brittywritesstuff
the sun will shine on us again.
Writer of Stuff. | Doer of Law Things. Creator of Tiny Human. |I post a whole lot of fandom... and occasionally my glorious Tiny Human and our adventures. This is a happy place! | Twitter | Instagram | About Me
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Between Me and You...
Text
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Read on AO3
Word Count: 3565
Warnings: Implied Spice and some signature pirate swearing
Everything is gray
His hair, his smoke, his dreams
And now he's so devoid of color
He don't know what it means
The grief is too loud, too overwhelming, too much. Stede had so gently and lovingly placed Ed’s heart back in his chest like a silk pocket square… only to violently rip it out again and let the tattered pieces drift away in the wind. There was nothing after that. Only the agony of the gaping wound left behind, and the anger that fills it.
He has no idea how long it’s been since Stede left -- abandoned -- him. He feels paralyzed by the time that’s passed. It feels like just moments ago. It feels like an eternity. Time marching inexorably forward while Ed desperately clings to those fleeting moments of the past.
The door flies open; it slams against the wall. He can’t be bothered to wonder if it cracks the ornate crown molding wall panel behind it. “The-- the fuck d’you want, Izzy, I told you--”
“Hello, Ed.” That’s funny, Ed thinks. He’s so certain his heart was no longer a part of his anatomy. And yet, at the sound of that voice, he feels it lurch and stop completely. He turns his head slowly, his unruly, unkempt hair sticking to his tear-stained cheeks as he moves. It can’t be. This can’t be. After everything, after all of that, Stede surely isn’t standing in the doorway, looking like a wide-eyed puppy who had made it home after accidentally straying a bit too far from the garden. That wide-eyed gaze shifts, taking in their surroundings. “Oh! You’ve changed a few things.”
Ed grabs the bottle of brandy perched precariously on the mattress beside him and knocks back a long swig. He doesn’t bother to wipe away the drops that roll down his chin. “You’re not real,” he grumbles, climbing off the bed -- his long limbs clumsy and haphazard.
“What? Oh, Ed -- of course I’m real!”
Stede takes a step toward him, and Ed holds up his hand, the amber liquid sloshing in its fine crystal decanter.
“We--” Ed inhales sharply, like he feels a knife through the chest. God, he wishes there was actually a knife in his chest. Being stabbed is so much easier than this. “No. No. We had a plan. Stede made Ed happy, ‘n’ Ed made Stede happy. Then Stede--” He pauses, downing another swallow of brandy. “Stede was gone. Stede wouldn’t’ve--”
“Ed, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry. If you’d just let me explain--”
“Nah, mate. We’re pirates, right? That’s-- you wanted to be a pirate, yeah? We’re all just in various stages of fuckin’ each other over.” He strides toward Stede, stumbling only once before he reaches him. Ed claps him on the shoulder and tries not to crumble just touching him again. Tries not to remember what it felt like to hold Stede’s face in his hand; the press of his lips. “Congrats, man, you’re a pirate.”
He lumbers past Stede, slams the door shut behind him and squeezes his eyes shut, a fresh wave of tears spilling past his lashes. The charcoal smudged beneath his eyes runs with the tears, mixing with the charcoal darkening his stubble. He makes no effort to wipe the tears. Why should he?
“Fuck,” he whispers. He chugs the last of the brandy and pushes off, pausing only briefly to launch the decanter at the door and feels no satisfaction whatsoever as it shatters against the wood. He takes a stumbling step backward when the door opens, and Stede is staring at him imploringly.
“Ed, please--”
Through the whole of Ed’s life, he can’t remember feeling this hurt, this broken, this angry. And every second that passes in Stede’s newly-returned presence feels like a knife slowly carving away pieces of his heart. He can’t stand it. So, instead of addressing what Stede is begging of him, he changes course. He takes a step closer, holding steady to his menacing facade -- a difficult feat being so close; seeing the flecks of green and brown and gold that make up Stede’s hazel eyes; that goddamn dimple in his left cheek when he presses his lips together -- the one that made him swoon every time the endearing buffoon had smiled at him. Focus, Ed.
“You abandoned the ship, Bonnet. It’s mine now. You wanna be back here, you wanna be on board, you work for me.”
“Ed--”
“It’s Blackbeard,” he growls. It takes everything in him not to let tears spill over again. In an effort to combat the tears, and in true Blackbeard fashion, he resorts to violence. He snatches his knife from its holster and lunges forward, jamming it into the doorframe beside Stede’s head. “You wanna be on my ship, you’re in my crew then. You live by my hand, you die by my hand. Otherwise, fuck off.”
He tries and fails to ignore the tears and pure, utter heartbreak in Stede’s eyes. He can’t. He can’t dwell on it. Stede made this choice -- he did this to them. Stede doesn’t get to be the one who mourns.
Before he allows himself to give in, he yanks the knife from the wood and storms away. There are only so many places to go on a ship, but anywhere else is better than right fucking here. And despite stepping out onto the deck in the open air, he feels the grip of the Kraken at his throat, and he can’t breathe.
“Blackbeard--” His knife is out again, and it takes him a beat to realize it’s pressed to Izzy’s throat. “Bonnet’s brought his little pets with him. I’ll handle it, but--”
“They can stay.” Ed lowers the knife and shoves it haphazardly back into its holster. It amazes him he doesn’t slice himself in the process.
“Like fuck they can! I told you--”
Ed’s fist moves faster than his thoughts, but the crack as it connects with Izzy’s cheekbone is deeply satisfying. “You told me?” He grabs at Izzy’s hair, gripping it tight in his fingers as he yanks him up. “I’m the bloody captain, mate! You don’t fuckin’ tell me a thing! Know your place, dog, or you’ll be eating another toe for dinner.” He tosses Izzy away like a ragdoll and turns away to look out over the stern. “Give them all a job. And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.”
The water is grey and choppy, churning up frothy white caps. Ed narrows his eyes at the looming dark clouds on the horizon, his jaw clenching. There’s a storm brewing, and it’s going to be bad. He swears to himself at the blatant, cliched metaphor.
+
The storm sets in at dusk, and Ed hides away in the cabin as the ship rocks violently. The waves and wind and rain lash at the window, but they’re nothing compared to his storm of tears as he curls up on his side, clinging to the fuschia robe. He lets his tears and a bottle of brandy lull him to sleep, tormented by dreams of what could have been.
In the days that follow, Ed makes every effort to avoid Stede. He all but locks himself away in the cabin, fearful of the emotions any interaction may bring. He’s all too aware, however, of the time Stede spends outside the door. He hears the footsteps; the gentle brush of his hand against the door… the soft gasps of his sobs.
He hears the muffled voices of Stede and the crew -- the latter rowdy and cheerful despite their ordeal. Once, laughter erupted on the deck below, and Ed smashed a candelabra against the mantle. Any joy he had found himself capable of feeling had absconded with Stede.
+
“Blackbeard!” The door swings open as Izzy barrels through it, his angry eyes set firmly on Ed -- stewing in the silence of the cabin while stretched out across the sofa. “Nearly a fortnight you’ve been holed up in ‘ere, and it fuckin’ ends tonight.”
The muscle in Ed’s cheek twitches, his jaw clenching so tight he thinks he might break a tooth. The last thing he needs, or wants, is Izzy demanding anything of him. He’s the bloody captain. He demands things of people.
Scrambling to his feet, he scoffs. “Careful with your tone, Iz--”
“We haven’t time for your bloody feelings, Edward. We’re crossing paths with another vessel soon. Likely Spanish traders.”
Ed rolls his eyes and scoffs. “Bloody Spaniards. Big deal.”
Izzy pays him no mind. “It’ll be a large vessel with a sizable crew. Fight won’t be pretty. And we’ll need our bloody Captain.” His gaze drags over Ed with palpable disdain. “So if he’s done crying into his tea, we’d like his company on deck.”
Izzy turns to leave, but stops when Ed speaks. “And where-- what about St-- Bonnet? Is the crew prepared for this?”
“Bonnet’s been playing swordsman day ‘n’ night.” Izzy scoffs and looks away, like speaking of Stede makes him nauseous. “He thinks he’s prepared. Though I’m quite certain the Spanish’ll have another sharp blade with his name on it.” As he passes through the threshold, Izzy shakes his head, and Ed hears him mutter, “should fuckin’ hope so anyway.”
Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth, Ed crosses to the window at the stern, his chocolate eyes scanning the horizon. They had hit a deeply unlucky spell of late, storms nearly every day. This evening seems no different -- black, inky clouds descending on the murky water. The wind is still, but that stillness begets dread.
He tries to ignore it all; fills up with rum to drown it all out. But the commotion is too loud. The rain and waves are nothing compared to the fighting below that’s rocking the ship. “Ah, fuck,” he grumbles. He pushes off the couch, holstering his gun and knife. He knocks back one last swig of rum for good measure and throws open the door. When he steps out into the hall, the sound of battle is nearly deafening.
His hair is soaked the instant he emerges onto deck. The wind whips at the rain; it feels like a thousand tiny cuts across his face. He squints, surveying the carnage as he looks for any sign of Stede. Despite himself, he can’t help it.
A brazen Spaniard has the guts to lunge at him, aggressively shaking him from his thoughts. Despite half a bottle of rum sloshing around in his stomach, the poor bloke is almost no match for Ed. Too easy, he thinks as he slashes the man’s cheek with his knife before planting his foot firmly against his chest and kicking him overboard.
Ed leans over the railing, watching as the man disappears into the darkness. He stays there a moment, letting the rain sting his face. It’s quite nice, actually, feeling something other than the deep ache in his chest and the bitter agony of being left.
A scream pierces his thoughts and he turns, his brows drawing together. He knows that scream.
He crosses to the top of the stairs and grips tightly at the ornate newel post. He watches in horror as one of the Spaniards pins Stede to the ground; a knife poised to slit his throat. Through the rain, he can see blood on Stede’s face. It must be a fresh cut, and a deep one at that, as the blood continues to flow despite the rain washing it away.
He tells himself it’s fine. He tells himself Stede can handle it. The bitterness tells him Stede probably deserves it.
He watches the man press the knife harder against Stede’s throat, and the blood that mixes in the rainwater. Stede screams again, struggling beneath his attacker to get free, but every move he makes brings him perilously closer to the end. Ed feels his stomach churning the rum, and bile rises in his throat. His heart hammers against his chest, but this time, there is no Act of Grace.
The fear takes over, and his hand moves of its own accord. It draws the gun from the holster on Ed’s hip. It cocks back the hammer. It pulls the trigger.
The man looming over Stede goes limp, falling lifeless atop him. Through the crash of the waves, the clinking of swords, and pounding rain, Ed hears the knife clatter to the ground. He hears Stede’s shuddering cry of confusion and relief as he shoves the attacker off.
The few remaining Spaniards retreat and the crew of the Revenge gather to evaluate their own wounds and the bounty they’ve acquired. Ed makes his way down the stairs to Stede, still lying stunned on the deck, his blood washing away through the floorboards. Ed extends his hand to Stede, who hesitantly takes it and climbs to his feet. Stede doesn’t let go just yet, and the feel of his fingers against Ed’s is like fire.
He turns away after a moment and all but runs back to the cabin. He knows Stede is at his heels. Ed pushes his dripping hair away from his face and snatches the abandoned bottle of rum from the table and takes a long swig. He hears the door close, but he can still feel Stede’s presence behind him.
“Look at me. Please.” Ed doesn’t respond, and the silence in the cabin is heavy -- like the weight of the sea just beyond the windows. “Please.” Stede’s whispered plea cuts through again, and Ed finally turns, lifting his eyes.
He hasn’t allowed his gaze to linger more than a second since Stede’s return. He couldn’t. It hurt too much, remembering the joy he’d felt before the world came crashing down around him when Stede left. When Stede left him.
“Thank you.”
Ed realizes he’d been staring. When he blinks, a tear spills over. “Wh--”
“For saving me down there. You didn’t have to! But you did. And for that, I am grateful.”
Ed shrugs, trying for nonchalance. “Yeah, well. Whatever.” He looks to the window, a rogue strand of hair slipping forward in his face. He swipes at it, but it falls right back into place, so he gives up, his hand falling to the butt of the gun at his hip. Though his gaze is averted, he hears Stede take a step closer, and then another, and Ed swears he can smell the sweet citrus and cinnamon of the tea he always drinks. He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath in an effort to calm himself, but all it does is intensify that sense of yearning that had only been reignited by the grasp of Stede’s hand on deck.
Swallowing hard, Ed turns to Stede again, eyeing the gash on his cheek. “You’re hurt.”
Stede tilts his head, and warmth floods Ed’s chest at the reverence in his eyes. “Not as badly as you.” Ed gasps and looks down. He hadn’t expected that wave of emotion crashing into him. Stede moves closer still. “Seems I’ve wrongly stabbed you again, though this time I didn’t avoid all the important bits.” Stede’s hand presses to his chest, covering his heart, and Ed loses his composure with a sob.
“Why’d you do it, man? Wh-why-” He chokes on his words as Stede moves in, his hands grasping at Ed’s face. It takes everything in him not to crumble. “Why’d you leave?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Ed. I’d never want to hurt you. I was wrong. I was so very wrong. I thought I’d ruined everything. My family, my crew, the Badmintons… and worst of all, you. I’d ruined you.”
Ed can’t help himself. He grips at the front of Stede’s rain-soaked shirt.
“I’ve never wanted anything more than a life with you, Ed. I tried to fix everything, but I only made it worse. ‘Cause I’ve only got stupid ideas.” Stede’s thumbs brush across Ed’s cheeks, and Ed lifts his eyes through the tears on his lashes. “I’ve sewn up all the other wounds, but you’re still bleeding out, and I can’t have that. Please, Ed. I… I love you. Give me another chance.”
He wants so badly to make Stede hurt the same way he had been hurting. He wants to rail against his apology. He wants to go back to boredom and loneliness -- it was easier then. It was easier before the fucking Gentleman Pirate stormed into his life.
But goddamnit.
Standing here so close, breathing him in, feeling the warmth of his hands on his face… Ed can’t. He can’t push Stede away. His life was wholly and irrevocably changed the moment they met, and he can’t go back. Because he is deeply, madly, completely in love with Stede. He never understood it before, that bullshit idea of love… and then this ridiculous man in his fancy silks waltzed his way in and showed him what being treated with kindness meant. Showed him what belonging felt like. Stede had shown him what a gentle man really was, in every sense of the word.
And now, this gentle, bizarre, beautiful man is standing in front of him proclaiming his love for him. And he means it. The only other person in his long, miserable life who had meant their love for him was his mother. If not for Stede holding his face; if not for him grasping Stede’s shirt, Ed feels like he might collapse.
“I--” He can’t find the words. Not that Ed has ever been much of a words man, but in that moment… they are nowhere to be found. Any attempt to speak is stuck, unable to slip past his heart in his throat. And so, in lieu of words, he pulls Stede in and kisses him hard. It’s not his best work. It’s sloppy at best, but it’s all he has. It’s the only way he can express his desperation; his heartache; his love. He melts at the sound of Stede sighing against his lips, and as he drops one hand to Stede’s waist, he lifts the other to his face.
When Stede hisses in pain and pulls back, Ed’s heart drops. This is it, he thinks. Stede has changed his mind. He’s leaving again. But when he opens his eyes to look at Stede, he remembers the gash across his cheek. Oh. “Oh, shit.” He licks his lips, his brows drawing together. He runs his thumb over Stede’s jaw beneath the cut. “‘M sorry. Gotta get that cleaned up, man.” Despite the injury, Stede is smiling at him, his eyes full of warmth. That same warmth floods Ed’s chest.
“C’mon.” He guides Stede to the couch and pushes him down before stepping away to grab a shirt strewn haphazardly across the back of a chair. He sniffs it quickly to confirm its cleanliness, then digs a small leather pouch from the desk drawer. “Gonna have to sew you up,” he explains, holding up the pouch for Stede to see.
“Occupational hazards, I s’pose.” Stede laughs nervously and shifts in his seat. Ed is keenly aware of the intensity of Stede’s gaze, but does his best to focus on the task at hand.
Settling on the footstool, he shifts closer, nudging Stede’s legs apart to settle neatly between them. He reaches for the bottle of rum and mutters an apology before pouring it across Stede’s cheek. When Stede yelps, Ed shrugs. “Never said it wasn’t gonna hurt.”
He’s surprised by the steadiness of his hands as he sews the gash. Between the rum, the rush of emotions swirling inside of him, and the intensity of Stede’s eyes on his face as he works, he impresses himself with his work. He’s done it on himself more times than he can count, but this is Stede. He wants to do it right. He tries to do it right.
Ed rips a strip from the shirt and douses it in rum to clean the wound one last time. His eyes roam Stede’s face, his fingers lingering longer than necessary. “Gonna have a bit of a scar with that one,” he murmurs.
“I don’t mind,” Stede says softly. “Thank you, Ed.”
Ed pushes his hair away from his face and lifts his eyes to Stede’s, his heart aching. All the boiling anger he had felt was evaporating with every second that passed in Stede’s presence. With every second of the way Stede is looking at him, watching him imploringly, his messy, rain-soaked hair falling forward over his eyes. He reaches up, brushing his fingertips over the blonde stubble along his jaw. “Fuck, Stede,” he breathes, shaking his head.
With renewed intensity, he grasps at Stede’s face and leans in, their lips crashing into each other’s. His fingers push further, burying in the soft waves of Stede’s hair. He pulls Stede to his feet, and they stumble their way to the bed, the window fogging as they tear each other’s clothes away.
Outside, the storm still rages. But in the sanctity of that bed, beneath those fine silk sheets, Ed and Stede found their calm again. And when Ed woke with the sun on his face, and Stede’s warmth pressed against him, he found he could once again see the beautiful, vibrant colors Stede brought into his life.
You were a vision in the morning
When the light came through
I know I've only felt religion when I've lied with you
#ed and stede#ed x stede#blackbeard x stede#edward teach#ed teach#our flag means death#blackbonnet#ofmd fic#ofmd fanfic#ofmd fanfiction#gentlebeard#gentlebeard fic#blackbonnet fanfic#fanfic#my writing#britty writes stuff#stede bonnet#ofmd
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Y’all, there’s nothing worse than discovering and falling in love with a book series that came out YEARS ago, finishing the book series, desperately wanting more, hopping over to AO3…. Only to find one — 1… ONE! — singular fanfic 😭😭😭
#fanfic#a million worlds with you#ten thousand skies above uou#a thousand pieces of you#Paul markov#marguerite caine#Theo beck#firebird trilogy#claudia gray
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😭
the red floral robe (gay) | OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH
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This show has destroyed me.
I haven’t felt this happy consuming media since I watched Schitt’s Creek for the first time.
I will be obsessed with this until I die.
Peasants marry for love.
#ofmdedit#our flag means death#ofmd spoilers#blackstede#taika waititi#rhys darby#otp: his name is ed#stede bonnet#ed teach#britty talks
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oh girl it’s you that I lie with as the world caves in
Read on AO3
Word count: 544
Warning: Implied spice
“Forgive me.”
Millie turns to him and grasps his chin, and in that moment, he’s taken back. Taken back to the last time it was good. To the last time he felt that true happiness. The happiness that he only ever found with her.
~
“Forgive me,” she whispers, “for I have sinned.”
John’s fingertips trail the dip of her spine, smirking at the goosebumps on her skin. She’s draped across his chest, and she’s so warm and soft. As the moonlight filters in through the window, pouring over her alabaster skin, she almost looks like she’s glowing. He smiles at that. This, above all else, is his favorite place to be. And perhaps there is sin in that, but he can’t seem to find it. “No,” he says softly, and she lifts his head to look at him. His hand cradles her jaw as he admires her beautiful face. “Nothing about you is sinful, my love.”
Millie smiles warmly, though John can see a hint of sadness behind it. He pulls her in and tries to kiss it away. He’s always been able to kiss it away… and he hopes he always can. “Above all,” he murmurs, “love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.”
John shifts, turning Millie to her back as he leans over her; her soft giggles melding with the quiet crackling of the candle’s flames; the wind against the old clapboard siding. Her hands skim his sides and she’s moaning under his touch; her breaths heavy against his ear. He wishes he could make a recording of those sounds. It’s a symphony to him. A masterpiece.
“I love you,” she gasps as they break together, and he buries his face against her neck, breathing her in.
John presses his lips beneath her ear, along her jaw, across her cheek. He presses his forehead to hers and closes his eyes. “Oh, I love you, Millie.” He transfers his weight to his forearm, burying his fingers in her soft hair. “I love you more than anything in the world.”
He kisses her again, deep and languid, like she’s an oasis in the desert. He rolls to his side, his hand smoothing over her hip; gently squeezing her thigh as she presses against him.
“I wish,” Millie says softly, her nose brushing his, “I wish we could stay here forever.” Her hand is on his chest, her lithe fingertips tracing slowly over his skin.
And oh how he wishes they could. He would stay in this bed with her forever. He would forsake all things for her. Only for her. He has never known love and completion the way he has with her. “I do, too.”
“For tonight, let’s just pretend.”
His hand closes around her jaw, and she lifts her eyes to him. God, they’re beautiful. She is so beautiful. “For tonight, it’s only you, my love. It’s only us. For tonight, this is forever.”
Millie lifts her fingers to his chin, leaning in to kiss him, and the earth around them burns.
And here it is, our final night alive… as the earth burns to the ground…
Their daughter lay in his lap, peaceful in death, and together they go quietly into the sunrise. Into their forever.
#midnight mass fanfic#midnight mass#john pruitt#mildred gunning#john pruitt x mildred gunning#monsignor pruitt#john x mildred#my writing#britty writes stuff#midnight mass fic
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Reblog if you will answer LITERALLY ANY anon questions.
BRING IT ON
challenge accepted
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Ah, shit. Here we go again. Did I fall in love with another tall, dark-haired, emotionally broken sad boi who may or may not have committed varying degrees of mass murder?
You’re goddamn right I did.
Am I gonna fic about it?
You’re goddamn right I am.
#midnight mass#john pruitt#father paul hill#father paul#monsignor pruitt#john x mildred#midnight mass fanfic#britty writes stuff#fic writing
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Absolutely a sucker for the “ARE YOU HURT” once over. The wandering hands, frantically checking for blood or pain just SOMETHING. ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIED of what they might find while searching. The panicked look on the face of the person doing the checking, the glossy, confused “I’m fine” from the person being checked. HOO BOY just inject that shit right into my veins
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I have Cas’s angel warding sigil on my bicep!
if you HAD to get a supernatural related tattoo like forced at gunpoint what would you get
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let me tell you no one ever got my soul right like she could
Read on AO3
Word Count: 1.7k
Warnings: Mild spice (implied sexytimes)
The cool evening breeze blows in through the window in the hall as Rick passes, and though he’d killed the bastard himself, he wonders if he’ll ever not be on alert again. What with the creep’s magical ability to waltz in through the window and whisk away himself -- and anyone of his choosing -- in a flurry of sand. What the hell is this life?
Rick shakes his head to clear his thoughts, his hair falling in his eyes. He stops outside the door and clears his throat, haphazardly pushing his hair away from his face. The action is futile; it only flops right back over his forehead.
He pauses a moment, then lifts his hand and knocks. When the door opens, he forgets to breathe. She looks so goddamn beautiful. The ends of her hair are damp, and her cheeks are flushed — she must have just stepped out of the bath. As his gaze falls lower, he sees the sheen of water glistening on her neck and chest. “Hi. Hello.” He snaps his mouth shut and forces his eyes back to hers.
“Hello,” Evelyn says softly. She’s smiling, and tilts her head. A curl slips loose from her braid, and Rick wants to reach out to touch it.
“I just—“ he hesitates, shifting his weight to the other foot. “I wanted to see how you were. How you’re doing. Y’know. After all that. So are you good? You’re good?”
Evelyn’s smile widens, and she pulls the door open further, stepping back to gesture inside. “I am. Would you like a drink?”
Rick takes a breath and nods, stepping past her. He waits as she closes the door, then catches her hand on her way to the drink cart. She meets his eyes, and he pulls her in, slipping his free arm around her waist. He can feel the warmth of her skin through her thin nightgown, and he tightens his grip on her. He lifts her hand, settling it on his chest before brushing his fingers along her jaw. She’s so goddamn beautiful; so goddamn perfect, he can’t stop the worry that she’s going to come to her senses and realize she’s made a terrible mistake. That she shouldn’t be associating with the likes of him -- a scoundrel. Perhaps she’ll chock it up to the heat of the desert and the adrenaline of near-death. But now, safely back in Cairo, she’ll come to her senses.
“What is it?”
Rick blinks, her gentle voice pulling him from his thoughts. He realizes she’s staring up at him, watching closely, the line between her delicate brows furrowed. “I’m just counting my blessings, is all.” His thumb brushes her cheek, and her fingers curl around his shirt. He leans down, brushing his lips against hers before capturing them in a slow kiss. She sighs into his mouth, and he pulls her closer, his fingers slipping back into her hair to cradle her head. His tongue begs entrance, and he groans quietly when she allows him.
They part, breathless, and he rests his forehead against Evelyn’s. “I should let you get some rest,” he whispers, though he pulls her closer.
Evelyn’s hand slips up his chest, grasping the back of his neck. “I’m not at all tired, Mr. O’Connell.”
His eyes are closed, but he can hear the smile in her voice. Even so, he feels that fear rising in his throat. Terror is more like it. “No, I know, I just-- I don’t--” He’s not unfamiliar with the feeling: his whole life has been one terror after another. Trauma, fighting, loss… But for the first time, he feels like he’s finally found something worth holding onto. He feels like if he lost Evelyn, he might finally perish. It is with astonishing clarity and horror that he realizes he is wholly, deeply, and irrevocably in love with her.
“Rick,” she whispers, and her lithe fingers trail his jaw. Rick opens his eyes to meet hers, and he sucks in a breath. He loves the sound of his name on her lips, and he never wants to go a day without hearing it. “What is it?”
Finally, he opens his eyes, pulling back just enough to look down at her and meet her gaze. He licks his lips and sighs, losing himself for a moment in her freckles; in the swirls of green and honey that make up her eyes. She is breathtakingly beautiful, and he can’t bring himself to understand why someone as beautiful and astonishingly intelligent wants someone like him. “I don’t wanna push you,” he says finally. He surprises himself -- it’s not what he intends to say. He intends to keep it to himself, but once the words are out, it’s like a floodgate. “I don’t want you to change your mind or think you made a mistake ‘cause I’m crazy about you, ‘n’ you’re way outta my league--”
Evelyn presses a finger to his lips, and he stops. Her gaze is intense and intent. “Stay with me tonight.”
Rick’s eyebrows disappear behind his hair. “Evy, I--”
“There’s nothing that could change my mind about you. You can’t scare me off or push me too far. I would expect you’ve figured out by now, I’m not a girl who’s easily frightened.”
At that, Rick smiles. It’s quite possibly one of the things he loves most about her -- her absolute unbridled bravery in the face of horror. “You’ve got a point there.” For the time being, he suppresses his worries and drops both hands to her thighs to lift her up. Her nightgown bunches at her hips, and his fingers brush her skin. He kisses her, slow and heated as he makes his way to the bed, laying her back gently. He toes out of his boots and climbs over her, careful not to crush her; his weight braced on an elbow beside her head.
Evelyn’s fingers work at the buttons of his shirt, and Rick gasps against her lips when her fingers slip beneath it. “Are you sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” she murmurs between kisses, “than I am of how much I want you.” Despite her words, he can feel her heart racing; hammering against her chest. And more than ever, he wants to do everything he can to show her how much he cares about her. To make it special.
He lets her work open the rest of his buttons, and he shifts his weight to shrug out of his shirt, tossing it to the floor. Smirking, he watches as she drinks him in, her fingers delicately brushing over his broad chest. God, he never wants to lose this feeling. He never wants to let go of the way she’s looking at him; the feeling of her fingertips against his skin.
Slipping his hand under her nightgown, he caresses the soft skin of her thigh gently, pushing the silky fabric upward as he ducks his head, pressing slow, soft kisses to her neck, along her collar bone. He’s encouraged by the sound she makes; by the way her fingers grip his shoulders. Breaking away, he sits back on his knees and pulls her up with him, holding her gaze. Slowly, he gathers her nightgown in his hands and tugs it upward; she lifts her arms above her head, allowing him to pull it off. It flutters forgotten to the floor with his discarded shirt. “My god, Evy,” he breathes, shaking his head.
Her hands clasp over her chest as her cheeks flush crimson, and he shakes his head again. He reaches out, gently taking her hands in one of his to pull them away; his other cradles her jaw. “No, sweetheart,” he whispers, licking his lips, “I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you.” He seals his sentiment with a languid kiss, and he swallows her sigh.
+
The cool evening breeze gives way to the chill of the night, floating in through the white chiffon curtains adorning Evelyn’s windows. Rick sprawls on his back, gripping Evelyn tight against him, her head settling on his chest as the sweat dries on their skin. As her fingers trace invisible patterns on his abdomen, he trails his finger along her shoulder, still reveling in her soft skin, warm against his own. He lifts his free hand to cover hers, stilling it on his stomach.
“I’m in love with you, Evy,” he whispers. He draws in a shaky breath, his heart pounding in his chest. She shifts, lifting herself to her elbow to look down at him. Her dark curls tumble forward, and as his eyes are fixed on hers, he pushes them over her shoulder. “You were never just a contract. Matter of fact, since the moment I met you, I realized you’re the most important thing -- the most precious thing I’ve ever held, ‘n’ I… I couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to.”
“Rick--”
“I don’t have much. I know I don’t have much to give you. But I want you. I want to be--”
“O’Connell--”
“--with you. I realized some things out there, and I--” Rick’s cut off by Evelyn’s lips against his own; her small, lithe hand on his jaw. He wraps his arm around her and pulls her closer, lifting his hand to her face.
“I love you,” she whispers when they part, and Rick’s face lights up. “I haven’t the slightest care what you do or do not have, Rick. I care about you.” Her eyes fall to his chest, and she smiles, bashful. The sight makes Rick’s heart swell. She’s so unbelievably beautiful; so perfectly adorable. Though he speaks a couple of languages (enough to get by, thank you very much), there aren’t proper words for how he feels about her. He hopes that maybe one day he can find them. “I care about this. Us.”
Rick bends his knee, pulling Evelyn closer. His fingers trail down her spine as he tucks her hair behind her ear. “I don’t care what plagues you unleash next, as long as I get to hear that, I’m a happy man,” he teases. Before she can protest, he pulls her in for a kiss, smiling against her lips.
It’s then that he realizes how long it’s been since he was happy. Rather, he realizes that he had never truly found happiness. There had been women along the way to ease the sting of loneliness, of course. But no one had ever done what Evelyn had; he had never felt for anyone the way he feels for her. He handed his heart to her in that desert, and he never wants it back.
#the mummy#evelyn carnahan#rick o'connell#evy carnahan#rick x evy#rick x evelyn#the mummy fanfic#the mummy 1999#the mummy fanfiction#fluffy fanfiction#fluff fic#my writing#britty writes stuff
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I was struck with SUPER random inspiration for a fic, and now, after 6 months I’m mad again that they couldn’t have even bothered to use a single ‘Hello, Dean’ sound clip from one of the 12 seasons he was in to give them a happy en—
Fine, I’ll just go write.
Still mad tho.
#destiel#deancas#supernatural#dean and cas#dean x castiel#otp: i need you#otp: a more profound bond#otp: profound bond#spn finale#britty talks#britty writes stuff
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Hello, darlings. It’s been a minute. Been dealing with some personal things. But this is too important not to reblog.
My dear, sweet, beautiful friend and her family are in need. Anything helps. Please, please, please do what you can. She deserves all the kindness in the world.
i hate to be that person but i’m struggling really badly financially. my mom’s in the ICU on a ventilator with sepsis, and i’m out of work right now. i need to pay my car insurance, medications, and my pup is due for her shots soon. i’m gonna drop my c*sh*pp and v*nmo. any amount will help 🥺🙏🏻 please and thank you y’all. 💖
$*pp: $allyelizabeth1
v*nmo: Allie_bee27
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This is literally just an interaction between me and my husband.
Tell me these dramatic-ass bitches weren’t married.
TELL ME TO MY FACE
12x03 — ’The Foundry’
#destiel#deancas#dean loves cas#cas loves dean#otp: a more profound bond#otp: I need you#otp: i love you#otp: mornin' sunshine
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Reblog if you're a fanfic writer and you wanna know what your followers' favorite story of yours is ❤
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Bringing something “full circle” is a great device for thematic elements over the course of a story. Bookending can be great.
However, years of rigorous, detailed, painful character development and movement of stories should not, under any circumstances, be destroyed for the sake of bringing something “full circle.”
That’s not a satisfying ending. That’s saying to your viewers; your readers; your fans, “Remember all that time you invested? Eh, didn’t matter. Train’s right back in the station. Hop on off. Sorry for bumpy ride around the block.”
The cause and effect is negated. If you start a story, throw in a bunch of emotional, situational, and personal development in the middle, you should end up further down the road than where you began. But if you start a story and are able to take away all of the middle and you still end up right where you began with no betterment or differences save for the age of your characters... that’s not a good ending.
It’s like you make a sandwich just to remove all the filling and eat the bread. Why make the sandwich if you just wanted bread?
Why create meaningful relationships and focus large portions of entire seasons on them, only for them to be completely erased in the end? Why focus so much on free will and finding who you are and being happy despite everything, only for him to die unfulfilled, alone, and co-dependent... right where he started?
I saw a post somewhere and if I find it, I’ll tag the OP, but it went something like this:
Sam, if the last 15 years never happened: White picket fence, wife, dog, kids, etc.
Dean, if the last 15 years never happened: Dies alone on a hunt gone wrong.
Sam, after 15 years of character development: White picket fence, wife, dog, kids, etc.
Dean, after 15 years of character development: Dies alone on a hunt gone wrong.
No matter what the issue was and how or why that was the ending we got... it was deeply unsatisfying to someone who has been on this journey since day 1. Since the absolute beginning. I’m not discussing this through the goggles of a ship. I’m speaking as someone who appreciates well-written stories. As someone who invested twelve years (eighty percent of the entirety of the show) in a character and the development of a deep, meaningful relationship (whether or not you view it as romantic).
There was a lot missing from that finale. A lot. I can make jokes about it all day, but overall, I’m deeply disappointed and hurt by whatever went down behind the scenes for that to be the final product (something, I’m certain, we’ll never know).
I’m done beating the dead horse. I’ll carry on (heh) with my fic writing. Because no matter what happened with that finale, I will never not love these characters. They’re in my heart and under my skin (literally, I have Cas’s tattoo on my arm) forever.
#spn 15x20#spn finale#supernatural finale#dean winchester#dean x cas#destiel#deancas#otp: a more profound bond#britty talks#britty writes stuff#castiel#sam winchester
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Anybody have a transcript of Dean’s death scene? I’m writing a fix-it and I just don’t feel like putting myself through watching that train wreck again.
Please and thank you.
#destiel#deancas#supernatural#otp: i need you#my writing#otp: a more profound bond#dean winchester#dean’s death#15x20#spn fix it#spn 15x20#s15x20#britty writes stuff
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That’s it, that’s the show.
looking at destiel’s entire arc really is *dean voice* well, what we have here is a failure to communicate
#destiel#deancas#supernatural#otp: i need you#otp: a more profound bond#otp: profound bond#otp: i love you
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