want to cause my Auntie trouble."

Jamie nodded and Yani scurried with her daughter to the apartment under the first house.

Leona was feeding dirty sheets and towels into the washing machine. A huge stack of clean sheets waited to be folded and put away.

"Auntie," Yani said with Sydette clutching her chest.

"What she doing here?"

Yani felt her spirit sink from the sound of her Aunt's annoyed voice.

"Kendall brought her. Twyla can't watch her today and he has somewhere to be so he can't keep her for me—"

"Call your mother—"

"You know I can't do that—"

"What you expect me to do?"

"Can she stay up here with you? I need to finish the second house—"

"And I need to finish this bedding and get ready for dinner. You have to take her with you."

Yani sucked her teeth. Sydette balled up her fist and sucked on it then dropped her head down on Yani's left breast and tried to suck through the t-shirt. Leona gave a sympathetic look but then continued putting sheets into the washer.

Moving swiftly back to the middle house, Yani entered it slowly.

"Inside," she called stepping in and looking around. Thank God, no one was there. The soft bristle broom she was using to sweep the floor was leaning against the couch. She tossed the baby bag on the floor near the couch and plopped her butt down with the car seat. Sydette's saliva had soaked Yani's shirt.

"Hold on, gyal," Yani said hoisting up her shirt and releasing her left breast. Sydette latched on her nipple and Yani cradled her head and watched her daughter suckle like she was starving.

"I know I left you plenty of milk with cousin Twyla. Why you so greedy? Huh? Where you put it all?"

Sydette's cheeks puffed and hallowed as she fed on Yani. A thousand thoughts went through Yani's head. What if Twyla couldn't watch Sydette over the weekend? She had plans to go out, the first time in a long time. Her cousin Kendall was set to perform for the first time in a club that hadn't seen Yani's face since she first got pregnant with Sydette. She didn't even have to sneak into it anymore now that she was finally of legal age. It was a tourist trap for sure, but the D.J.s there were really good and played a good mixture of Hip Hop, Soca and other types of music that she enjoyed.

She couldn't be too mad at Kendall. He really wanted to make music and the local producers Bunny and Gregory were giving him a chance to record something. They helped her baby's father get his first and only record deal. Maybe her own cousin could do better and go further.

Sydette's lips slowed down, her sucking not as desperate. Yani kept an eye out for Klaue's men in case they were returning. Wednesday was cleaning day for the compound, and the regulars knew to stay busy while she and Leona worked the place. There really wasn't too much to do, in Klaue's place or the first house, but Hunstman and Polk were slobs. She hated touching their sheets or towels because she once found obvious semen stains on them. Nasty.

Yani lifted Sydette up to check her diaper. She smelled okay and was dry, so no need to change her. When her eyes were drooping and her lips fell away from Yani's nipple, she was gently burped. Yani allowed her baby to sleep in her arms for a bit. She was tired herself, still thinking of all the things she had to do. Friday morning and afternoon she was scheduled to work her third job at the Eco Tours company giving kayak tours through the mangroves. Unlike Klaue's compound, she couldn't hold Sydette to her breasts while she paddled through mangroves and oversaw hermit crab races.

Something had to give soon, she was wearing herself out. And that something was Chez. She felt her stomach knot and tension crease her forehead as she thought of Sydette's wayward father. He paid no decent child support, promised to at least help with babysitting (which he never did), promised to seek better work so that she could drop one of her jobs and care for Sydette on her own and not pass her baby girl off to various relatives. It was hard not to hate Chez, especially since he had another baby with another woman only three months after Sydette was born. Worse still, he was living with that baby's mother and paying her rent while Yani had to share a bedroom with Sydette and Twyla.

She knew it was mean, but she was so happy that Sydette looked like her and not like him at all. She would hate to think how she would feel if she had to look down at a child on her tit who had that man's face, no matter how fine he was. And Chez was fine. And selfish. And a bully. And abusive at one time…

Yani shook her head from the thoughts. She needed to get the middle house clean and vacate the premises before Klaue or anyone knew she had a baby around. She had to coat the floor tiles with a protective tile cleaner that prevented sand and grout damage.

Just get through the next two hours.

She wished she could be back out in the warm water floating on her back. Naked. At peace. Alone. Not responsible for anyone or anything.

"Oh, Sydette. I wish I had done better. I wish I had done so much better."

She kissed her daughter's sweat-laden forehead. Standing up she turned on the air conditioning and tried to focus on the task at hand.

Two hours.

###

The middle house smelled clean and was quite cool when he entered it from spending time with Klaue. Erik kicked off his sandals and left them by the front door. The tile looked polished and a less dingy from when he first arrived. He was ready to relax and maybe lounge by the pool.

His mind was still calculating all the things he had spoken to Klaue about in planning their Angola run. The base of operation that they would work from in Angola still needed to be prepped and ready, the warehouse that was to be used to house the new crop of munitions and rocket-propelled grenades had recent fire damage, and when Erik looked at satellite photos of the landing strip where they would import the black market goods, he discovered an uneven and unsafe landing zone. Large potholes and depressions peppered the ground. There was a lot to take care of in a short period of time. A political problem sprang up also because of a new governor in the province who was flexing a bit of muscle to try and intimidate Klaue. This new guy was not playing the game of allowing their crew to circumvent the regulatory and oversight systems they were used to bypassing with monetary incentives to look away like previous government officials had done. Erik already decided if the man became a problem, he would nickel his brain and keep it pushing. Klaue had no problem with that. Erik knew how to dispose of problematic bodies and loose lips. He had the scars to prove it.

Erik turned down the air and went into his room. Taking off his shirt he folded it and placed it on the dresser by the window. He was about to power dive on the bed when he noticed a baby lying on it.

The hell.

The baby, a girl by the looks of the butterfly barrettes pinned to her curls, was sound asleep on her stomach, her backside up in there air a bit as if she woke up suddenly, moved, then fell right back to sleep.

He walked over to the side of the bed staring at her. He could hear someone moving in the kitchen, there was the sound of sink water rinsing down. Leona or Yani perhaps still working.

Erik crawled onto the covers trying not to rock the double bed too much with his big body. He laid back resting his head on a pillow. When he turned to look at the baby again, her eyes were open and she was staring at him. Looking about eight or nine months old, she didn't cry when she saw that a stranger was right next to her. Instead, she gave him the biggest toothless smile, a stream of slobber falling from her mouth onto the blanket, and he saw that she had dimples like him.

"Hey, Lil Mama. What's your name?" he whispered, making his voice as soft as he could. She babbled something and more clear saliva dribbled down her chin. Her chubby arms spread in front of her and she bounced her body and grunted like she needed help.

Erik reached over and picked her up and that startled her and her fat cheeks twisted up and she started crying.

"Aww, why the tears? We was cool just a second ago—"

"Sorry! Sorry!"

Yani swept into the room and scooped the baby out of his arms.

"I didn't think anyone was using this room. It was so clean. I didn't even touch it. Give me a few minutes and I can go through here—"

"Nah. I'm good. I clean my own room. You don't have to do all that for me. I'm self-sufficient."

"I wish the other men were like that."

He watched Yani's lips get tight after she said that.

"Don't tell them I said that."

"I didn't hear a thing. She yours?"

"Yeah."

"What's her name?"

"Sydette."

"She's cute. Looks like you."

"Thanks. We'll get out of your way—"

"You can leave her in here with me if you still need to finish. I think she finds me acceptable. She's not crying anymore."

He reached out and stroked the girl's cheek and Sydette touched his finger, then grabbed it.

"Sydette," Yani said pulling her hand away from Erik's finger.

Erik found himself staring at Yani's face.

"My babysitter fell through, so I had to take her…please don't say anything to the others. I'm not supposed to have her here while I'm working."

"Won't say a word."

"I'm done, so..."

"Will you be working here tonight?"

Why the hell did he ask that?

She had a baby, so obviously she had a man too…

"No. I have another job I do at night, and I need to leave now so I can get ready for that."

"Oh. Okay," he said.

He was still sitting on his bed, and she was holding her baby in front of him. He was feeling hella awkward. Sydette stared at him, and then she smacked her lips and turned back to Yani.

"Oh…Sydette!" Yani squealed when the baby started sucking on her chest, her head moving around searching for a nipple. Erik couldn't help but laugh. Yani lifted up Sydette's chin and the baby began to fret wanting her mother's milk with urgency. Erik stood up and walked into the living room, slipping on his flip flops and heading for the front door.

"I'ma let you handle that and give you some privacy. I'll be by the pool. Before I forget, I'll take the afternoon shift on the beach if you want to keep the mornings."

"Okay," she said.

Her daughter bounced in her arms and Erik could see a mixture of what looked like embarrassment and something else on Yani's face. Weariness.

He didn't see a ring on her finger. She worked two jobs too. She was probably still just a baby herself.

"Sorry about the room," she whispered. Her eyes looked watery like she was about to cry.

"Don't even trip. Sorry for being so neat. I felt like Goldilocks for a minute there."

He tried to lighten the mood for her.

"Goldilocks?" she asked.

"Muh…muh…muh…" Sydette said waving her chunky fingers in her mother's face.

"Someone's been sleeping in my bed because it was just right…the three bears…?" he said.

"Oh!" Yani said. Her face lit up and she smiled, her dark sloe eyes no longer welling with tears.

"Bye, Sydette," Erik cooed out. The baby could only focus on Yani's face, "Bye Yani."

He stepped back out into the sunlight and tried to shake the lingering need to stay in the same room as her. Her baby was so adorable. Sydette's dimples are what sold him. That initial gummy smile. The puffy little curls mashed down on one side of her head. Her little blue t-shirt that couldn't cover her fat little belly all the way. Her little outie belly button.

It was a tough job and he wasn't cut out to do that ever. Take care of a baby? Pfftt. It was probably why his mother only had him. Too much work. And Lil Mama looked like she could be a little pushy the way she was going for Yani's breasts.

Shit.

Erik sat on a lounger by the pool still wearing the trunks he had on that morning with an added t-shirt. He felt a thickening in his trunks, his dick getting a little chubby thinking about Yani's breasts that he saw down in the sea. No wonder they seemed extra ripe. She was full of milk and those big ass dark nipples of hers were making his shit tent in his shorts. Fuck.

Erik reached down and tugged on his bulge, trying to smooth it down from being too obvious. But the minute he touched it, a spark ran down his length, making him rock hard in seconds. No one was around. His eyes scanned the area to be sure and he grabbed the towel hanging behind his head and placed it over his lap. His right hand slipped under the covering. His trunks were loose enough where he could get access to his erection by lifting up a little of the swim trunk material from the bottom.

Damn, his dick was so hard, the thick head firm between his rough fingers. He kept his eyes open and alert for others as he replayed images of Yani in the water.

"That big fat ass…fuck…" he groaned low and into his chest as he plucked at his tip as it pressed against his thigh. The warm ooze of his pre-cum dripped down his leg. He felt his right leg jerk from the sensation. He could see the slight dimpling in her ass cheeks and that layer of fleshy softness around her belly that he loved on women. That space to place his head when he wanted to rest in softness. The faint lines of stretch marks he saw on the sides of her breasts made his mouth chuff, his breath revealing the arousal he got from staring at the beauty of skin breaking to make room for more…more thighs…more ass…more stomach…more big ass titties.

He imagined placing his length in between her breasts and fucking the shit out of her tits, pinching those nipples, making his balls squeeze out a hot thick nut that would drench her neck and chin—

"Oooooh shit!" He gasped as he felt heavy spurts shoot all over his leg and the towel covering him. His eyes rolled back and he was left wondering if that big nut happened because he hadn't had pussy in so long, or if this girl put a spell on his dick. The fuck he look like beating his meat by a pool over some young baby mama he just met? Fuck outta here with all that.

He needed to get out. Go to a bar or club and be around some grown ass child-free bitches. Get his dick wet properly. Chase that nut the right way.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and headed out toward the beach again. Yani was leaving and he could have the cove to himself to rinse the cum smeared all over his leg away. His trunks were soaked with it.

Damn.

From now on he was going to focus on Angola, getting that airstrip ready for Klaue in the next two weeks, and finding a way to get Tahir to St. Thomas.

New rules: Stay the fuck away from Yani.

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3]   [Part 4]  [Part 5]  [Part 6]

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My Top 5 Disneyland Attractions

Disneyland is home to many fun attractions and rides for guests of all walks of life. When you go to Disneyland, one of the hardest decisions to make during your trip is choosing which attractions to visit first and which attractions you’ll have to skip on. So, here are the attractions that I personally deem are the top 5 attractions that every guest should experience at least once during their trip.

5. Mickey and the Magical Map

Image by D23

It’s important to note that though many guests go to Disneyland to enjoy the rides and food, the live shows really should not be skipped out on. Mickey and the Magical Map is a musical live theatre show located at Fantasyland Theatre near the back of Disneyland park. This show features the titular icon of the Walt Disney Company, Mickey Mouse, but also incorporates some of Disney’s most popular characters, including Rapunzel, Mulan, Stitch, and many others. I could go on and on about how much I love this show, but there are a few distinct characteristics that make this one stand out above the rest. The fact that so many of Disney’s most recognized ballads and anthems are performed by live actors and singers really makes you feel like you’re immersed in Disney canon. The dancers have incredibly creative routines and perform them flawlessly. The show uses a visually stunning blend of live characters and set pieces as well as a digital background that’s really able to capture the magic that Walt Disney had originally intended for all guests of his park to experience. This show runs only about 20 minutes long and it’s a great place to just sit down, relax, and keep yourself entertained. Personally, I think this is the best live show at the park, even topping the live Frozen show at the Hyperion Theater in DCA. Mickey and the Magical Map is definitely worth your short amount of time to go visit and watch and it will really help round out your whole Disney experience.

4. Storybook Land Canal Boats

Image by Disney

The next attraction on this list is one of the original 13 attractions that debuted on July 17, 1955 when Walt Disney first opened the gates to Disneyland park. The Storybook Land Canal Boats take the guests through a calm, narrated boat ride on a river that winds through various detailed dioramas of iconic buildings, scenes, and sets from Disney films. Some of my personal favorites are Pinnochio’s village, the sultan’s palace from Aladdin, and a London-set park from Peter Pan. Though the ride starts with the boats entering Monstro the whale’s mouth, it’s all smooth sailing from then on. It’s sad to see that many of the original 13 rides that Walt himself had a hand in creating- including these canal boats- have lost their popularity to the newer, flashier rides at the park. However, this is a ride that guests shouldn’t sweep under the rug just because it isn’t thrilling; the lines are usually short and move fast and the ride itself is a substantial length, so there’s no worries about you or your children getting antsy waiting in line. This attraction is especially a must-ride for couples- there is a beautiful fairy-light adorned overhang that the boats pass through that is notably stunning when it gets darker outside, and the overall ambiance of the ride itself is very romantic. The Storybook Land Canal Boats is honestly my favorite ride when I just want to sit, rest my feet, and enjoy that nostalgic old-timey Disney feeling you get when you ride classics like these.

3. The Haunted Mansion

Image by Disney

Now we’re finally getting to the E-Ticket attractions. The Haunted Mansion is a celebrated fan favorite attraction at Disneyland, and this is reflected by its often extensive wait times. The thing that makes this attraction- and the next 2 picks- so fun to ride is the level of in-depth immersiveness that the theming of the ride gives to the guests. The exterior facade of this ride is quite possibly the best themed facade in the entire park. It just fits perfectly in the land that it’s in (New Orleans Square) and the antebellum-style of the mansion accurately emulates the large manors of the old South. When guests are taken in, they are immediately thrown into the story of the Mansion before the ride even begins. The guests are placed into what is known as the “stretch room,” where the walls of the room, by an optical illusion (I’ll talk about this in a future post), look to stretch up vertically to show the morbid demises of the portraits hung up on the walls. While this is happening, the prologue of the story is presented by the Ghost Host, who reveals that he himself is the spirit of a corpse that is hanging from the ceiling of the room. It should be noted that the Ghost Host’s voice is done by Paul Frees, a voice actor that is legendary for lending his voice to other Disney attractions like Pirates of the Caribbean, and Adventure Thru Inner Space. After the stretch room, guests are ushered down the hallway that has portraits hung up on the walls that look to be changing or following them. The ride itself includes some of the best of Disney Imagineering, and each scene makes great use of Disney’s animatronics system as well as hybrid-projections. One of the most famous Disneyland characters, the Hat Box Ghost, is from this ride. The Haunted Mansion is a prime example of how perfect theming, memorable characters, and an invigorating story can truly immerse the guests in the fantasy world that it has created. This attraction would be higher up on this list if not for the fact the next two rides are not just my favorite attractions at Disneyland, but are likely my two favorite rides ever.

2. Splash Mountain

Image by Disney

Ever since it debuted in 1989, Splash Mountain has been one of the most popular E-Ticket attractions at the park. Splash Mountain takes the guests on a log-flume ride through “The Laughing Place” and the woods where the Br‘er animals live. The story is based off of the controversial live action Disney film Song of the South (again, I’ll go over the controversy in a future article), and the charming woodland creatures are some of the most entertaining animatronics at the park. The joke, they dance, they sing, and the light-hearted tone of the characters really balances with the scarier, darker part of the ride (The Laughing Place), as well as the large drop down the waterfall. Speaking of the drop, I believe this drop is the biggest drop at Disneyland (not counting DCA) at a height of 52.5 feet, a 45-47 degree angle, and up to 40 miles per hour. Personally, Splash Mountain is far and away my favorite “mountain” at the park, beating out Space Mountain, Big Thunder Mountain, and the Matterhorn. This is objectively the most physically thrilling attraction at Disneyland. Funny personal story about the Splash Mountain ride- I hadn’t ridden this attraction until about a year or two ago since, before that, I was too young/scared to get in line. However, I unknowingly already cherished a part of the ride from a young age- the “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” scene during the Disneyland Railroad was my favorite scene during the train ride and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it was actually a scene from Splash Mountain. Disclaimer- this ride will get you wet. I tend to enjoy this attraction the most in the middle of a particularly hot day, and I try to avoid it at night or on colder mornings.

1. Pirates of the Caribbean

Image by Disney

For my number one, absolute top favorite pick of the attractions at Disneyland, the Pirates of the Caribbean ride was a no-brainer for me. Pirates of the Caribbean is often the first ride I’ll run to as soon as I enter the park, and the last one I’ll visit before I leave. There are not enough words to say all the good things that I want to say about this attraction. Aside from being an iconic, classic attraction at Disneyland, PotC features some of the most impressive and quality animatronics to ever come out of Disney Imagineers. It has one of the largest collections of advanced animatronics at any given theme park and has beautifully designed set pieces. The guests are taken on a boat ride through a Louisiana bayou, passing by an old man on his banjo, before being dropped down a waterfall and transported back in time to an era where pirates openly ruled the high seas. The attention to detail in every single scene of this attraction is what truly makes it, in my opinion, the most immersive ride at Disneyland. The guest is truly made to feel as if they are experiencing the battles of the pirates on Isla Tesoro. From the moment you step foot onto the cobblestone pathways of the queue, you instantly feel the connection to the adventure that you’re about to embark on with the characters. The song “Yo Ho (A Pirate’s Life for Me)” plays every now and then during the attraction and, like “It’s a Small World,” it’s a catchy tune that guests will find themselves whistling as they spend the rest of their day at the park. Another thing to note about this attraction is the immediate wave of smell the guests notice when they walk into the building. The famously dubbed “pirate water” scent is one that was so popular that it is one of the things that guests remember about the ride, if nothing else. It truly makes the guest feel as if they are sailing the seas with the crew (although technically, the smell of the pirate water is actually the cleansing chemical Disney puts in their water attractions called bromine). A great thing about the PotC ride is that the ride vehicles are constantly moving and seat approximately 20 guests (5 rows of 4) and sends through about 3,400 guests per hour. This means that the line is consistently moving so you and your young ones will never get too antsy. Though it seems as if I’ve exhausted this attraction of all it could offer, there’s actually one more notable feature about this attraction that makes it stand out from the rest- built right into the attraction is the Blue Bayou restaurant, which is one of the best dining options at the park (and very expensive at that). Though this isn’t a necessity by any means, it is just another unique characteristic of this attraction that makes me love it so much. Though I’m always sad when my day ends at the park, I’m comforted by the fact that I can end the day right by riding Pirates one more time and then, if it’s early enough, grab a snack from the Mint Julep Bar right beside it.

So there you go guys, my top 5 Disneyland attractions of all time. Let me know if you agree, disagree, or if you just want to talk about anything Disney parks related with me!

*Revised 2 Oct 2019

[seromreven]

I’d love an early 66 John x F!reader. He’s feeling bad about his body and the reader does some body worshipping and rides him. If you’re up to it, of course!

ngl, when i read ‘and rides him’ i understood it as when kids play horse with a parent and rides them on their back and i was trying Really Hard to connect it with the body worshipping. eh, i’m a big old dum-dum nothing new in that

anyway! here ya go, love ♡

You were in the kitchen making yourself a nice, simple, cup of tea when suddenly a loud barrage of cursing erupted from the living room, almost causing you to drop your yet empty mug.

You recognized the yelling voice as John’s, your boyfriend, and hurried into the living room; beyond worried that something had happened.

But all seemed fine as you stepped into the cosy room. All except for John. He was alone. Nothing was broken. No-one had broken in. No crazy fans. No fire or anything like it. But he looked visibly stressed out over something and your heart sank at the sight.

You stepped over to the couch and gently sat down next to him. You placed your soft hand on his but it was immediately pulled away.

“…John?” You whispered, hurt at his rejection. Something was definitely wrong, you thought. He typically was always more than happy for any physical contact from you.

“Leave me alone,” he muttered at a volume you almost didn’t hear. You shook your head, even though he were looking down at his folded hands in his lap and not at you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you resigned to gently place your hand on his shoulder, “please… tell me what’s wrong.

He muttered something. Something you didn’t hear this time.

You leaned closer to him, “I’m sorry, what?”

“I said I’m fat!” He sneered at you. Finally looking at you, you could see the tears he was fighting hard to keep back. He had never been one for open vulnerability or crying. Especially around you. Even after the many times you reassured him and told him it was natural and healthy and alright; he still fought hard to maintain a tough exterior.

“I’m… ugly,” he said, this time quieter.

You frowned, “whatever gave you that idea?”

His eyes landed a crumpled up newspaper on the coffee tabled. Concerned, you leaned forward to grab it and once it was in your hands; you slowly unfolded it.

You were confused at first. The front page was about some royal wedding in Europe so you flipped through it and it was when you reached one of the last pages that you stilled and slowly started to feel the overwhelming sensation of disgust and anger.

It was a large enhanced picture of the two you on long-awaited your vacation to the Caribbean only a few days prior. He was in his swim trunks, you in a suit. The captured moment was of the two of you goofing around and running into the sea while laughing incredibly.

It was a good memory and one you would’ve smiled at if it hadn’t been for your incredible worry. A sweet picture through your eyes, though you could see why John might have found it unflattering. Still confused you looked on and finally got to something that really got your blood boiling.

In a bold font underneath the picture it said; THE SMART ONE? BEATLE LOOKING PORTLY DURING BEACH TRIP WITH GIRLFRIEND.

Shit.

The text went on to describe your vacation but with large overtones of what felt like patronising and dismissive comments of your relationship. Of his weight and appearance.

The gall of these so-called ‘journalists’. How dare they?  Who the hell did they think they were? Joking about how you’re with him for the money and fame and that it couldn’t possibly be due to his look. That the size of his thighs, belly or even his goddamn jaw was something undesirable!

And to indicate the change of nickname due to it too? Unbelievable!

You shot up from your seat on the couch and with staunch steps went and threw the now crumpled newspaper into the lit fireplace; it was accepted with a roaring blaze.

You took deep breaths as you stared into the fire. You willed yourself to stop shaking. For your blood to stop pumping so furiously in your veins. Because, for John to calm down, for John to relax and know that nothing was wrong; that it was all bullshit. You first calm down yourself, and breathe fucking evenly.

You closed your eyes and sighed deeply before turning back around to face John.

He was staring at you. His face unreadable, except for the clear pain of the moment. His hands were still in his lap, trembling. His comprehension of his own appearance and self-worth had always been shite. Sure, he often joked about his desirability and luck with the ladies (and sometimes men) but it was never anything but a facade.

You knew better than that. It was just about how to show him. Of how you felt and thought about him. About how handsome he was. How sexy. How cute. He rarely took your words for it. Always deflecting the compliments with jokes or sarcasm.

But not this time. This time you would really show him how you felt.

You slowly made your way towards him, keeping constant eye contact, and only stopped when you stood in front of him. Towering over his crumpled posture as he sat on the couch, crippled with self-loathing.

You went to your knees and captured him in a warm embrace. The hug was awkward at first; his hands pressing into your stomach as he hadn’t managed to get them away in time. But soon they were gone and you immediately hugged him closer as his arms slowly made their way around your waist.

“It’s garbage. All of what they wrote. Pure unadulterated shite,” you leaned away from the hug and captured his cheeks in your hands. “You are the most gorgeous man I know. You’re talented, funny, and incredibly attractive. And if I have to devote my whole life on making you realise how handsome you are then so be it.”

His eyes darted around your face in a loss for words as tears slowly formed under his eyes yet again. “It’s okay,” you whispered and repeated it as you kissed him lightly on his mouth.

“John, please, let me show you how much I mean my words. And how much you mean to me. You don’t need to say anything. Just… please, let me,” you fought back a sob.

He nodded and you met again for a slow kiss. A kiss that slowly evolved into something more heated. Quicker. And wet. Tongues met and your hands started to roam on his chest, seeking something to hold and to tear open.

His shirt was soon torn open and discarded. You parted and your quickening breathing stilled as you looked upon his bare chest. And as you softly placed your hand over his heart, feeling the beating of it and of the small hairs on the warming skin; you breathed out a “gorgeous”, before your hand started to slowly travel further down as your mouth was recaptured.

You moved to place kisses on his chest and stomach as you slowly made rid of his jeans.

And once it was gone, you stilled whatever actions you had done previously and looked up to John. Silently he had begun to cry and slowly crawled unto his lap and wiped the tears away. Caressing his cheek you asked him, “do you want to do this?” You wanted- needed to know for sure. That something hadn’t got lost in translation.

“Yes,” accommodated with a meek nod before he gently pushed you closer to him and meet you with a kiss. And as you moved around on his lap to better position yourself; you felt his growing erection and smiled.

Your hands moved down his arms, feeling up the soft warm flesh, as you kissed and soon settled on his hips and over the white briefs he wore. You moved circles on the tender skin and he sighed into your mouths as tongue met tongue.

“My beautiful boy,” you whispered, “lie down for me, please.”

And you stopped off of him, he whined at the leaving touches, but soon did as you said and laid down unto his back on the soft couch. You looked him over; over his half-naked body, the only thing that was covered was what you were most excited for.

You started from the bottom; tickling his feet, causing a snort, and slowly caressed his legs and thighs as you reached closer and closer to the prize. You knew if you took it too slow he would get impatient but there was so much you wanted to do. To take time with. You slowed down and felt the soft flesh on his inner thighs. And realised; it might possibly be the physical part of him you loved the most. The stark pale flesh. Soft and warm to the touch. And thick. You kissed the thigh, so near the ultimate goal and yet so far.

It earned you a shiver and an almost inaudible whine of ‘please’. For which you smirked and gave small nibbles to the skin as you moved up. “Patience, love,” you whispered into the skin accompanied by small kisses.

You hooked your fingers unto the edges of his briefs and slowly, but surely, pulled them down and off his legs. His erect penis sprang unto his stomach. You rid yourself of your skirt and panties as you crawled further up and positioned yourself over his hips and gently felt his cock with light touches.

“Gorgeous,” you muttered and bent down to kiss him on the jaw.

You ground your growing wetness on his dick and felt it as it twitched. It wasn’t the most comfortable position, with you leaned over to kiss him, but it was also only short term as you soon got back to a straightened posture. You quickly got rid of your shirt and threw it carelessly over your shoulder.

You closed your eyes as you cupped your breasts, giving them a squeeze, and moved down at a relaxed pace until you reached your vulva. You rubbed and gently massaged it; to make sure it was ready to take in the length that was John. You heard him groan as you took a hold of his cock and positioned over it and started to press down unto it. You joined him in groans of your own as you felt its heat enter you.

And so you started to slowly ride him. You went up and down as his hands firmly took a hold of your hips, helping you in guiding you at a comfortable pace. It was slow and just want you wanted. And as you looked down at him; you were sure it was just exactly what he needed too. Moaning loudly, wantonly as your bodies met.

You leaned forward with stifled moaning to meet him in a heated kiss. Your forearms rested on each side of his shoulders on the soft couch to keep yourself up as you deepened the kiss.

A hand of his had moved to cup one of your asscheeks, squeezing as you both continued to move in a shared rhythm. Something was hit deep in your core and you moaned loudly as an incoming orgasm hit you hard. Your body shook and quivered. And you moved your mouth away from his and softly bit into the skin of his shoulder as you gave in to the overwhelming sensation that overtook your body. The bit something he liked you to do and this one was definitely hard enough to leave a mark.

Soon he joined you in a chorus moaning as his cock twitched and filled you up as you had foregone the use of a condom. He continued moving you at the same pace as previously as he pumped into you. Finished with a sigh; the hand that had been on your hip let go and left a warm feeling in its place. The hand came instead to your cheek and moved you up to look at him.

He had tears in his eyes as he moved you down to tenderly kiss you. It was filled with love and gratitude and nothing else was said as you felt it conveyed exactly what you both felt.  He gently helped you lift up and over his hips to lie down beside him on the narrow couch. Ignoring the mess; you looked up to him in your mutual embrace with a loving look and smile as he did the same.

It was getting dark but neither on you moved from the warm spot on the couch. “I love you,” you whispered as you drew circles on his chest. “And I you,” he whispered back.

[mooneyedandglowing]

The Comedian as the Letter C

BY WALLACE STEVENS                                                                 i         The World without Imagination Nota: man is the intelligence of his soil, The sovereign ghost. As such, the Socrates Of snails, musician of pears, principium And lex. Sed quaeritur: is this same wig Of things, this nincompated pedagogue, Preceptor to the sea? Crispin at sea Created, in his day, a touch of doubt. An eye most apt in gelatines and jupes, Berries of villages, a barber's eye, An eye of land, of simple salad-beds, Of honest quilts, the eye of Crispin, hung On porpoises, instead of apricots, And on silentious porpoises, whose snouts Dibbled in waves that were mustachios, Inscrutable hair in an inscrutable world. One eats one paté, even of salt, quotha. It was not so much the lost terrestrial, The snug hibernal from that sea and salt, That century of wind in a single puff. What counted was mythology of self, Blotched out beyond unblotching. Crispin, The lutanist of fleas, the knave, the thane, The ribboned stick, the bellowing breeches, cloak Of China, cap of Spain, imperative haw Of hum, inquisitorial botanist, And general lexicographer of mute And maidenly greenhorns, now beheld himself, A skinny sailor peering in the sea-glass. What word split up in clickering syllables And storming under multitudinous tones Was name for this short-shanks in all that brunt? Crispin was washed away by magnitude. The whole of life that still remained in him Dwindled to one sound strumming in his ear, Ubiquitous concussion, slap and sigh, Polyphony beyond his baton's thrust. Could Crispin stem verboseness in the sea, The old age of a watery realist, Triton, dissolved in shifting diaphanes Of blue and green? A wordy, watery age That whispered to the sun's compassion, made A convocation, nightly, of the sea-stars, And on the cropping foot-ways of the moon Lay grovelling. Triton incomplicate with that Which made him Triton, nothing left of him, Except in faint, memorial gesturings, That were like arms and shoulders in the waves, Here, something in the rise and fall of wind That seemed hallucinating horn, and here, A sunken voice, both of remembering And of forgetfulness, in alternate strain. Just so an ancient Crispin was dissolved. The valet in the tempest was annulled. Bordeaux to Yucatan, Havana next, And then to Carolina. Simple jaunt. Crispin, merest minuscule in the gates, Dejected his manner to the turbulence. The salt hung on his spirit like a frost, The dead brine melted in him like a dew Of winter, until nothing of himself Remained, except some starker, barer self In a starker, barer world, in which the sun Was not the sun because it never shone With bland complaisance on pale parasols, Beetled, in chapels, on the chaste bouquets. Against his pipping sounds a trumpet cried Celestial sneering boisterously. Crispin Became an introspective voyager. Here was the veritable ding an sich, at last, Crispin confronting it, a vocable thing, But with a speech belched out of hoary darks Noway resembling his, a visible thing, And excepting negligible Triton, free From the unavoidable shadow of himself That lay elsewhere around him. Severance Was clear. The last distortion of romance Forsook the insatiable egotist. The sea Severs not only lands but also selves. Here was no help before reality. Crispin beheld and Crispin was made new. The imagination, here, could not evade, In poems of plums, the strict austerity Of one vast, subjugating, final tone. The drenching of stale lives no more fell down. What was this gaudy, gusty panoply? Out of what swift destruction did it spring? It was caparison of mind and cloud And something given to make whole among The ruses that were shattered by the large.                                 ii Concerning the Thunderstorms of Yucatan In Yucatan, the Maya sonneteers Of the Caribbean amphitheatre, In spite of hawk and falcon, green toucan And jay, still to the night-bird made their plea, As if raspberry tanagers in palms, High up in orange air, were barbarous. But Crispin was too destitute to find In any commonplace the sought-for aid. He was a man made vivid by the sea, A man come out of luminous traversing, Much trumpeted, made desperately clear, Fresh from discoveries of tidal skies, To whom oracular rockings gave no rest. Into a savage color he went on. How greatly had he grown in his demesne, This auditor of insects! He that saw The stride of vanishing autumn in a park By way of decorous melancholy; he That wrote his couplet yearly to the spring, As dissertation of profound delight, Stopping, on voyage, in a land of snakes, Found his vicissitudes had much enlarged His apprehension, made him intricate In moody rucks, and difficult and strange In all desires, his destitution's mark. He was in this as other freemen are, Sonorous nutshells rattling inwardly. His violence was for aggrandizement And not for stupor, such as music makes For sleepers halfway waking. He perceived That coolness for his heat came suddenly, And only, in the fables that he scrawled With his own quill, in its indigenous dew, Of an aesthetic tough, diverse, untamed, Incredible to prudes, the mint of dirt, Green barbarism turning paradigm. Crispin foresaw a curious promenade Or, nobler, sensed an elemental fate, And elemental potencies and pangs, And beautiful barenesses as yet unseen, Making the most of savagery of palms, Of moonlight on the thick, cadaverous bloom That yuccas breed, and of the panther's tread. The fabulous and its intrinsic verse Came like two spirits parlaying, adorned In radiance from the Atlantic coign, For Crispin and his quill to catechize. But they came parlaying of such an earth, So thick with sides and jagged lops of green, So intertwined with serpent-kin encoiled Among the purple tufts, the scarlet crowns, Scenting the jungle in their refuges, So streaked with yellow, blue and green and red In beak and bud and fruity gobbet-skins, That earth was like a jostling festival Of seeds grown fat, too juicily opulent, Expanding in the gold's maternal warmth. So much for that. The affectionate emigrant found A new reality in parrot-squawks. Yet let that trifle pass. Now, as this odd Discoverer walked through the harbor streets Inspecting the cabildo, the façade Of the cathedral, making notes, he heard A rumbling, west of Mexico, it seemed, Approaching like a gasconade of drums. The white cabildo darkened, the façade, As sullen as the sky, was swallowed up In swift, successive shadows, dolefully. The rumbling broadened as it fell. The wind, Tempestuous clarion, with heavy cry, Came bluntly thundering, more terrible Than the revenge of music on bassoons. Gesticulating lightning, mystical, Made pallid flitter. Crispin, here, took flight. An annotator has his scruples, too. He knelt in the cathedral with the rest, This connoisseur of elemental fate, Aware of exquisite thought. The storm was one Of many proclamations of the kind, Proclaiming something harsher than he learned From hearing signboards whimper in cold nights Or seeing the midsummer artifice Of heat upon his pane. This was the span Of force, the quintessential fact, the note Of Vulcan, that a valet seeks to own, The thing that makes him envious in phrase. And while the torrent on the roof still droned He felt the Andean breath. His mind was free And more than free, elate, intent, profound And studious of a self possessing him, That was not in him in the crusty town From which he sailed. Beyond him, westward, lay The mountainous ridges, purple balustrades, In which the thunder, lapsing in its clap, Let down gigantic quavers of its voice, For Crispin to vociferate again.                                iii                 Approaching Carolina The book of moonlight is not written yet Nor half begun, but, when it is, leave room For Crispin, fagot in the lunar fire, Who, in the hubbub of his pilgrimage Through sweating changes, never could forget That wakefulness or meditating sleep, In which the sulky strophes willingly Bore up, in time, the somnolent, deep songs. Leave room, therefore, in that unwritten book For the legendary moonlight that once burned In Crispin's mind above a continent. America was always north to him, A northern west or western north, but north, And thereby polar, polar-purple, chilled And lank, rising and slumping from a sea Of hardy foam, receding flatly, spread In endless ledges, glittering, submerged And cold in a boreal mistiness of the moon. The spring came there in clinking pannicles Of half-dissolving frost, the summer came, If ever, whisked and wet, not ripening, Before the winter's vacancy returned. The myrtle, if the myrtle ever bloomed, Was like a glacial pink upon the air. The green palmettoes in crepuscular ice Clipped frigidly blue-black meridians, Morose chiaroscuro, gauntly drawn. How many poems he denied himself In his observant progress, lesser things Than the relentless contact he desired; How many sea-masks he ignored; what sounds He shut out from his tempering ear; what thoughts, Like jades affecting the sequestered bride; And what descants, he sent to banishment! Perhaps the Arctic moonlight really gave The liaison, the blissful liaison, Between himself and his environment, Which was, and is, chief motive, first delight, For him, and not for him alone. It seemed Elusive, faint, more mist than moon, perverse, Wrong as a divagation to Peking, To him that postulated as his theme The vulgar, as his theme and hymn and flight, A passionately niggling nightingale. Moonlight was an evasion, or, if not, A minor meeting, facile, delicate. Thus he conceived his voyaging to be An up and down between two elements, A fluctuating between sun and moon, A sally into gold and crimson forms, As on this voyage, out of goblinry, And then retirement like a turning back And sinking down to the indulgences That in the moonlight have their habitude. But let these backward lapses, if they would, Grind their seductions on him, Crispin knew It was a flourishing tropic he required For his refreshment, an abundant zone, Prickly and obdurate, dense, harmonious Yet with a harmony not rarefied Nor fined for the inhibited instruments Of over-civil stops. And thus he tossed Between a Carolina of old time, A little juvenile, an ancient whim, And the visible, circumspect presentment drawn From what he saw across his vessel's prow. He came. The poetic hero without palms Or jugglery, without regalia. And as he came he saw that it was spring, A time abhorrent to the nihilist Or searcher for the fecund minimum. The moonlight fiction disappeared. The spring, Although contending featly in its veils, Irised in dew and early fragrancies, Was gemmy marionette to him that sought A sinewy nakedness. A river bore The vessel inward. Tilting up his nose, He inhaled the rancid rosin, burly smells Of dampened lumber, emanations blown From warehouse doors, the gustiness of ropes, Decays of sacks, and all the arrant stinks That helped him round his rude aesthetic out. He savored rankness like a sensualist. He marked the marshy ground around the dock, The crawling railroad spur, the rotten fence, Curriculum for the marvellous sophomore. It purified. It made him see how much Of what he saw he never saw at all. He gripped more closely the essential prose As being, in a world so falsified, The one integrity for him, the one Discovery still possible to make, To which all poems were incident, unless That prose should wear a poem's guise at last.                             iv               The Idea of a Colony Nota: his soil is man's intelligence. That's better. That's worth crossing seas to find. Crispin in one laconic phrase laid bare His cloudy drift and planned a colony. Exit the mental moonlight, exit lex, Rex and principium, exit the whole Shebang. Exeunt omnes. Here was prose More exquisite than any tumbling verse: A still new continent in which to dwell. What was the purpose of his pilgrimage, Whatever shape it took in Crispin's mind, If not, when all is said, to drive away The shadow of his fellows from the skies, And, from their stale intelligence released, To make a new intelligence prevail? Hence the reverberations in the words Of his first central hymns, the celebrants Of rankest trivia, tests of the strength Of his aesthetic, his philosophy, The more invidious, the more desired. The florist asking aid from cabbages, The rich man going bare, the paladin Afraid, the blind man as astronomer, The appointed power unwielded from disdain. His western voyage ended and began. The torment of fastidious thought grew slack, Another, still more bellicose, came on. He, therefore, wrote his prolegomena, And, being full of the caprice, inscribed Commingled souvenirs and prophecies. He made a singular collation. Thus: The natives of the rain are rainy men. Although they paint effulgent, azure lakes, And April hillsides wooded white and pink, Their azure has a cloudy edge, their white And pink, the water bright that dogwood bears. And in their music showering sounds intone. On what strange froth does the gross Indian dote, What Eden sapling gum, what honeyed gore, What pulpy dram distilled of innocence, That streaking gold should speak in him Or bask within his images and words? If these rude instances impeach themselves By force of rudeness, let the principle Be plain. For application Crispin strove, Abhorring Turk as Esquimau, the lute As the marimba, the magnolia as rose. Upon these premises propounding, he Projected a colony that should extend To the dusk of a whistling south below the south. A comprehensive island hemisphere. The man in Georgia waking among pines Should be pine-spokesman. The responsive man, Planting his pristine cores in Florida, Should prick thereof, not on the psaltery, But on the banjo's categorical gut, Tuck tuck, while the flamingos flapped his bays. Sepulchral señors, bibbing pale mescal, Oblivious to the Aztec almanacs, Should make the intricate Sierra scan. And dark Brazilians in their cafés, Musing immaculate, pampean dits, Should scrawl a vigilant anthology, To be their latest, lucent paramour. These are the broadest instances. Crispin, Progenitor of such extensive scope, Was not indifferent to smart detail. The melon should have apposite ritual, Performed in verd apparel, and the peach, When its black branches came to bud, belle day, Should have an incantation. And again, When piled on salvers its aroma steeped The summer, it should have a sacrament And celebration. Shrewd novitiates Should be the clerks of our experience. These bland excursions into time to come, Related in romance to backward flights, However prodigal, however proud, Contained in their afflatus the reproach That first drove Crispin to his wandering. He could not be content with counterfeit, With masquerade of thought, with hapless words That must belie the racking masquerade, With fictive flourishes that preordained His passion's permit, hang of coat, degree Of buttons, measure of his salt. Such trash Might help the blind, not him, serenely sly. It irked beyond his patience. Hence it was, Preferring text to gloss, he humbly served Grotesque apprenticeship to chance event, A clown, perhaps, but an aspiring clown. There is a monotonous babbling in our dreams That makes them our dependent heirs, the heirs Of dreamers buried in our sleep, and not The oncoming fantasies of better birth. The apprentice knew these dreamers. If he dreamed Their dreams, he did it in a gingerly way. All dreams are vexing. Let them be expunged. But let the rabbit run, the cock declaim. Trinket pasticcio, flaunting skyey sheets, With Crispin as the tiptoe cozener? No, no: veracious page on page, exact.                                v                 A Nice Shady Home Crispin as hermit, pure and capable, Dwelt in the land. Perhaps if discontent Had kept him still the pricking realist, Choosing his element from droll confect Of was and is and shall or ought to be, Beyond Bordeaux, beyond Havana, far Beyond carked Yucatan, he might have come To colonize his polar planterdom And jig his chits upon a cloudy knee. But his emprize to that idea soon sped. Crispin dwelt in the land and dwelling there Slid from his continent by slow recess To things within his actual eye, alert To the difficulty of rebellious thought When the sky is blue. The blue infected will. It may be that the yarrow in his fields Sealed pensive purple under its concern. But day by day, now this thing and now that Confined him, while it cosseted, condoned, Little by little, as if the suzerain soil Abashed him by carouse to humble yet Attach. It seemed haphazard denouement. He first, as realist, admitted that Whoever hunts a matinal continent May, after all, stop short before a plum And be content and still be realist. The words of things entangle and confuse. The plum survives its poems. It may hang In the sunshine placidly, colored by ground Obliquities of those who pass beneath, Harlequined and mazily dewed and mauved In bloom. Yet it survives in its own form, Beyond these changes, good, fat, guzzly fruit. So Crispin hasped on the surviving form, For him, of shall or ought to be in is. Was he to bray this in profoundest brass Arointing his dreams with fugal requiems? Was he to company vastest things defunct With a blubber of tom-toms harrowing the sky? Scrawl a tragedian's testament? Prolong His active force in an inactive dirge, Which, let the tall musicians call and call, Should merely call him dead? Pronounce amen Through choirs infolded to the outmost clouds? Because he built a cabin who once planned Loquacious columns by the ructive sea? Because he turned to salad-beds again? Jovial Crispin, in calamitous crape? Should he lay by the personal and make Of his own fate an instance of all fate? What is one man among so many men? What are so many men in such a world? Can one man think one thing and think it long? Can one man be one thing and be it long? The very man despising honest quilts Lies quilted to his poll in his despite. For realists, what is is what should be. And so it came, his cabin shuffled up, His trees were planted, his duenna brought Her prismy blonde and clapped her in his hands, The curtains flittered and the door was closed. Crispin, magister of a single room, Latched up the night. So deep a sound fell down It was as if the solitude concealed And covered him and his congenial sleep. So deep a sound fell down it grew to be A long soothsaying silence down and down. The crickets beat their tambours in the wind, Marching a motionless march, custodians. In the presto of the morning, Crispin trod, Each day, still curious, but in a round Less prickly and much more condign than that He once thought necessary. Like Candide, Yeoman and grub, but with a fig in sight, And cream for the fig and silver for the cream, A blonde to tip the silver and to taste The rapey gouts. Good star, how that to be Annealed them in their cabin ribaldries! Yet the quotidian saps philosophers And men like Crispin like them in intent, If not in will, to track the knaves of thought. But the quotidian composed as his, Of breakfast ribands, fruits laid in their leaves, The tomtit and the cassia and the rose, Although the rose was not the noble thorn Of crinoline spread, but of a pining sweet, Composed of evenings like cracked shutters flung Upon the rumpling bottomness, and nights In which those frail custodians watched, Indifferent to the tepid summer cold, While he poured out upon the lips of her That lay beside him, the quotidian Like this, saps like the sun, true fortuner. For all it takes it gives a humped return Exchequering from piebald fiscs unkeyed.                               vi           And Daughters with Curls Portentous enunciation, syllable To blessed syllable affined, and sound Bubbling felicity in cantilene, Prolific and tormenting tenderness Of music, as it comes to unison, Forgather and bell boldly Crispin's last Deduction. Thrum, with a proud douceur His grand pronunciamento and devise. The chits came for his jigging, bluet-eyed, Hands without touch yet touching poignantly, Leaving no room upon his cloudy knee, Prophetic joint, for its diviner young. The return to social nature, once begun, Anabasis or slump, ascent or chute, Involved him in midwifery so dense His cabin counted as phylactery, Then place of vexing palankeens, then haunt Of children nibbling at the sugared void, Infants yet eminently old, then dome And halidom for the unbraided femes, Green crammers of the green fruits of the world, Bidders and biders for its ecstasies, True daughters both of Crispin and his clay. All this with many mulctings of the man, Effective colonizer sharply stopped In the door-yard by his own capacious bloom. But that this bloom grown riper, showing nibs Of its eventual roundness, puerile tints Of spiced and weathery rouges, should complex The stopper to indulgent fatalist Was unforeseen. First Crispin smiled upon His goldenest demoiselle, inhabitant, She seemed, of a country of the capuchins, So delicately blushed, so humbly eyed, Attentive to a coronal of things Secret and singular. Second, upon A second similar counterpart, a maid Most sisterly to the first, not yet awake Excepting to the motherly footstep, but Marvelling sometimes at the shaken sleep. Then third, a thing still flaxen in the light, A creeper under jaunty leaves. And fourth, Mere blusteriness that gewgaws jollified, All din and gobble, blasphemously pink. A few years more and the vermeil capuchin Gave to the cabin, lordlier than it was, The dulcet omen fit for such a house. The second sister dallying was shy To fetch the one full-pinioned one himself Out of her botches, hot embosomer. The third one gaping at the orioles Lettered herself demurely as became A pearly poetess, peaked for rhapsody. The fourth, pent now, a digit curious. Four daughters in a world too intricate In the beginning, four blithe instruments Of differing struts, four voices several In couch, four more personæ, intimate As buffo, yet divers, four mirrors blue That should be silver, four accustomed seeds Hinting incredible hues, four self-same lights That spread chromatics in hilarious dark, Four questioners and four sure answerers. Crispin concocted doctrine from the rout. The world, a turnip once so readily plucked, Sacked up and carried overseas, daubed out Of its ancient purple, pruned to the fertile main, And sown again by the stiffest realist, Came reproduced in purple, family font, The same insoluble lump. The fatalist Stepped in and dropped the chuckling down his craw, Without grace or grumble. Score this anecdote Invented for its pith, not doctrinal In form though in design, as Crispin willed, Disguised pronunciamento, summary, Autumn's compendium, strident in itself But muted, mused, and perfectly revolved In those portentous accents, syllables, And sounds of music coming to accord Upon his law, like their inherent sphere, Seraphic proclamations of the pure Delivered with a deluging onwardness. Or if the music sticks, if the anecdote Is false, if Crispin is a profitless Philosopher, beginning with green brag, Concluding fadedly, if as a man Prone to distemper he abates in taste, Fickle and fumbling, variable, obscure, Glozing his life with after-shining flicks, Illuminating, from a fancy gorged By apparition, plain and common things, Sequestering the fluster from the year, Making gulped potions from obstreperous drops, And so distorting, proving what he proves Is nothing, what can all this matter since The relation comes, benignly, to its end? So may the relation of each man be clipped.

[voidfishersong]

Pirates of Tellius AU

I'm back at it again with another niche Tellius AU no one but me will ever read!

this is some sort of weird IkeSoren/IkeRanulf hybrid but like. better keep it open ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

basically it’s ‘what if I stuck Tellius characters in the Pirates of the Caribbean universe, smashed both the plots together, and made it slightly gayer (but only slightly because tellius is pretty gay)?

It starts out more following the plot of PotC but I assure you that is only superficial and also gets drowned pretty quickly

also you can see where this post started as brainstorming and eventually became actual fic so. please read it

Ike is obviously Will Turner - I mean, this is textbook, right down to his dad having Secrets™️. sword boi runs into trouble.

Soren is Elizabeth - but raised by Almedha (hence a background in dangerous things when he was young, but now very sheltered by his parent).

and Ranulf is the suave but kind-of-stupid pirate because I have no self control and JUST IMAGINE RANULF IN THE HAT. THE HAT, GUYS.

it gets gayer I swear I’m pushing a Soren/Ike/Ranulf agenda y’all

Ike and Soren, childhood friends, Almedha doesn't like Ike coming over, Soren’s got some sort of arranged marriage Ike has many swords but dreams of greater things than the smithy. the rest of the Greil Mercenaries are the people from Ike's area of town - Titania's the only one I struggle to think of a job for, but she lives next to the smithy and Mist has a bedroom at Titania's as well as above the forge (Ike has a bed there too, although he rarely uses it). Oscar and his brothers are a bakery/butchery hybrid, Rhys is the apothecary, etc., Shinon and Gatrie are probably still mercenaries lbr

the only thing Ike knows about his father's death is that he was killed by the pirate captain of the Black Night (haha I regret everything), a mythical ship that appears and disappears at will - but only at night.

Lethe stole Ranulf's ship, crew, and weapons (he'd be so proud if he didn't currently lack a ship), which I don't have a name for yet, anyway so Ranulf comes in to the port, people lose their shit, he escapes, but he really needs a forge to get these handcuffs off. oh, the Greil smithy! nice. duel! jail :(

Ike is kinda sad because Soren has to do Noble Things which currently just means "sucking up to the princess" Elincia - and he thinks his mother might be planning a marriage at this rate.

One night, one of the Mad King's fleet ransacks the town. Ranulf sighs, knowing enough of these beorc pirates by reputation, but hey, he's in jail.

The pirates kill the king and go after Elincia to throw Crimea into chaos. Unfortunately, she's not alone - but fortunately, Soren can talk his way into any situation and gets them a parley. bonus points if he pretends he's the princess and Elincia is a servant.

Ike's world is upside down - his town's burning, Soren's been taken, what does he do? Titania tells him he can go - she'll help rebuild, keep the town order, and Mist can run the forge. Just - you know that sword, Ike? the one your father hid under the floorboards and told you to never touch? take it. you might need it.

so he does - but might need some help, too. who better than a pirate who knows the way of the sea?

they steal a ship and go. Ike yells about pirates, Ranulf offers to throw him into the sea, but they resolve it quickly because Ike understands there's more to the world than he knew. Ranulf's got an uncanny sense of direction and he knew Ike's father, but there's something else he feels he's missing. Greil was a pirate, Ike learns, and one of the finest - Ranulf might've left Gallia if he'd asked.

but their ship isn't meant for two - they need a crew. Ike soon learns Ranulf has a reputation five miles long, lovers in nearly every man and woman on land, and can outdrink anyone when they stop at an Outpost to pick up everyone you recruit in PoR. and then they head for Nevassa Cove.

I'm throwing the plots of both stories out the window now. also, the laguz? they're staying - in a slightly different form...

Ike and Ranulf’s crew don't make it to Nevassa quickly, though, so who knows what Elincia and Soren are doing in the meantime. bonding, probably. Elincia's no idiot - she's heard the rumors about Lady Almedha, her mysterious background, her ever-present veil - and the Captain of the Mad King goes on about what lives in the water. She starts to question the fables of her childhood, full of sirens who would sing you to the depths and creatures that could topple flagships. Soren's planning, but he's got to keep up the Princess pretense - but he's noticing, too.

Ranulf's crew comes across some of their own myths when their ship is blown into a coral reef. Ranulf and his first mate (originally had this as Kyza but I want to save her for the eventual RD-inspired sequel, and Ike's role onboard is kinda undefined) know better than to go outside here, but Ike doesn't, and so he meets his first mermaid - oh, he didn't mean to offend, he didn't know they were called laguz. Kurthnaga is kind and offers the assistance of his friends to unmoor their ship, and Ike learns their form is not limited to the kind he saw in paintings of beautiful merwomen. Ike tells Ranulf, and Ranulf admits he knows more of the sea than he let on - there are different clans of laguz, all below the water, and the sea dragons are only one (although they are where landwalkers got their idea of the kraken).

the next tribe they find as they cross the canyons of Phonecis and Kilvas, known as a ship's graveyard. there's something about Ike, Ranulf muses as Ike speaks to King Tibarn about the Mad King's destruction and their explosives which threaten to ruin even the ocean floor. Tibarn listens, even with a siren at his side (one of few, Ranulf thought them all dead), and when Tibarn not only lets them pass but offers assistance, Ike welcomes them.

"I thought I was the captain around here!" he calls, earning a smile from Ike at the helm. He can feel Reyson about to speak, to ask why he is a captain of a beorc vessel at all, so Ranulf interrupts with a call to the crew and they depart, singing out of tune but merrily.

Tibarn's laguz follow in the water, save Tibarn himself and his white siren, who stand on deck and could almost pass for humans. Ike wonders about this - Kurthnaga and the dragons didn't have quite this human a form; are Tibarn and Reyson special, or is there even more to the laguz than meets the eye?

He asks Ranulf as much, when they're sitting below deck having a drink. "Laguz have three forms," Ranulf answers. "One for the water, one for the land, and one in-between." He fingers the brim of his hat, an item Ike wishes he'd take off when they're dining like this, away from the rowdy crew.

"How do you know so much about laguz?" Ike asks instead, ever focused on the mission. He doesn't get an answer, though, because the bell is ringing and the crew is clamoring and they see Nevassa Cove in the distance.

"Good find, Ike," Tibarn congratulates him with a slap on the back.

"Ranulf found it." That's Reyson, with something in his tone Ike can't quite place.

"Good find, Ranulf," Tibarn repeats, casting an amused smile to his companion.

They board smallboats and row to the cave under cover of darkness. The plan is cast aside, however, when Ike watches the Mad King's captain unsheath a rapier and advance on Soren. Ashnard won't tolerate their game of role-play any longer, but Elincia jumps in front, waving her arms wildly and yelling to get in the water, Soren!

Ike doesn't listen to whatever Ranulf is or isn't saying; he jumps from behind a cave wall, waving Ragnell and shouting hellfire on Ashnard.

"Well, well, little pirate boy," he mocks, and Ike realizes how massive this captain is in person. "Are you worthy to set foot in Nevassa?"

Ike raises his chin and Ragnell and meets Ashnard's eyes. "My father was Captain Gawain, who sailed that ship long before you destroyed her planks with blood, Ashnard," he says. "You aren't fit for the sea!"

They fight, slipping on sand-dusted rocks and breathing in blood and sweat and the dank smell of the cove, swords ringing like broken bells. Ranulf waves his hand and the crew - Ike's crew, really, if he's being honest - swarms Ashnard's, Tibarn's laguz fighting from the water and dragging pirates to the depths. He crosses to Soren and Elincia and motions them to an underwater tunnel. "Ike's ship is waiting for you," he tells them. "Go!"

"I'm no laguz, Sir Ranulf," the princess protests, but her eyes speak defiance rather than fear.

"It's Captain Lay, Princess," he says with a smile. Then he pushes her into the water, angled so she falls back on Soren and sends them both splashing. "Hold your breath!" And Ranulf dives in, relishing the feel of his shifting form only for a second before he pulls Elincia down, down, up, up through the tunnel and they emerge on the outside, Elincia sputtering and gasping and clinging to him like a lifeline.

"Swim to the ship. Reyson will be waiting."

She lets go but doesn't move. "Soren - he's still in there - you'll go back - please, Captain, return and -"

He cuts off her growing politeness when thrusts his hat at her chest and spins around. She's right, her companion didn't follow, and Ranulf has a sneaking suspicion why, if Ike's many stories of his friend are true.

"Damn," Ranulf says. He goes back.

Ike can feel his arms straining and he regrets never using Ragnell until a month ago. Ashnard is stronger, but at least Soren and Ranulf got away, he thinks. Of course, that's when a knife embeds itself in Ashnard's forearm. Ashnard turns. Ike turns. Soren is there, half in the water and hair dripping wet, holding another knife. Ashnard opens his mouth, and Ike strikes - brings Ragnell straight down and cleaves the Mad King's skull in two with a precision Ike didn't know swords could have.

Ike stands there, staring at the body and his blade, for a full minute, breathing heavily and shaking from adrenaline. When he moves, Soren is staring at him. Ike drops Ragnell and runs to the water, and Soren - Soren moves away, backing against the cove wall.

And I don't want to write Angst™️ but you know where this is going. (Half laguz have two forms, but that's still one more than a beorc.)

Ranulf interrupts the moment, because, hey, I'm glad you're safe but there's a battle on outside and I'm pretty sure the Royal Navy's here as well so let's go!

Ike is still holding Soren, whose face is curled into his neck and hair brushing across Ike's back like a blanket of seaweed. He looks at Ranulf, eyebrows high as he takes in Ranulf finally without that hat and decides his ears are cute. "Is every person I know gonna show up with a tail now, or is it just you two?"

"Just us, I think." Ranulf grins, then sobers. "Still a battle on, Ike," he chides. Ike nods and turns to Soren, who nods in affirmation. "Hold your breath, Ike," says Ranulf, and then they're streaming through the tunnel and Ike never, ever wants to go swimming again by the time they break the surface.

The Royal Navy is there, and they're impounding Ranulf's ship. Ike's ship. Whatever. They haul Ike out of the water, which he accepts because he isn't a laguz and he's more of a chance of surviving in prison than in the water. The guards bind him for piracy - unfair, because he hasn't actually stolen anything (Ranulf stole the ship, technically). Ike tells them as much - yells it, more like, along with a string of curses and proof that he just saved the Princess and killed the Mad King Ashnard - but when Elincia's voice rings out a call for silence he's just as affected as the Navy.

"Sir Ike," she begins, ignoring the whispers of her guards and one commander who tries to tell her he's a pirate and shouldn't be addressed personally, "you have saved me and my kingdom from destruction. For that, you have our gratitude. You will remain a free man, and all charges of piracy against you shall be dropped. I offer you a place in my Navy, Sir Ike, as it would be an honor to have you beside me."

His motley crew, hands tied behind their backs in the center of their ship, stares at him; Elincia's Navy stares at her; and no one moves for a moment.

"Thank you, your Majesty," Ike says, the title an honest mistake but he doesn't take it back because it's true now. "Thank you, Elincia," he continues, "but my place is on the sea. My father sailed these waters before me, and it's time I lived up to him. Besides," he offers her a crooked smile, water dripping into his eyes from his lashes, "I think the sea has companions to offer me."

"Of course," she says, a smile playing at her lips. She removes her arms from their position across her chest (Ike had thought it a ward against the seeping chill of night air on wet clothes) and lifts something up above Ike's head. In the moonlight, he catches a glimpse of a familiar hat, its wide brim decorated with strings of beads and feathers, before Elincia places it on his head, soaking his hair even more. "We shall leave you to your ship, Captain Ike," she says with eyes alight, and turns away with all the grace and poise of a royal.

After a great deal of spluttering and critiques from the Navy quickly aborted by a mere glance from Elincia, Ike's crew is released and the Navy returns to their ships with Elincia, who hands Ike an envelope and a hug before departure. Ike stares after them, adrenaline entirely spent and confused how he just got named a pirate captain by the Queen.

"Well, well, well, congratulations!" comes a familiar voice, its figure moving across the deck. "The hat suits you, Ike," Ranulf grins, clapping him on the shoulder. "Lethe might've stole my other ship, but you've earned this one well." He pauses, just for a second, winks, and then says: "Captain."

Ike smiles, but his attention is quickly caught by the shadows behind a mast. It's Soren, as he knew it would be. Ike puts an arm around him, a gesture he finds awkward for anyone else, and runs his fingers through Soren's damp black locks. "I think I've got a position open on this ship," he offers. "If you'd like."

Soren looks up, and Ike thinks his red eyes are beautiful in the moonlight. "I would." It's almost inaudible, but Ike hears it anyway. He holds him tighter.

They return home first, and his crew laughs through the streets and fills the inns and taverns with gold and merriment, undoubtedly spreading rumors of the battle with the Mad King that will grow into something ridiculous, but Ike doesn't stop them. When he knocks at Titania's door, Mist throws herself at him and she's crying and Mist's crying and Ike might be too.

When they've told each other all that matters between their family and Mist is asleep on Titania's lap from exhaustion, Ike makes tea for him and Titania and sits across from her. "Were you my dad's first mate?" he asks, unprompted except by the companionable silence of being home.

"I was," Titania replies, nostalgia twinging across her face.

Ike nods and sips his tea. He knows the rest of the story, and if Titania would like to spin her own tales he'd gladly listen, but he'll also listen to Mist's soft breathing and relax.

"Who is yours?" Titania asks instead.

Ike starts, almost dropping his tea. "I don't - I'm not sure. There's - well, there's Soren, and Ranulf, and I don't know..." he trails off.

Titania smiles, a glint in her green eyes. "You don't have to know. One day, you'll know, though. It might sneak up on you, so watch out." She knows something, Ike thinks, something about me but more than that, she knows something about the world and the sea and the captains that follow the wind and their hearts.

"Okay," says Ike, because he's home and he doesn't have to say any more. In a few days they'll head out again on that wind. Ike doesn't know where it'll take him, but he'll be ready.

[qqueenofhades]

Tumblr is being DUMB and forcing me to ask you to please, pleeeease write a Garcy reconciliation after that evil little heartbreaker you cranked out this morning. I need reassurance that these two won't let anything get in the way of their love.

follow-up to this, because tumblr hates christine and won’t let her ask.

anyway. rated f for faaaaaahk.

Lucy spends the next four nights alone. There’s a mission to 1718 North Carolina and the death of Blackbeard in there, which should be very exciting, and indeed, it is. Garcia Flynn with a pirate cutlass is a role he was born to play, he protects her in the smoke and gunshots on the deck of the Queen Anne’s Revenge, and they have to stop Rittenhouse from taking all the treasure and hiding it (so they can invest it in a few more decades and turn a virtually unlimited profit in the present). It’s scary and high-stakes, as usual, but it’s also swashbuckling and exhilarating, and they’re making Pirates of the Caribbean jokes as the Lifeboat lands. Flynn helps Lucy down, and for a moment, she thinks that this is it, they’re back to normal. Looks at him with shining eyes and parted lips, desperately ready to come back to bed that night if he says so, but something shadowed crosses his face, clouding his eyes. He lets go of her, steps back, and goes off to his room. Doesn’t reappear even to eat.

“What’s up with Flynn?” Rufus asks, having checked over his shoulder that Wyatt is out of earshot. “I thought you two were… you know.”

Lucy gives him a sharp look, though she’s probably fooling herself to think it’s entirely a secret. They still all live together in close quarters, and there’s only so much subtlety (which is to say, not much) in her regular layovers in Flynn’s room at night. “Nothing. He’s just – he’s just being Flynn, I guess.”

She hates the words the instant they’re out of her mouth. They feel cheap, dishonest, when she knows exactly what’s up with him, and it’s not his fault. She shakes her head, and finally says quietly, “Actually, no. That’s not true. I just – I had to tell him something the other night, and I don’t know how he’s taking it.”

“What could you possibly tell him to make him successfully get more than six feet away from you?” Rufus looks surprised. Everyone knows that Flynn goes with Lucy now, it’s how it works. “Something really terrible, like you spoiled Snape kills Dumbledore?”

“No. Not that.” Lucy hesitates. “I’ll tell you later, all right?”

She isn’t sure she will, but Rufus can take a hint. He nods once and makes his way off, as Lucy stands there still in her salty-wench 1718 clothes, corset and calico skirt and bandana, and tries to rationalize. Flynn still acted the same as usual on the mission – he protected her, he helped her, he pulled his weight and was completely professional. If that’s what it’s going to be, if he is going to stick around and continue working with the team but he doesn’t want anything more from her personally… she can live with that, Lucy tells herself. It’s fine. It’s entirely understandable. She gets it. No problem. She can live with that.

(She can live with that. What’s one more loss by now?)

(But it’s him, it’s him, and she’s had him since the flames of the Hindenburg, first as a dangerous threat and then as an uneasy ally and then as a friend and partner and then as a lover, she has had him from the very moment this insanity began, and without him, she is half of a torn-apart creature. Lucy Preston does not need any man. But God, she wants this one more than she can stand.)

Lucy lies on the couch (it’s more comfortable than the one in the bunker, if marginally, and she doesn’t even have to sleep here, but she can’t stand going to her room) and stares at the ceiling until it is very late. Then all at once, she gets up (she still hasn’t changed, she doesn’t know why) and walks down the hall. Isn’t going to barge in on him if he doesn’t answer, but she just needs to know. He asked for space, she gave it to him, she’ll do it again, but this –

She comes to a halt, raises her fist, almost chickens out of it. Then clenches it hard, and knocks.

For several moments, no response. Then footsteps, and Flynn opens the door.

The first thing Lucy notices is that he hasn’t changed out of his 1718 clothes either, as if to hang onto the time where they were their usual effective team and act like nothing was different. The white blouson shirt is open a fair amount down Flynn’s chest, the sleeves rolled up over his dark-furred forearms, and as a sight to improve Lucy’s self-control and make her more at peace over walking away, it… does the exact opposite of that, frankly. A hot flush burns over her, her knees feel watery, and her fingers itch with the urge to touch. She summons a weak smile, suddenly wishing she’d changed after all. She doesn’t want to stroll up here with her half-laced corset and make him think she’s come to crassly seduce him. “Hey,” she manages, her voice a squeak. “Garcia.”

He inclines his head, gentlemanly as ever. “Lucy.”

As even that is the most they’ve said to each other outside the necessities since she left his room, it makes her feel briefly punched. She wets her lips, looking down, clutching her fists at her sides, then jerks her head up to meet his. “I just… wanted to see how… you were.”

He gives her a look which says that they both know damn well why she’s here, but after a pause, stands back with that little flourish he does to permit her to enter his space, and she steps inside, standing just inside the door as they stare at each other in excruciating awkwardness. Then Flynn, clearly scrambling for a neutral topic of conversation, says, “So, today. The mission, it was – ”

“Yeah, it was – ” Lucy struggles to think of all the facts about pirate history she could tell him, or that he might ask. “It was definitely – “

Their sentences collide and come to a halt at the same point as it’s clear that neither of them can get any further than that. There’s another unbearably uncomfortable moment as they continue to stare at each other, until Flynn rubs a hand across his mouth and turns away. “Did you need something?”

“I… no. I just…” Lucy plucks at the worn cloth of her skirt. “It’s… been a few days now, and… if you had thought about it at all, and…”

She stops again, cheeks burning. Perhaps she should have waited the rest of the week, another, as long as he wanted, and made no move back toward him until he did, but she can’t bear for him to think that she’s indifferent or apathetic or just taking it for granted that he’ll come crawling back eventually, that he has no choice and he’s still leashed to her in some way that neither of them can entirely understand or control. Voice very small, she whispers, “I miss you.”

Flynn flinches. He doesn’t bother pointing out that he’s standing right there, that that’s not the kind of missing him she means. Finally he says, “I miss you too.”

Lucy takes half a step toward him, then another, but Flynn doesn’t move to meet her. He remains where he is, arms folded across his chest, shoulders hunched as if to protect himself, until she wonders if he’s afraid of her. If she has returned to tell him something worse, or salt the wound, and the thought breaks her heart. She holds out her hand, as if trying to gentle a wild animal, and finally, slowly, he reaches out to take it, folding his fingers over hers and pressing them into her palm as he draws her closer, his other arm coming around her waist. He leans down and rests his forehead against hers, as her free hand comes up to settle on his shoulder and they stand there without moving for a very long moment. Then he shifts, wrapping both arms around her as she clings to him for dear life, and their breathing turns rough, gulping, unsteady. Lucy cups his face in her hands, close to tears. “Do you…” She stops, tries again. “Do you hate me?”

“Do I – ” Flynn isn’t entirely steady about answering either. “Do I what?”

“I’m just – ” Lucy is quickly losing the battle with the sobs. “I’m everything you’re fighting against – I’m the reason you lost – ”

“No,” Flynn says, the word as hard and solid as a hammer blow. “No, you’re not. You’re not. You’re not. You are not, Lucy. You’re nothing like them. You are their greatest mistake, did you know that? You are everything they could never be. It’s not me they’re the most frightened of. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

Lucy opens her mouth, shuts it, and can’t think what to say. She grips him harder, and he lifts her off her feet, as they sway on the spot and she buries her face in his shoulder. He holds her up with, as usual, no effort at all, and he smells like smoke and sky, like gunpowder and shivered timbers and the sharp edge of a blade reflecting the brilliant sun. There is soot in the creases of his mouth, the corners of his eyes. He is tall and solid as a tree, and she still needs to ask him so much more, she doesn’t know, she doesn’t –

Flynn moves his hand to the back of her head, and guides her mouth to his, and Lucy lets out a little hiss and practically attacks him, grasping hold of his head and kissing him as if her life depends on it. He more than returns the favor, as he walks backward to his bed and sits down with her in his lap. His hands imprint into her flesh like clay, and she tastes the salt of the sea in his mouth as she comes down on top of him. Doesn’t know why he’s let her back in, doesn’t know how he can love her enough to forget everything that’s made her, and yet the fierce and shattering and poignant gratitude that he does –

(Love barely seems sufficient a word, and even worship barely does it justice.)

(It’s only much later, with the pirate clothes on the floor – there’s something to be said for their ease of removal – and Lucy curled bonelessly into Flynn, that she kisses him once more, and realizes it was not the salt of the sea.)

[mewsomniac]

Down the Hatch

♡ Fandom: Kingdom Hearts ♡ Genre: Romance ♡ Summary:

The Black Pearl's crew celebrates the demise of Lord Cutler Beckett with food, drink, dancing, song, and pleasurable company. But what happens when a curious Sora gets into the rum? [SoRoku pirate fic]

♡ Words: 15,000~ ♡ Ships: Sora/Roxas ♡ Rating: T ♡ FF.net: Link ♡ AO3: Link

[Click Here for Mew’s FF Archive]

Down the Hatch

Drink up me hearties, yo-ho.

Disclaimer: All characters in this fanfiction are 18 years of age or older.

I do not condone underage drinking. Thank you.

          Death and bloodshed had taken the day, as did salt and gunpowder. Somehow, the future was just as clear as the sky, which glittered with the lights of a million worlds. Drinks and merriment rocked the legendary Black Pearl, a revived Captain Jack Sparrow standing at the wheel. His drunken, smug face was turned happily toward the eternally unreachable horizon as the ship bustled with joy. Will was gone, sworn to eternity by the Flying Dutchman as the reaper of souls lost at sea. Elizabeth had already gone to spend one last day on land with him, leaving her pirate companions behind for love.

          “‘Ere, boy,” Barbossa squaked at Sora, double fisting two dusty bottles. “What’d be yer fancy? Per’aps some wine. May’aps some rum, for a true-blooded pirate?” He took a long pull off one of the mouths, then cackled in glee. “Blast it all, take both. Drink up!” He shoved the bottles into the young man’s grasp, then sauntered off into the crowd.

          There was no way he could finish both of these on his own, but Sora knew exactly who could help him. He slipped between the folds of dancing pirates, and over to where Roxas was standing. The blond was draped in bluish-black Singaporean robes that did well to clutch his body in all the right places. He was leaning against a mast, watching the chaos around him in quiet wonder when Sora popped up to hand him a bottle.

          “What’s this?” Roxas asked, examining the dark mystery fluid inside the amber glass.

          “Might be wine, might be rum, I don’t know yet. Let’s find out.”

          Roxas turned a dubious eye to him, “I’ve never had alcohol.”

          Sora shrugged, “Me either. What’s your point?”

          “Why the temptation?”

          Laughing, Sora swung his arms out in a grand gesture to the scene around them. “Look around! The crew, the sky, the sea—free booze! We’ve seen so much death and rebirth and life… and we could die at any second. I could lose you in the blink of an eye.” He saw Roxas’ expression of shock and realized what he’d said. Blushing, he did his best to backpedal, “I just… Barbossa gave these to me, alright? And I figure, why not. Let’s live a little.”

          “Are you sure? It seems a little reckless. Crazy even.” A mischievous look graced Roxas’ face, and it gripped Sora’s heart in tenderest of ways. “Who knows what could happen?”

          He bowed, channeling his inner Captain Jack Sparrow, “Welcome to the Caribbean, love.”

          Rolling his eyes, the blond replied, “Okay. We are official pirates after all.” He was about to bring the bottle to his lips when Sora stopped him.

          “I want to try something,” He locked their arms. “There. Wedding style. Ready?” Roxas gave him a curt nod, and in tandem they go to take a swig from their respective bottles; Sora muttering “Down the hatch.”

          Roxas got the wine. Sora got the rum.

          They both choked on the bitter burn, coughing between laughs. Then, working carefully, they forced themselves to down as much of the acrid liquid as possible.

          The night was a blur. They snuck more drink passed Mr. Gibbs, and shared bottles with one another, wishing it wasn’t secondhand lip-contact. They played games, and gossiped, and laughed, and cried with the crew. When they became separated for a time, Sora lost his coat and hat in strip Fanorona, and was in the midst of unbuttoning his blouse when Riku yanked him away for his own good.

          Then, Sora heard the shanty. It was beautiful like a siren’s song, and he couldn't help but follow the refrain like a fish on a hook. He trailed it through the air, pushing through the drunken crowd to find the source.

          It was Roxas, his voice clear as a bell amongst the gargling masses of drunken sailors. Roxas danced and sang, easily catching onto the melody of whatever song burbled in the air. No amount of rum and wine could stifle it's perfection. Sora was a ship ready to crash headfirst into the rocks. And so he did.

          He zeroed in on his target, and kissed the other man so fiercely that Roxas dropped the bottle he was holding in surprise. The resulting crack of glass hitting deck made no difference to the raucous cadence of the sailors as they crowed away at their pirate song. Soras lips were rough and chapped from the ocean air, yet wet from the drinks and now also from Roxas' own alcohol-drenched lips. Sora led him away to a little shaded portion of the ship beneath a set of stairs by the captains quarters, and kissed Roxas some more.

          Stripping himself away from the brunet’s lips, Roxas leaned in close, lips hot and suddenly flush against Sora's ear "I want you."

          Sora whispered back, "Down. Below the deck."

          In their state of intoxication, they found no need for formality.

          Sora led him down, down the steep stairs that should have killed them upon their clumsy descent. Down into the dark, empty recesses of the ship he only knew glimpses of. They went forth until they found a door with a broken padlock, perfect for hidden escapades. The storage room's floor was swollen with moisture, and a variety of mismatched crates draped with taught tarps glowed ghostly in the moon’s illumination. Sora found a lantern and it's light gave the dank surroundings a unique coziness.

          Sora's shirt was red like the wine they guzzled, yet stained redder still from the day's bloodshed. Their skin smelled like sea salt, blood, gunpowder, and want. Despite all the drink, they were thirstier than ever before. Sora practically ripped away the delicate silken clasps holding Roxas' robe together, and Roxas dazedly struggled with the Keybearer's "godforsaken belt", as he'd labeled it. Amidst kisses, they were barely able to properly undress. Their alcoholic breath hung in the heavy air, bearing into their senses.

          Roxas’ skin was even milkier

          in the moonlight.

          Sora’s skin was even more tan

          in the lamp light.

          They were like two glowing deities

          adrift at sea,

          clinging to one another

          like the day reaches for

          the night.

          The way darkness yearns for

          the light.

          They inhaled cold damp air and exhaled pleasure.

          Roxas was granted plenty of warmth from the lamp glow and the gift of Sora's touch.

          Sora left traces of lust between teeth and skin, left trails of love from lips to veins.

          They were just at the peak of the high, still so far from going down down down.

          The vertigo was setting in, but it wasn't the sickening kind of spin that brings a drunk man to his knees...

          No, it was the kind of spin that made one aware of gravity, of the world tilting on its axis as it barrels through the dark of space. The kind that reminds one of their small connectedness to the universe as a whole.

          Nails sinking into flesh, fingers tousling hair.

          Eyes that were like his but different,

          The same way the sea and sky reflect light.

          Perhaps a thousand beautiful things left their mouths, but it all turned to mist in the groggy air.

          If they’d been listening, they could have heard the shanty  drifting down from the deck above...

          "Down the hatch,

           We'll light the match

           And set the seas ablaze…

           We'll drink till morn,

           And never scorn,

           The things we've done these days…

           So bottoms up,

           We'll fill 'er up,

           The songs we always play…

           Sunset to rise,

           The tides are high,

           So down the hatch, today …"

Exeunt.

A/N: The shanty “Down the Hatch” is an original song written by me.

I don’t know why, I laid awake one night thinking about Down the Hatch Classique (can be read in the next chapter) and couldn’t stop imagining ways to rewrite it. I kept writing down little bits and pieces of it on paper at school, or in my phone at work and before bed. Then, the news suddenly broke at E3 that PotC was coming back for KHIII! If you’ve been keeping up with my social media, you’ll know that I had a massive freak-out. What a beautiful and amazing coincidence this is! I decided I’d dive right back in and finish this redux project of mine.

I kept going back and forth between making it a long-form poem and a short story, until I finally settled on a little of both. The first section could still use a little work, but I really love where it is now and I wanted to share it.

I hope you enjoy the new version of one of my favorite pieces of writing from long ago!

-+-

Please please PLEASE favorite, follow, review, send kudos, add bookmarks… anything! I’m still happily taking positive constructive criticism, too! I am always looking to improve my writing.

[the-steve-stevenson-experience]

Dress For Where You Are Going, Not Where You've Been

Day 1:

With two hours of sleep I am ready to get a Lyft and head to the train to the plane. I use Lyft because Uber sucks. Not so much as a rider, but I drove for those fuckers for a few years, and that is an entirely different experience. Lyft says my driver is hard of hearing or deaf, and they even added a link to a short tutorial on how to say "Hello" and "Thank You" in American Sign Language. I'm bilingual now! I get to the train, and come to find out that this bitch doesn't run this early, or this late, however it feels for you. I just woke up, so it's early. It's gonna be another hour before the next train comes through. That would be a solid half an hour after I wanted to be at the airport. I'm already running a little behind my own internal schedule. So see all you motherfuckers who think I'm being rude by being late! I might be, but I do it to myself too. I call another Lyft, and get to the airport.

(Note to self: next time have the driver drop me off at United, it's closer to security, and I don't need to check-in)

There is literally three people in the line for security, including me. This is why I like these super early flights. I breeze through. Get on the train, one that is running, and get to my gate. I still have half an hour before we board, so that small bit of concern back at the other train station was unwarranted, but how do you know in that moment? We worry about shit because either we have experience that says, "Oh shit! This could be a problem. Or, people have told us some shit that causes us to think, "Oh shit! I think this might become a problem." I don't like to worry, but also, I never know what's going to happen.

(It occurs to me that I am not afraid of the unknown, but of what my mind makes up in absence of knowing. I need to learn to live with uncertainty and ambiguity.)

I have time for coffee. If there were any place open. This is what sucks about these super early flights. They say the plane is completely full, great. Love that. I get to my seat, an isle exit row seat. It's just me and another dude, no one in the middle. So, it's not "completely" full. Turns out, dude is a American Airlines flight attendant flying to Miami to start his work week, or whatever they have. I'm on American, btw. He is watching old Doctor Who episodes all the way there. Not the old old ones, the old new ones. The first one was when the Ponds died. I so loved Amy and Rory. I couldn't stop sneaking peeks. So emotional.

(Just to say, on a four hour flight, and we get one little bottle of water, and one little bag of pretzels. Man! I want some coffee)

We land, roll up to a gate, and come to find out, it is the same gate I need to be at for my connecting flight. This has never in the history of aviation happened to me! I have all the time in the world. And, I wonder how I'm actually going to fuck this up. I use the bathroom, and walk down a ways, get some coffee, and walk back. I still have all the time in the world. I get on the plane, and as the dude across from me tells me, he is a pilot for American, we are on the same damn plane as the one I just got off of. New crew tho. Cool. I know this one works. This has never happened to me before either. I am sitting just one row in front of where I was sitting. Isle exit row seat. Those are the best. This time I have the whole row to myself, so I scootch over to the middle seat. When you have the whole row to yourself, these are the best seats. Pull the arm rest up, and it's just like first class.

(except we ain't getting fucking dinner like those motherfuckers are)

We land in Belize City. No fancy walkways here, just steps, and it just rained, so it's super humid, and wet. I go through the customs line showing my vaccination card like I'm cool. I was informed that when I return to my home country of the United States of America, I will have to have a negative Covid test done within 72 hours of my departure. Even if I have been vaccinated? Yes, even if you have been vaccinated. So, let me get this straight. I just walked off a plane in a country that has had less than 13K Covid cases, and slightly more than 300 deaths, who makes everyone wear a mask in public, and I just came from a country where it's a little more *cough cough* chaotic, and all I needed was my vaccination card. But, to go back to the country I just came from, I need to get tested, even if I have been vaccinated? Because I'm so much more likely to bring Covid back from Belize, than to bring it to Belize.

('Murica doesn't make a lot of sense sometimes)

I get out of the airport, find a taxi, tell him I'm going to San Pedro, and need to get to the water taxi. He asks if I have my ticket already. Which is his way of finding out if he can take me to whatever one he wants. Maybe he gets a kickback.

(I used to get kickbacks from a particular strip club in Denver when I drove Uber. I brought some gentlemen to this club one night, and the valet guy says, "Hold on and we'll get you paid." I'm like, what? He told me they pay something like $5 a person if we drop people off there over the other clubs. That was incentive enough to get me to recommend this place to people who hadn't already made up their minds where they were going)

This particular water taxi takes only cash, and has no ATM. So, they send me with the "Chief of Security" over to an ATM. We walk over this ancient bridge. He tells me this is the oldest bridge in Central America. I find it, at the same time, believable, and unbelievable. It's a swing bridge, he says. It swings, rather than raise up when a boat goes through. But, he said, it's so old that it doesn't work anymore. And, they had to hand crack that bitch! I get my cash, and ask for a place to eat, and Chief walks me down to a joint he recommends. On the way he stops to talk to a guy he says is his son. He tells me that when I come back to leave not to call a taxi, that his son will take me. I get to the restaurant. It's busy. A guy comes over and tells me it will be about 15 minutes before I can order, as they are just getting caught up with the rush they just had. Wasn't that long of a wait, and some pretty good wings and frozen lemonade. On my way out the guy says that I should use this other water taxi, not the one I am using, as they break down a lot.

(So far, the taxi driver recommends the water taxi, the water taxi recommends a different taxi driver. The water taxi recommends a restaurant, and the restaurant recommends a different water taxi)

The trip was bumpy, the seats were hard, but it wasn't as hot as I thought. There was enough breeze blowing through. The boat was pretty full. We also delivered some cargo, and dropped people off at Cay Caulker. I will check that place out this week. We make it to Ambergris Cay, and San Pedro town. Melinda, my Airbnb host is waiting for me. We take her golf cart, that is the overwhelmingly preferred method of transportation here, over to the condo. I get settled, and decide to go walk around and find a spot for dinner. I go to a place she recommended, Palapa's Bar and Grill. It's at the end of a pier, over the water.

(In Mexico, everything was on the beach, here there are things on the water, like literally out over the water. There is stuff on the beach too)

After dinner I sat on a little wall looking out into the darkness over the Caribbean Sea. Some dude strolls right up and sits down next to me. No invitation, no asking, just plops right down. He has this bandage thing around his jaw and head, like someone busted his jaw. He talks to me a little, says some shit about being brought back to life every two years, I swear that's what he said, but I wasn't paying a lot of attention to him. He asked for a dollar. That's like .50 cents US. I gave him some coin I had in my pocket. Then asked for another dollar, because Coke was $1.25. I'm like, "Dude. You asked for a dollar, now you're changing it up." I gave him another one, and said, "Now this all you get." Like he's my kid or something. As I walked back to the condo, I pass him on the street. We nod to each other. I'm of course shocked to see that he has, not a Coke, but a beer in his hand.

[thesteveyates]

Boat design series.

The sea-going 30 foot boat.

Note to readers….obviously things are, shall we say, a bit different at the moment.

I would normally be putting out 2 or 3 blog posts a week but i’m going to drop that right down to once a week for the foreseeable future.  Although i like writing my view count as dropped to nearly nothing so it just isn’t worthwhile my time to try and keep up the content that i would be doing at this time of year.  In my own life i may be recalled to ‘active duty’ in the hospital if and when emergency legislation is passed and i’m preparing for the worst eventuality with that.

In blog time it’s mid March and i’m having a back and forth conversation with my mate ‘big Al’ who lives down in NZ.  Me and Al sailed together and on at least one occasion, post charter, got totally and completely drunk together in the Caribbean when we worked there.  A few years back we got to visit Al at his place on the north island NZ and he took us out on his little Jim Young designed centerboard cruising boat ‘Little Boat’. That’s a sweet and quick little boat that usually lives in Al’s shed and which Al and his partner Nina go cruising on ; by all accounts they have a lot of fun but even Al says that 3 days is about the limit for comfort and that they really need a bigger boat for longer cruises.

Alan Smith photograph.

New Zealand is, i think, a difficult coast to cruise on a small boat ; as Al says “it’s almost all offshore sailing” straight away out of the harbour and it can be a hard thrash to the next place to shelter . The coastline i sail on is vastly different to NZ : i can have a lot of enjoyable cruising in sheltered water such as my own home river and then chose my conditions to day sail to the next river …Fowey or Falmouth being just further west.       My impression of NZ boats while i had the chance to look around was that trailer-sailers are a very good idea for local cruising and then there’s a gap in size and the more usual cruising boats tend to be a lot larger and a lot more rugged than many European yachts.

Photo courtesy of Al’s mate ‘TC’.

created by dji camera

I don’t think that it’s any coincidence that me and Al have found what is essentially the same solution to our sailing needs ; that being, small simple centreboard boats that do have a cabin which can easily go on a trailer, are low maintenance and so on.  In Al’s case ‘Little Boat’ is very low maintenance because she gets washed down as soon as she’s done a trip and then lives in a nice dry shed.

If i had more space at home, well not so much more space but a more logically laid out space then that’s exactly what i would do with WABI”’ and she would live in the drive next to the workshop.  The downside for me would then be the additional expense of having to run a towing vehicle like my 21 year old Pajero and that would cost about the same to run per year as a mooring at the yard costs me.

A really good question that iv’e been asked several times is “would i have a bigger boat….and if so what would that boat be” ? and it’s that question that i’m going to look at today in the context of what Al is doing next and what we very nearly did here ; surprisingly similar choices.  Today i’m not going to deal with my fantasy boat….she comes along in the next post, in this post i’m mainly going to talk about the time when i did seriously go looking for my next boat and what it might have been.

Javelin half tonner.

Readers might remember a series of posts i wrote around 2 years ago when i was coming up to retirement and thinking about doing a long period of offshore cruising….a kind of ‘INCH’ situation in which the boat would have become a long term home and cruising vehicle.  I put a lot of time into thinking about the minimal requirements for a boat that would be both a good sea-boat and a viable home on the water although i didn’t post much about my thinking behind all of that.  At the time i must have spent weeks of internet search time studying boat after boat and after that started the actual ‘boots on the ground time’ going to see other boats…..that all got a bit interrupted when i had my left knee ‘big end’ replacement and everything changed again.

I’ll try and explain the whole idea i had at that time without going into endless detail….

Firstly that i was seriously considering living permanently or nearly permanently on the water as a retired boat-bum and moving with the seasons.  Secondly that i thought it would be interesting and ‘fun’ (horrible word !) to go and see parts of the world…at least the deep and wet bits…that i haven’t yet been to.  Now, iv’e not been, to a whole load of places although i have seen vast amounts of ocean ; and ocean isn’t that interesting to be brutally honest….just a way of getting to somewhere that is a lot more interesting. So, i set out a couple of sailing plans for going to places that i really did want to go-see bu ‘going-sea’ and one at the top of the list was to ‘go-see’ Al and Nina in New Zealand.

Now, i have actually been to New Zealand by sea and sailed on from there, around the Horn and back home but i didn’t get to cruise much of NZ or that big continent they have just to the west of them !.  So, plan 1 was to set up the minimal boat that i would be happy with to take on a transoceanic voyage all the way there.  Because iv’e been there via the great capes route i fancied doing it differently and going via the Caribbean islands , the Panama canal and then a big chunk of the Pacific.   If you want to think of that as then driving the primary specification for the boat then what you get is the need to cover distance at reasonable speed and that means having a boat that will go both upwind and downwind across a variety of wind speeds….and will do that day after day, week after week without exhausting it’s crew.    If you like, then do the same exercise as i did and that’s to take a look at the ocean routeing charts, month by month, and see exactly what conditions the boat will have to deal with.  I can tell that you that what you get is a lot of light weather downwind work and some surprisingly brisk windward sailing.  In my sailing experience and within my budget at the time the boats to look at were all at the older and more seamanlike end of offshore cruiser-racers and at about the old half-ton rating which tends to give you a boat of around 30 feet overall.

Some readers might remember that i once had a very well set up 26 footer that i had intended to use in a similar role although that period in my sailing life was a long time before i started the blog so she doesn’t appear much except for a few anecdotes.  For reference WABI” was a Frances 26 which was a boat i’d always wanted to own , i found one with the layout that i wanted and totally refitted her over several years.  She was a lovely boat to sail and might have been capable of the NZ voyage as long as i did that solo but wasn’t really big enough to do the trip in the way that i wanted which was with my partner as crew.  The critical point is being able to carry double the stores and water for each leg, plus reserve, and not loading the boat so much that it becomes heavy and slow….the way it works out is that 30 feet of boat, generally speaking, is that the 30 footer does have about that much extra carrying capacity, does have the useful extra waterline length and yet the gear, while being bigger and more expensive isn’t hugely more expensive than on the 26 foot boat.

The boat we actually found and that i so very nearly bought had an interior space not unlike my Frances 26….with the addition of a nice big forepeak tacked on the end, wider of course and with more useable interior volume.

Javelin 30 foot..IOR half ton.

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Why 30 feet ?

For long distance offshore and ocean sailing the 30 footer wins every time…..at least when compared with the 26 footer say : more waterline length (in most designs) therefore higher average speed in most conditions, more carrying capacity for water, food and stores and space enough to separate living and sailing functions.  I intended to do the NZ trip 2 up which would have allowed me the one thing that i believe is essential which is continuous watchkeeping (or at least every 15-20 minutes) by one of the crew while the other person is asleep.  At 30 feet one crewmember should be able to perform most sail handling functions most of the time as long as the systems are set up well.  Secondly the on-watch person should be able to do all of the other jobs that are necasary at sea without disturbing the off-watch.  That requires a separation of functional space within the boat, for example that the sea berths can be used while the galley and/or navigation area is in use and while the on-watch person is keeping watch from shelter.

You might be thinking now something along the lines of ‘ well if 26 feet isn’t quite enough and 30 feet is, then why not go to 35 feet or more’ ?.  Ok and fair enough and my objection is that firstly the budget….the boat is usually going to be that much more expensive but it’s the gear that is getting a lot more expensive….and heavy.  The boat i found seemed to have a sound hull and deck, a new engine and rig but she really needed a new sail wardrobe and a lot of work on the interior.  My main expense would have been sails as i intended to have several hanked jibs and at least one dedicated downwind sail.  I would have also bought at least one new full size anchor and one good ‘second’ anchor.  For me it was the cost and weight of the new gear that was crucial…with the 30 footer i would have been happy with my simple approach with hanked jibs on the one hand and anchor gear that i could both rely on and man-haul if i had to.   At 35 feet the main problem for me is that new gear is getting very expensive and i don’t see the need for the additional space in the boat….the 30 footer, to me, seems to be the compromise point at which we have just enough length and carrying capacity and no more…a neat and elegant compromise if you like.

I note that others have come up with about the same solution and answer : the Pardey’s second boat was just under 30 feet but heavy displacement so functionally very close to the lighter displacement cruiser-racer .  My favourite youtube sailing channel also features a 30 foot boat (Mirrool and Free Range Sailing) and they seem to have almost exactly the compromise solution that i was looking for.  For sure they have a different interior layout but even with that i’d worked out a couple of different ways that i intended to do that with my 2 very different 30 foot contenders.

So…..it doesn’t surprise me at all that Al has chosen a 30 foot design for his own fast cruising boat and in future posts we’ll be hearing a lot of his thoughts about why the same size range works for him.  In the next post i intend to compare and contrast our diverging choices though : what Al intends to build and what i would chose to build if i had the resources to start from a bare sheet of paper and not be constrained by a secondhand project boat.

“Sweet dreams are made of this….”

  30 is the number. Boat design series. The sea-going 30 foot boat. Note to readers....obviously things are, shall we say, a bit different at the moment.

[secretary--hamilton]

My Hamilton canon/memories

(I’m Alexander, saying it so the post makes more sense)

TW: storms/water, a couple mentions of getting drunk (nothing bad, all very pure), war, getting shot, guns, adoption/orphan, someone stabbing themselves, suicide, death

BODY MEMS

- I had slight freckles

- I had a little bit of a stutter

- brown hair

- bright blue/green eyes

- big forehead, receding hairline

- my lips got chapped a lot fuc k cold wea t h e r (plus I licked them a lot too but shh I’m blaming cold weather)

- I was around 5'6 to 5'7 and was about 125 pounds? But I had a lil bit of stomach and thigh chub. I was so tiny compared to everybody else (George is a. Giant)

- for the time I had my hair up in a ponytail, I used like a string thing? I remember the strings dangling down, throwback to 1700s when circle elastic hairties weren’t a thing so I used ribbons/string

PERSONAL/THINGS I DID MEMS

- I was afraid of storms/raging water because it reminded me of the hurricane/the storms I witnessed while on the ship to the colonies

- when I went off to war, I used Eliza's blue ribbon to tie up my hair

- I was always writing and I always had a notebook with me

- the booklet I had that had all my lists and writing on it was pieces of parchment with 3 holes in the side, with strings through the holes

- i loved (more like.. needed to) keep lists on things and be organized, I had a list of all the people I had to write letters to, etc. I had lists about everything. People’s birthdates, their names, so I would never forget them

- if I ever lost a certain piece of paper with like all the lists and information on it I would freak out

- I had extreme anxiety, my mind was constantly racing and it felt like I could focus on 20 different things at once, which kind of helped me write so much and finish so many essays.

-my canon was definitely NOT modern- we didn't have electricity or pens or technology- just pure 1700s things

EARLY LIFE MEMS

- i have a memory of walking along the beach in the carribean on an extremely rainy day, I was looking at towards a ship on the water when the water started rushing towards me and I heard thunder and that's when I realized it wasn't just a normal storm

- I vividly remember walking up the board to the ship i immigrated on, and what it smelled like (really just sea water and old wood) , carrying my small belongings which were just a few books, and a pen and paper

- I got set up in this little cot in the ship that had a hard mattress on the floor, a small chair in the corner, and a lantern

OOF okay so,, this memory is of when I was still in the Caribbean, shortly after my mom died. Me and my brother were put in custody of my older cousin(?), and he killed himself by stabbing himself with a kitchen knife. I was the first one to notice him, the layout of the house was that the bedrooms were upstairs and the kitchen and living room were downstairs. On the right side of the house upstairs, was my cousins (peter) bedroom, and me and my brother (James) were sharing this open room on the left side of the upstairs with mattresses on the floor for us, a window on the wall/roof (it was like a slanted roof, like an attic) So from left to right, our open room (like no door, just a space), a tiny hallway that lead to the stairs, and then peters room. ANYWay but I remember I just finished reading and I was going to talk to peter about something, so I opened his door and I just see blood **everywhere** So I run downstairs and outside into the streets asking for help. I was only 13 when this happened

- I was born in 1757, and the hurricane happened in 1774

WASHINGTON MEMS

- I loved George Washington so much, he was such a good friend/boss- I’m forever grateful to him for giving me the chance to rise up

-I also liked organizing things a lot, I once organized gwash's entire office and he walked in and was like "what the fuck"

- George was brushing my hair and putting it up in a ponytail for me- this was in the tent during the war, before we went off to battle. He did it another time in his office before a cabinet meeting

- me and wash always helped calm eachother down- if either of us were having anxiety, just the others presence would help

- I loved George in a way that's hard to describe- he was like a father to me, he was there for me and protected me and helped me feel less lost

- the only people I would really listen to were George and Eliza- if those two looked at me and said "Alex, it's not worth it" I would stop in an instant, because I trusted them

- I have a memory of the war, and it was raining and slippery and I was climbing up rocky hills following george lead the command, and I was behind him and we were all heading to our next spot

GENERAL REV SQUAD MEMS

- I once got so drunk with the rev boys that I kissed them all on the cheeks while drunkenly singing

- I was the shortest of the group, Mulligan was the tallest, Lafayette was the second tallest, and laurens was a little closer to my height but still taller

- whenever we went out to drink, I always got the drunkest since I was the shortest- and plus I couldn't handle my alcohol at all. They always took care of me when I was super drunk, I would lean on their shoulders, they would tuck me in with blankets, etc.

MULLIGAN MEMS

- Mulligan was super good with his alcohol, it's probably because he was so big and tough, he only got a little bit loopy but was still fine

- my Mulligan had vitiligo

- one time Mulligan had to carry me home because I was so drunk

LAURENS MEMS

- my Laurens was definitely asexual

- the two people I had weird crushes on were Laurens, and Jefferson- they weren't full on 100% crushes (probably due to the fact that I was confused about them) but they were more "holy fuck these guys are hot and great", I don't know if anybody could notice, even though I acted a bit more lovey towards laurens

- he was always so giggly and happy god I love him his smile could light up the room ngl, and his laugh was so,, good

- his freckles got /a lot/ more prominent if he was out in the sun all day, freckle boy

- he loved space so much, he was always out watching the stars and learning about them- he had this book about astronomy that was p cool

LAFAYETTE MEMS

- when laf immigrated to the colonies, he snuck on the ship as a pregnant woman so he wouldn't get stopped by anyone

- when he came to the colonies he spoke like only a few words of English, when he met me I helped him translate! I was fluent in French so it helped

- he had a birthmark/mole on his cheek near his eye- it was just a small dot

BURR MEMS

- my burr got shot in the leg during the war, and he had a bit of a limp the rest of his life. I remember when he got shot, I was near by so I had to help carry him to a medical tent and then go back to fighting

KING GEORGE MEMS

-i called king George king douche, and he called me a lapdog since I followed Gwash around a lot

- I once called KG just "George" and he was all sassy like "that's KING George to you"

- one time KG talked to the rev boys and I like got all angry and protective, he talked to Lafayette and I was behind Laf trying to but into the conversation to call George out- it was during the war so we were on a field in our war outfits

- his eyes were bluey-purple

JEFFERSON MEMS

- I hated Jefferson but I also had a weird hate crush on him,, I didn't tell anyone tho, let's just say I wanted to beat up the man but also fuc the man. The crush died down after a while though

- my Jefferson would always say lewd jokes to me and humiliate me just to see a reaction, because I was a flustered boy,, one time I got so flustered that I just, LEFT the room, and Jefferson was like “WHY DONT YOU SLAM MY BEDROOM DOOR LIKE THAT” upon me storming out

- during one of the cabinet battles jefferson was sassy clapping at me, he,, sassy clapped a lot

- when jeff was like “daddys calling” I got so angry but also flustered so I stormed out, funnily enough I stormed out to follow george. I fuckin loved George and followed him everywhere

- I once got a 🅱️oner because of some lewd joke Jefferson said oof

- after the second cabinet meeting, we got into a fight. Jefferson wanted us to defend France so I snapped back and interrupted him with “You cant sacrifice our country because you're scared Lafayette’s going to die like your wife.” and Jefferson got livid and yelled back “I am NOT going to be intimidated by you and your washed up bullshit” or something along those lines

RENOYLDS AFFAIR MEMS

- oof I remember yelling in marias face when James sent the letter

- after Eliza found out about the affair, she forced me to stay in my office for 6 months. I only left for food and a short aimless walk I think. My office was in a different building

- the renoylds affair definitely happened. God it was such a bad/weird time, i was so exaushted and sleep deprived and getting constant headaches but I needed to stay awake and work, I heard a knock at my office door so I opened it and it was Maria, it was raining outside so her hair was all wet so I let her in, after her sharing her story I gave her some money and walked her back to her place, but she insisted on staying. I believed her, but once James sent the letter I accused her of being a con artist, and I still don't know the truth of what's what.

- I have a reallyyyy clear memory of me rambling on about how I need to get work done and how my wife needs me and all this stuff and then Maria whispered in my ear "shhhh, you don't need to worry about all that, no one will know" before we got. Down And Dirty TM. And usually I would deny stuff like that but I was so tired

- I have aNOTHer rly clear memory of me kneeling down to Maria and straight up screaming at her "HOW COULD I DO THIS, I AM HELPLESS" or something like that

FAMILY MEMS

- my friends took care of my kids for me while I was busy working, mostly Laurens because I was the closest to him! Philip loved Laurens so much it was adorable

- Burr was really good at math and often taught Philip math

- I always got in arguments with a lot of people, but I'm glad I had people like Eliza to calm me down, I remember she said "Alexander, it's not worth it" and I chilled out instantly

- I married Eliza right after the war ended

- All of our children were adopted except for Angie, Alex Jr., and Eliza

- I think my Philip had a slight tooth gap and rly curly hair, and either a slight lisp or a slight stutter

- I would brush philip's hair and put it up, or braid it. He would sit in between my legs when I was sitting on a chair and brush through his wet hair- Philip was my ultimate pride and joy

- dinner time was my favourite time of day, it was always so warm and happy- Eliza would make us dinner and I would come down from working and eat with Eliza and our children

- I have a memory of me, Eliza, and young/toddler Philip having a picnic in a field with daisies all around us, and we were making daisy chains and eating food and it was rly rly nice and sunny and warm yet slightly breezy and it smelled like jasmine

- I remember the first time Eliza found out about my fear of storms, we were having dinner and i heard thunder and I just like. Froze. And she tried talking to me and I was just like "I need to go" but she calmed me down, asked me to sit down at the table, and got me to explain to her eventually, this was before Philip, so it was just us.

- but once we got Philip, and he was maybe 3 or 4, it was another stormy day and I froze again and Philip said "what's wrong papa?" And I bent down to his level and reassured him that I was okay, after that he sat on my lap and distracted me from the storm outside, I was really focused on this one curl in his hair that was out of place lol

- before Philip, Eliza kept having miscarriages, so we decided to adopt Philip. Our first successful pregnancy was Angie, I was SO protective over Eliza when she was pregnant, if she got up in the middle of the night I would ask her if she needed anything, and when she was walking I would walk behind her with my hands on her hips incase she fell bc she was waddling

- Angie had slight autism all her life, and when Philip died she just lost it and went insane. She was delusional and never grew up a day past 17. she would constantly ask if Philip was coming home and was living in a world as if Philip was still alive, she constantly lived in a world between 7 years old and 17 years old, even when she physically grew older. I would walk with her and play with her, and when i was with her i started to go into her world of Philip still being here. We took care of her. One day, someone suggested we put her in a hospital, and i slammed my fork into my food and quietly but surely said “i will NOT lock my daughter away.”, and the room fell silent. Later on, Eliza and I were walking near the ocean, and she brought up the topic again. I said “They locked away my mother. She nearly starved to death and i will not let my daughter go through that” and Eliza reassured me- “Hon.. your mother was jailed for adultery, not mental wellness. Im not in any way saying we should put our daughter somewhere, all i am suggesting is that she be checked out by a doctor.”

- I remember a few of Angie’s breakdowns. She would pull her hair out and slam her head against walls

-Once Eliza got too old to take care of her (late 70/80′s′s), She put her in a hospital where she stayed for her entire life. she was cared for extremely well there.

DEATH/LATER LIFE MEMS

- I have this like,,, really weird memory of Eliza saying “when you have a problem you come home, you don’t go off and make matters worse on your own” to me a couple different times, one was when Lauren’s shot Charles Lee and I got sent home, another one was when I got into a fight with burr after he ran for senate. The reason why it’s a weird memory is because those are in the heights lyrics???

- I remember the day before I got shot, I stayed up all night writing my goodbye letter to Eliza, there was crumpled papers all over my desk since I kept rewriting them until I was satisfied

- the morning of the duel, it was extremely quiet, like I was literally in a ghost town. Same at the dueling grounds, nobody wanted to talk. I remember I was freaking out trying to focus on one thing but my brain kept going to everything I've ever done in my life, kind of like a life flashed before my eyes kind of moment. I thought of Eliza, and how upset she would be. I thought of Philip, and what was going through his head when he died and how I wish I could apologize to him. Burr's gaze felt like literal knives, so I couldn't bare to look at him. Once I shot up, my mind suddenly calmed and I had this strange factor of "this is my legacy". On the way back across the Hudson I just wanted to keep talking but my doctor said to relax. My Burr tried to run over to talk to me after he shot me, but he wasn't allowed to. He also tried to come to my funeral but wasn't allowed either, he might have watched from afar. but he visited my grave a few times

[latellychat]

The first of my two September holidays this year and it was another part of le Sud I haven’t been before. Another French places to add to my heart and list of places I want to live when I win the lottery.

Nice is nice or its nice in Nice?

I arrived at Nice airport late one Thursday evening from Luton, so we stayed in the Ibis Budget hotel across the main road from the airport. 70€ for bed and breakfast and discounted car parking. The hotel was in between two tram stops so easy access to the city centre. There was a triathlon on at the time so parts of the Promenade des Anglais was closed off but I was still able to see that popular beach view. Lunch at Lou Pilha Leva, Rue du Collet, was a local delicacy called Socca, it like a crepe or maybe a pizza. Whatever it is, it tasted good especially with a few bieres.

  La Croix Valmer (Selection Camping)

A last-minute booking for a gite at Selection Camping (60€ a night) was a bargain. Clean gite and area, beautiful countryside and a tiny sea view. Friendly staff and great food at the restaurant also reasonable priced drinks. It was close to the beach either 5 minutes’ drive or 15 minutes’ walk. Monsieur X’s local bar was Le Godet in the centre (just another 5 minutes’ drive from the campsite), a friendly bunch of his local friends. Having a tea there on a sunny Sunday morning people watching around the market was just like my day dreams and visualisations.

  St. Tropez

I had to go to cross it off my bucket list. I just needed to say I have been. A few hours walking around the harbour, picking out the massive yacht I plan to buy when I win the lottery ten times over and staring at the posers over doing it dressed head to toe in designer logos. Apart from the show offs and the super yachts dwarfing the other boats, St. Tropez is a pretty little harbour and town. It looks like any other southern French costal town. The only negative point about St Tropez is I didn’t see any one famous.

  Port Grimud

Back in March on my other French visit I thought Martigues was France’s Little Venice. I was wrong Port Grimaud is known as ‘Venice of Provence’ and it also has a feeling of being in the Caribbean walking through the holiday resort next to the centre with its palm trees and beach huts. Port Grimaud seemed to be a day tripper spot it was very busy even on a Sunday. The tourists and me all fighting to get that Instagram worthy photo from one of the many bridges.

  Cavalaire-sur-Mer

Beautiful beach and very quiet after the school holidays and I’m sure the beachfront town is nice as well, but the night we went it was windy and wet.

  La Londe les Maures

On our route back to Miramas (I was flying home from Marseille) we stopped off at La Londe les Maures. Monsieur X’s 2020 plan is to set up his photo business from here next summer. The harbour was just as quiet as Cavalaire-sur-Mer in the second week of September. Maybe these places would not be so stunning if I went in busy July and August.

Bonne Chance Monsieur X.

Back to Miramas for a quick run around McArthurGlen Designer Outlet Village as it was closing in an hour…next time I’ll bring a massive suitcase for all the stuff I want to buy. Another reason why I need to win the lottery.

A bientôt France.

The French Riviera – C’est Belle The first of my two September holidays this year and it was another part of le Sud I haven’t been before.