#matching disdain in their eyes lmao

[tomfrogisblue]

my fav part of the whole lore kerfuffle when q!fit went off to finish his deal with his boss was the art trend that appeared of q!pac chilling, cuddling a cute lil kitty with mismatched eyes, and the cat and q!fit just having a fucking stare off

[astarionancuntnin]

Hyello! I don’t know if you do requests but I thought I’d ask so the request is that x reader is honestly pretty badass and Astarion does something that pisses her off and so she barges into his tent after a long day to tell him off and fight him but decides that amidst the anger there is also hunger and decides theres a a way he can make it up to her and smutty content insues, preferably very like animalistic?? think closer by nine inch nails lol i do like the idea that they're both fighting for dominance in the interaction, you choose which one wins lol hope I’m not bothering you

did i listen to closer on repeat to bring you this? perhaps

and i never really put it out there, but hell yeah im taking requests! thank you for being my first <3

(also thank you for your patience i was heavily focused on my last chapters for die for you before approaching this ask and then it really went overboard LMAO you said "animalistic" and i took it literally, i hope you enjoy!)

Run, Little Fox

pairing: astarion x reader!ranger!tav

rating: E

word count: 5.1k

cw: 18+. smut, biblicaly accurate Astarion primal!astarion, predator/prey, knife play (if you squint), rivals/hate sex, mildly dubious consent, fighting for dominance, p in v, blood/vampire bites, creampie, very slight somnophilia (but id rather mention it, never too safe)

read on ao3

my masterlist

or keep reading down below~

That’s it. 

That was once too many.

This brat of a rogue had gotten on your nerves more times than you could recall, and today you decided you had enough. Your group trusted and respected your position as their leader, a brave and cunning ranger whose decisions everyone agreed with — as they were for the greater good — so why couldn’t he do the same? It wasn’t enough that he questioned your every move in front of everyone else, no, he grew bored of you ignoring his remarks. He just had to act on his impulses and get you in trouble this time. 

You had intended on getting information out of a group of adventurers, when he had tried to pickpocket them in the middle of your discussion, and when he got caught, things obviously went south. You tried to talk things down, but they wouldn’t hear it. One thing led to another and next thing you know, they laid in a pool of their own blood and you stood with no more information than you started with. All of it, because of him, and he had the gall to say it was your own fault for not defusing the situation better. Really?!

The stress of this adventure — the impending doom that those tadpoles in your brains were — was already enough weight on your shoulders, you didn’t want to deal with Astarion’s trickery on top of it anymore. No — you couldn’t. You had enough of his unnerving attitude; enough of his shameless flirting when it was clear you weren’t interested; enough of his impetuous disdain and insolence that matched your own. Tonight, you would set the record right.

Once back at camp after this horrendous, unending day by his side, the first thing you do after dropping your loot and equipment at your tent, is bolt straight for Astarion’s. 

Still covered in a mix of your sweat, today’s unfortunate souls’ blood — and your own — you burst through the entrance of Astarion’s tent without so much as a warning to find him peacefully laying, with one arm behind his head and the other already flipping through the pages of a book he had found, and most certainly stolen, during today’s stroll.

He barely lifts his head to notice your intrusion, his eyes darting your way, half-lidded. “Looking for a cuddle?” 

The sheer audacity of the smirk he gives you. 

“You—” You fully step into his tent, staring him down with an anger that couldn’t be contained, as you close the flaps behind you, “Have been a pain in my ass for long enough.”

He scoffs, “Darling, we haven’t been close like that yet — unless this is your way of asking?” He closes his book and puts it aside to focus on you, as he rests on his elbows, his taunting smile never leaving his lips. What you wouldn't give to wipe it away from his smug face.

“The last thing I want is you anywhere near me.”

“You see,” he checks his nails, bored. “I have a hard time believing that, dear.”

“Get over yourself.” You cross your arms over your chest, annoyed at how well he could annoy you. “What makes you think I want anything to do with you after the commotion you caused today?”

“For one, you came to me, in my tent. If that's not a dead giveaway, I don't know what is,” his eyes dart back to you. “And to further prove that point, you still haven’t left — even though you claim I am the reason for your frustration. Really, it's as if you relished my company after all.”

You open your mouth to contradict him, but your words are left hanging when he gets up, his shirt slightly unbuttoned revealing the lines of his muscles concealed underneath and you can’t help but let your eyes wander longer than you intended, gulping as you do so. He chuckles lightly before he speaks up again.

“Secondly, I’ve seen the way you’ve been looking at me.”

Your eyes shoot up to his face again, and you ask defensively, “Would you rather have me not look at you?”

He gives you a mischievous look as he eyes you up and down, and he meets your gaze with just as much intensity.

“Third, and lastly, I can smell you, darling.”

“I haven't washed yet.”

“You know that isn't what I'm referring to.”

Your heartbeat quickens, as the air seems to draw out of the tent, “Well, whatever you think this is, isn't your doing,” you lie plainly in the hopes he buys it, but his smirk leads you to believe he sees right through it.

“You’re not fooling anyone but yourself, dearest.” He tilts his head, a long silence settling in between the two of you, with your breathing as the only sound audible in the space of his tent. “Maybe… There's another reason you might be frustrated. That all this, pent up anger building inside, is because of something else that you can’t control.” He closes the distance between the two of you, stopping but a whisper away from your face, and his voice gets lower, deeper. “Something that you would rather not have to deal with, but for some reason just can’t get rid of. Something that just rubs you the wrong way, and is the same reason why you can’t help but want to stay in my presence.” 

You scoff, challenging his gaze, “If that something you’re referring to is you, Astarion, then you’re right — you are the sole reason of my frustration as of late, but I could do without your irritating presence.”

“Oh, but I could make it much more pleasurable.” 

You lean back, and turn your head aside, trying to make some distance between the two of you, ”You give yourself too much credit.”

He slides a finger down your throat, leaving an unexpected shiver in its wake as he exposes your neck, when he pushes your vagabond strands of hair away, before he continues.

“Why don’t you give me a chance to show you exactly what I mean? We would both benefit from this, really; I could fix your predicament, and in exchange, I could receive… a little something from you in return.”

You contemplated the opportunity laid before you for just a second before opting for the reasonable choice. You grab his hand, pulling it away from you and when you speak up again, the anger in your voice is gone, leaving place for your much smoother, yet very assertive tone. “If you want my blood, you’ll have to earn it.”

You release his hand and he keeps it in the air where you left it, cocking his head to the side as he looks at where your hand had held him, “Earn it, you say?”

You nod, “We wouldn’t want you to become soft now, would we?” A smile of your own takes place on your lips. “If I am to be your meal, it’s only fair that you work for it.”

His eyes dart back to yours as a smirk appears on his lips, “I’m all pointy ears.”

“I’ll be hiding in the woods. If you can find and catch me, you get to drink from me. But if I catch you instead, you’re never getting a drop from me.”

He sighs, “That’s hardly a fair proposition, darling.” As you’re about to contradict him, he continues, “Here’s mine instead: if you catch me, fine — I’ll keep chasing boars and whatnot in the woods — but if I catch you…” He leans over the crook of your neck, whispering. “I get to drink from you every. night.”

You grab him by the chin, bringing him face to face with you, “If I catch you, you don’t get to put the party at risk anymore. You will be kicked out of the camp if you do.” If you had to put your vitality on the line, he had to bet something just as valuable.

His fangs glow in the faint lighting of his tent as he smiles. “Deal.”

You drop his chin as he steps back and you notice how something about him seems to be shifting; the pupils of his eyes widen, darkening; his own breathing stops; the hands at his side turning into claws, with his long and sharp nails peaking out, ready to hunt. There was nothing left of the rogue in distress that you picked up a few weeks ago, who could’ve pretended to be nothing more than an innocent, but rather pale, elf. 

When he opens his mouth to speak again, you spy his elongated fangs; much longer than you remember them to be, and his voice—

“Run.”

You don’t lose a second more; the vision of nightmares before you triggered your fight or flight reaction and without your weapons, the choice was clear. You turn around and slide through the flaps of his tent, bolting straight for your tent, where you quickly manage to pick up your trusty dagger and your set of bow and arrows.

Thankfully, everyone else at camp had gone off to bed, so no one notices you as you pick a frantic run towards the deep woods, making distance from the hungry vampire on your tracks. 

The woods are dark, with only the faint light of the moon guiding your tracks. Once far enough, or so you think, you hide behind a tree to control your breathing; you had no intention to lose to this, you needed all the advantages you could get. With your experience as a ranger, you were almost assured to catch him off guard.

Almost.

What you had seen in his tent before sprinting off was like nothing you had ever seen before. Of course, you knew Astarion was a vampire, but this was… different.

Terrifying. 

A beast, straight out of those scary bedtime stories you recall from your childhood; a monster guided by his thirst for flesh and blood, who would show no mercy, no remorse. It was merely enough to make you question this challenge with him, Gods, how embarrassing would it be to lose your life to a stupid game you had initiated purely out of spite?

The rustling of leaves nearby brings you back into focus, the adrenaline in your veins keeping you on edge for any sound. You ready your bow before you peek out of your hiding spot to aim where you heard the sound and wait patiently for another moment, your eyes never leaving the bush right until you hear another crack — right when you release the arrow, your aim striking true as you hear a loud thud. You wait a few more seconds, and when no sound can be heard from the bushes you leave your cover, advancing towards your prey. When you push the branches away, you’re face to face with none other than—

A boar.

Shit. Well — guess you caught your next meal.

Another rustling of leaves has you drawing out your bow again, ready to strike, but you’re unable to tell where it comes from.

“How does it feel, little fox?” You hear him through the woods, his deep and raspy, but unnatural voice almost echoing through you. “To be the one being hunted?”

“I’m hunting you, too, in case you forgot,” you mumble mostly to yourself, not wanting to draw out more attention and telling on your location. 

Although you were confident in your capacities, you couldn’t deny the fear building up in your chest. The unnerving feeling of knowing he was around, knowing he was onto you, but unable to find him through the dense woods, the reminder of what he looked like before you ran for your life, a creature of darkness—

“Keep running, you delicious little thing,” his voice already seems to be coming from somewhere else, where exactly you couldn't tell, as if he was constantly moving and it came from everywhere all at once. “You’re making this too easy for me.”

Damn him. He could be anywhere, it was useless to stay there, out in the open, when he was clearly onto you. Then again, he could also intentionally be pushing you to run, only to lead you into a trap of his, right where he wanted you to be. 

No, you’re smarter than this. You won't let your emotions get in the way of this: you were a hunter, born and raised for this kind of situation.

He is just another prey; you can outsmart him. You are better than him.

You put away your bow and arrows; you know your long range weapons would be of no use to you if you couldn’t see your target. If he’s trying to make you run, he has to be further ahead, so the smart choice would be to go back on your tracks.

You turn on your heels in a heartbeat and start sprinting in the opposite way, not even bothering to look behind you for any sign of him, as you hear the clear rustling of branches around you. At this moment, you know he’s right on your tail, the sounds of the forest barely covering the sound of his own movements between the trees — if that was even him. You assume it is, but who’s not to say it isn’t just another boar? Either way, all you can do now is keep running, hoping he will tire before you.

But you were against a creature of the night, someone — or rather something, now — much more in its element, in the darkness of the woods, than you were. 

You don’t run for long before you stop abruptly in your tracks to change directions, leaving the clear road for the crowded forest, where you think you could lose him.

You're temporarily reassured when you don't hear him anymore, and allow yourself to breathe again. Your heart is pounding in your chest, faster than ever, as the fear of being chased — of your life being on the line — created a warmth within you that pooled right down to your core. The risk of being caught, as for once you’re the prey, and you can’t explain it, but it excites you. Although Astarion had gotten on your every nerve, you had to give it to him — he was right that his unnerving attitude had gotten a rise out of you in the most carnal way — but you’d never admit it to his face.

A good minute passes by with no sign of him, and you feel safe enough to peek out of your hiding spot, investigating the beaten path for any sign of life. When you’re met with a dead silence, you move away from the tree you had been leaning against, only to come face to face with Astarion, who drops from the branches just above you. His eyes are somehow a much deeper shade of red, his pupils fully blown out, and he even seems taller as he smiles down on you, and that’s when you perceive the additional fangs that appeared next to the smaller ones you knew. 

You’re fixated on his sudden presence, assessing your opponent the way you would a wild animal, and you remain unmoving, focused on your own breathing.

“Nowhere left to run, I’m afraid,” the voice that comes out of his mouth is otherworldly, almost a growl and nothing like his sultry voice he used to try and charm you before. It’s as if anything that once made him pass as a mortal was gone the second you ran off from him.

You want to turn around and sprint in the opposite direction, but he's faster than your thoughts. Before you can even move a finger, he grabs you by your neck, his sharp nails digging into your skin enough to draw blood as he pushes you against the nearest tree, slightly lifting you from the ground. Instinctively, you reach for your dagger, but he is fast to catch onto your intentions and takes it away from you, throwing it on the ground far from reach. With no other options left, you reach for his hand around your neck, trying to hold on as your vision blurs from the chokehold he had on you. 

“Caught you, little fox,” he leans into your neck where you bled from to breathe you in, and licks your skin from the bottom of your neck up to your jaw, tasting your sweat mixed with the dry blood left on you. Your camp clothing leaves you dangerously exposed as opposed to your armour, and he had every intention to take advantage of it. “You will make a fine meal indeed.”

He presses his entire body against you, and you can feel not only his oddly cold breath down your neck, but also his hard bulge rubbing against your navel, right above the heat between your legs. 

A particularly bad idea crosses your mind, and you know you’ll blame it on the lack of oxygen later, but for now, it’s the only option you have.

Your hand slides down to his crotch, where you squeeze his length through his trousers, making him shudder against you and loosening his grip on your throat. You take this chance to free yourself as you quickly push him away and against the earthy ground of the forest, pinning him down using your entire body weight. You land right next to your knife and grab it just in time before he comes to his senses, now holding it against his throat.

“I win,” you say, breathless, over him.

You remain unmoving, with the threat of your knife keeping him in place, but unsure what to do next — until he laughs. You’re taken aback, but you keep your position, pressing your blade deeper into his throat.

“Well done.” His voice softens, still deeper than what you’re used to, but less guttural than it was a minute ago. “You have me completely and utterly helpless. What will you do next, I wonder?”

You don’t get to answer before you feel him moving under you, his hardness rubbing against that sweet spot between your legs. Your breathing quickens once again, caught off guard by the delicious movement of his hips against you.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You ask, the words almost getting stuck in your throat.

“Fulfilling my part of the bargain, of course.”

“That’s not—” he lifts his hips higher, the tip of his crotch rubbing against your clit, and your body tenses at the contact. He’s rock hard and between your thin camp clothes, it's almost as if you were rubbing skin to skin against each other. A pleasurable shiver running across your spine, and you allow yourself to close your eyes for just a moment, fighting between giving in to your desires or stopping yourself from letting this go any further; it was clear which side of you was winning over, as your hunger for that something more was becoming impossible to ignore. You soften your grip on his wrist and your dagger against his throat, and that’s all he needs to gain back dominance over you, flipping you back under him and seizing your wrists to pin you down the same way you had him only seconds ago.

“Now,” he says, “this is much better, don’t you think?”

“Oh you prick,” you groan, fighting to free yourself from his grip on you, but he only tightens his grasp around your wrists. His immortal strength beats yours and your hand twists under his crushing grip, making you finally release your knife.

You curse under your breath for letting yourself be bested by the most annoying member of your party; the one who you had dreamed to put back in his place was now dominating you instead. A mix of anger and shame swirls in your stomach, along with something else that you want to deny, but can’t for the life of you understand.

Your eyes meet his, dark and hungry and so incredibly close to you. His lack of breath is strange in comparison to yours, so heavy that your chest rises with each breath you take, brushing against him. It wasn't a position you were used to, either, and you find yourself liking it more than you thought you would; with his entire body pining against yours, his legs surrounding yours and keeping them closed together, your wrists held strongly above your head; a prey caught by her predator.

You remain unmoving in this position for what feels like an eternity, until he licks his lips, his eyes falling to the space in your neck that was exposed just for him.

He leans into you, his deep voice shooting a warmth straight to your core. “This little game of yours made me quite hungry.”

You gasp when you feel his bulge rubbing against you once more and touching that sweet spot that made you rub your thighs together. 

“Perhaps,” he whispers, “you've grown an appetite of your own, little fox?”

You take a few breaths, "If you wanna feed, be my guest. You…” you sigh, defeated. “You earned it. Just— be quick about it.”

You turn your head aside, looking away and giving him space to feed, only for him to lean back, “Quick? Oh darling, you’re mistaken if you don’t think I won’t draw this out as long as I possibly can.”

He pushes your wrist up above your head where he can hold them both with one hand, while his other hand slides down to your chest, his sharp nails grazing against the curve of your breast. You close your eyes as his hand continues its journey down your navel, and into your pants, rubbing against the moist spot that kept growing in your panties.

“But don’t worry — I’ll make sure we both get our fill tonight,” he growls.

Your hips move of their own accord, wanting more of him and his touch, almost against your own will.

“Greedy, greedy, little fox.” He flashes a toothy smile, “Can't get enough? I'm not surprised.”

Your eyes open back up and you stare at him, frustrated, “Gods, do you ever shut up?”

“You have such a way with words.” He sighs, pulling his hand out of your pants. “You know, it's a wonder we haven't gotten killed because of your social prowess.”

“If you think you’re so much better than me, why don’t you—”

His lips collide with yours into an hungry kiss, one bold enough to shut you right up. A part of you is disgusted, furious, even, that he would push himself onto you, but your body’s reaction betrays you, as you kiss him back with the same intensity. It’s sloppy, his elongated tongue invading your mouth and rubbing against yours, until he bites into it and sucks, letting your crimson hit his lips. 

You moan as you pull back, rolling your tongue around to feel the puncture he made, and he smiles down on you, his teeth tainted by your blood.

“Ah… delicious.”

Something comes over you, a supernatural strength — almost animalistic — and you flip him back around on his back to take control once again. Your dishevelled hair frames your face over him, and he gets to see you panting, teeth bared, with angry eyes towering over him. There's a flash of surprise in his eyes before they take back their lusty look, and his hands fly to your shirt, ripping it open as his nails tear through the fabric as if it were air. Your shirt is quickly discarded, exposing your skin to the cool night air that raises the hairs on your back.

In the frenzy, you give the same treatment to his shirt, using that strength to destroy his clothing and revealing the very muscles you spied earlier in his tent. He raises himself up to meet you where you sat over his hips, his mouth finding yours  and kissing you feverishly as he did before, while his hands work to remove your pants. 

With a grunt from him, you're pushed back on the harsh forest ground where he rips away your trousers, leaving you only with your panties to cover you. You gasp into his mouth, breathing in his cold breath, when the night air that matches his breath hits the thin fabric of your undergarments. The shock of temperature affects you more than you had anticipated, as you are completely soaked from your arousal that had pooled down there since the beginning of the night. Astarion instantly notices it, and laughs ominously.

“Are you still going to deny it now?” He pushes your underwear aside and slides his dexterous fingers between your folds, discovering just how dire your situation is. “Hells, look at how wet you are, just for me.”

His fingers feel good, and fucking Hells you didn’t want to admit it — he was an absolute asshole — but that ship had sailed a while ago, and now you just wanted to know how good he would feel inside you.

“If you still want to feed, you better do it now before I change my mind,” you groan.

“Change your mind?” He scoffs. “I'm afraid that isn't an option. I won fair and square, little fox; now I get to devour you every night.” He flips you around, the sudden roughness of the earthy floor rubbing against your sensitive nipples making you gasp in surprise. You feel him move behind you, and you're not sure how or when it happened, but he must've removed his own trousers as you feel the ghost of his cock hovering just over your entrance. Your heart threatens to burst out of your chest with anticipation, and this feeling goes into your throat when he grabs you by the nape of your hair and pulls you into him, making you arch your back and clearly exposing your neck to him in the process. “Starting tonight.”

Within the same beat, he thrust into you, his hips slamming hard against your skin, and his fangs dive into the crook of your neck, finally taking what is rightfully his.

You cry out at the stabbing pain in your neck, this one much more different than the first time he bit you, as his elongated fangs dive deeper into your neck to draw out more of your life source, and the additional fangs leave more marks into your skin. It hurts and yet, you find your core growing warmer and wetter; between his bite and his reckless thrusting into you, with the added sensation of his initially cool skin getting warm from your blood. His thrusts gain in speed and force, and in that position, there is nothing else you can do but take it.

Even as you try to reach behind you with that last remaining will to have control, to grab his hair and pull him forward, Astarion takes a hold of your arm and pushes back against you, using his entire body weight to hold you firmly against the rough ground, and his hips to slam into your needy, little cunt. With your hair still pulled back, but your wrist now stuck in his grasp, he continues to take his fill of you with no restriction.

“Look at you, finally put in your place,” he growls as he licks up the drops of blood leaking from the fresh wounds in your neck. “Is this what you’ve been desiring all these times your eyes got lost at the sight of my body? What you’ve been dreaming of? To be properly used, like a bitch in heat? Ravaged by a beast?”

You manage to get a few words out between rushed breaths, sneering.

“F— Fuck. Y— You.”

He snickers wickedly, “I guess that answers my question. Don’t worry, pet. Your secret’s safe with me.”

“Oh you—”

“Shh now,” Before you can even finish your sentence, his hand quickly moves from your wrist to your mouth, muffling any sounds coming from you. “We wouldn’t want to risk waking our dear friends, now, would we? Unless that’s what you want?” You groan in the palm of his hand and he chuckles. “You depraved little thing. I’ll give you just what you desire.”

His hand previously holding your hair goes down your body to hold your hips in place as he fucks you, and his teeth sink into your shoulder on the other side of your neck. The gesture meant only to keep you steady as he fucks you senseless. With his fangs deep into your skin, his nails cutting the soft skin of your hips and his dick pounding your abused cunt, you scream into his hand as you reach your climax. It’s nerve wracking, mind shattering, and leaves you completely drained. 

With a final push inside you, Astarion’s hips still and he growls into your neck, taking his last sip of you, as he pulses around your inner walls, filling you up with his warm seed. Your muscles fail you, as your body goes limp against the earthy ground, and you barely feel anything else — leaving you almost unconscious. Behind you, Astarion pulls out of you, and a weak moan escapes you as you feel his load leaking out of you.

While you’re recuperating from this treatment, Astarion loses his monstrous features: his nails retract, his pupils go back to those annoyingly charming red ruby eyes, his fangs retract just enough to fit back into his mouth, and he mimics breathing again; now passing as a mortal again.

With the minimal strength you manage to gain back, you push yourself up, and gather the few pieces of clothes that were shredded during your nightly session; tomorrow you would definitely need to find new camp clothes, these were the only ones you had and they were utterly ruined. Thank the Gods everyone else was fast asleep and you’ll be able to walk back to your tent without any remarks.

As you’re about to take your leave, completely disregarding the rogue who looked just as messy as you were, you hear him clear his throat.

“It’s always a pleasure to be doing business with you, my dear. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

You roll your eyes before shooting him a glare. “Don’t push your luck.” Your cheeks still flushed, your hair all over the place, and your form barely clothed, making you not as convincing as you had hoped for. 

You only catch a glimpse of his smirk in response to you as you walk away, and when you catch yourself actually looking forward to it, you tell yourself it's only for the opportunity to put him back in his place. 

Perhaps another white lie to coat your true feelings, but no one needed to know about that.

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[stevie-petey]

growing pains

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?”  “I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.”  He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it. “Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw. “And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Summary: steve buys you shitty coffee five years after your breakup.

Rating: general, swearing

Warnings: fem! reader, use of y/n, exes!au, slight unhealthy relationship if u squint, ambiguous ending (kinda)

Words: 8k

Before you swing in: hi my dears ! heres a very sad/bittersweet coffee shop conversation with far too many flashbacks and miscommunication. yummy ! unintentionally made this a christmas fic, so the bleachers song merry christmas please dont call is very fitting lmao. enjoy !

-

A flurry of snow coats Hawkins. Christmas lights reflect off the pristine white as the quiet stills everything in the town. There are no cars that drive past you. Hardly anyone littering the sidewalk as your footsteps trace a path in the freshly fallen snow. In the small, rundown cafe there is only one other patron brave enough to face the winter cold. 

The bell above the door signals your arrival.

Steve looks up at you. 

The flush of cold air stains your cheeks a ruddy red, though his gaze tinges the hue pink. The blush gives away the fondness you hoped you had buried below your sternum; but the fondness is still there. It will always be there. 

Steve gestures silently, offering you the seat in front of him. He’s chosen a small table in the back of the room. Secluded. Private. But he doesn’t stand to greet you. 

You sit. The cold makes your body slow. Steve’s presence makes your posture stiff. Your hands remain folded in your lap. You don’t place them on the table, too reminiscent of the times he would reach across and interlace your fingers together. 

The deliberate act is small, your only defiance, but still, after all these years, Steve sees it for what it really is. You’re still exactly as he remembers. The corner of his lip twitches, hiding a smile that you still know the weight of. How it felt against your own lips. 

“The whole town is buzzing about a white Christmas. We haven’t gotten snow like this in years.” 

Inconsequential. Steve’s first words to you in five years are inconsequential. 

There are still flecks of snow on your clothes. A snowflake melts slowly on your scarf. You watch its demise. There is nothing you want to say to him. 

Steve shifts slightly. Clears his throat. You still make him nervous. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come.”

“I walked.” Your first words to Steve are inconsequential, too. 

“In all this snow?” His surprise is soft, bordering on amusement. He takes his coat off, and underneath is a cheesy holiday sweater that makes your throat clench. “Aren’t you freezing?”

You shake your head. “I like the cold.”

And then Steve smiles. Genuine, it stretches across his entire face. “Yeah,” a breathy laugh that echoes in your ears. “I remember.”

– 

“I can’t feel my legs.” Steve whines, lagging behind you as the two of you trek through the snow. You’re at the bottom of the hill, still a long way from the top. “How are you still alive?”

You’re flushed in excitement and youth. The apples of your cheeks match the pink hat that keeps sliding into your eyes. Planting your feet firmly into the snow, you continue to climb. “It’s not that cold.”

“It’s freezing–shit!” Steve slips on a patch of ice. His voice cracks as he yelps, and you giggle at his embarrassment. He glares at you. “Please don’t laugh at me. I’m miserable here, Y/N.”

“You’re the one who wanted to come. I was perfectly happy going sledding alone.” You’re halfway up the hill now. The flimsy plastic tube you’re using to sled hangs loosely from your hand. “Don’t be such a baby.”

Steve scoffs. “God forbid I try to be romantic and go sledding with my girlfriend.”

Your cheeks flush an even deeper shade of pink. It still feels weird, hearing him call you his girlfriend. The word is new, foreign, but the warmth that accompanies it is one that you hope you never get used to.

“Besides, who even goes sledding alone?” Steve continues, still pathetically behind you. “What if you got hurt? No good boyfriend should allow that to happen.”

You snort. “What, are you my knight in shining armor now?” Shifting low, you start scooping up some snow. “Is that what you want me to say?”

“All I’m saying is that I’m totally a saint.” 

You laugh, now packing the snow into your hands as you form a snowball. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” Steve hasn’t noticed what you’re doing yet. He doesn’t know that in a matter of seconds you’ll cover his face in snow. Sneaking a glance at him, your breath catches.

There are snowflakes in Steve’s hair. A few kiss his cheeks, dancing along his freckles. The brown of his eyes glow warm ember in the white snow. His skin is pink, alive and pure. He’s beautiful. Devastatingly beautiful in a way that makes you ache.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” Steve asks you, face wrinkling in confusion. 

You cough, embarrassed to have been caught. The snow in your hands starts to sting. The pain grounds you, clears your mind, and you try to pretend that the molasses in your bloodstream isn’t love. 

Throwing the snowball, it explodes in Steve’s face. He shrieks, sputtering at the cold shock. “Y/N!”

You laugh, loud and happily. Your ribs ache and your breaths escape your lungs in a burn that soothes you. Steve lunges toward you, hands finding your waist as he pulls you close. He grips you tightly, he can feel your laughter in his chest. 

“You’ll pay for that!” he buries his nose in your neck and you squeal, laughing even harder. Steve pulls you impossibly closer. He relishes in your warmth. He relishes in the way you squeal when he starts to tickle you. 

Warm. Everything about you is warm. 

You are sunshine against Steve’s skin. 

–

Someone else walks into the cafe, the sound of the bell echoes in the chasm between you and Steve. There are no more snowflakes on your scarf. The warmth of the cafe is stifling, although there is a comforting familiarity to it. 

“How are you?” 

Another inconsequential question, although you can’t fault Steve for it. He’s trying. More than you are, anyways. But what are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do, seeing your first love after five years of silence and absence? 

“Fine.” The response falls flat, mundane. Disinterested. Wincing, you really do try to sound as if you want to be here. “Good. I-I’ve been good.”

“Yeah?” Steve raises his eyebrow, leaning in. “I mean, I’m not surprised.”

Your shoulders tense. “What do you mean?”

Seeing your unease, Steve quickly explains himself. “Shit. That sounded ominous. I’m sorry,” he runs his fingers through his hair. The same way he used to do when he was seventeen. “What I meant is that Robin told me. About what you’ve been up to these last few years.”

Your shoulders drop. Of course Robin still talks to him about you. You suppose it’s only fair, seeing as how she tells you about him, too. She remained friends with you both after the breakup. She hadn’t wanted to take anyone’s side, and she’s kept true to that. 

“What has she told you?” 

It’s a real question. You know Robin would never tell Steve anything embarrassing or incriminating. But curiously gnaws at you. 

“Nothing bad, unfortunately.” Steve gently teases, but his prodding is only met with your uninterested gaze. He sighs, clears his throat. “She told me you moved to New York. Nearly screamed my ear off when your publishing deal got accepted. It’s pretty incredible.” 

Your fingers pick at the skin underneath your nails. “It’s only for one book.”

“Five years, and you still can’t accept a compliment.” 

“You’d be surprised by what can change in five years,” your eyes avoid his. “Is the coffee any good here?”

“It’s terrible,” Steve slides his mug over to you. Steam rises from the black liquid inside. “Milk and sugar. Hope it’s still how you like it.”

You take a sip, cringing at the taste. You’ve come to prefer your coffee black, bitter but rich. The coffee Steve has bought you is too sweet, but you drink more anyways. It gives you something to do. 

“I’ve been good, too. Thanks for asking.” Steve leans against his seat, placing his hands behind his head. He’s as coy as ever. The years haven’t made him humble. “I’m sure you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t wondering.” You set the mug down. “I heard you made history being the youngest English teacher at Hawkins High.”

Steve’s mouth parts in shock. In another life, you pinch his lips together and kiss the tip of his nose. In another life, five years ago, you did.

But not this life. “Robin talks about you, too.”

“Of course she does,” Steve echoes your earlier thoughts. He leans back again, eyes never leaving your face. “Were you surprised? Steve Harrington. English teacher.”

The answer comes easily. “No.” 

“No?”

“No,” you twist the mug around. Steve stares at you and you wish he would stop. He’ll see through you, he’ll see the fondness and he’ll know everything you’ve tried to erase. “You were always interested in what I was reading. You didn’t hide it very well.”

Steve smiles to himself, his own fondness leaking over. “Yeah, I guess I didn’t.”

He could never hide anything from you. 

– 

You’re in the classics section of Hawkins’ library. You wanted to check out a few books they recently collected. The librarian has your personal landline. You’ve spent more and more time in the building, reading all of the greatest authors. 

Steve always comes with you.

“Look, Y/N. I adore you, but if there aren’t any ass-kicking spies or alien babes, then I’m not reading it.” He shoves the book you hold in front of him away. “What the hell is a Brontie, anyways?”

“It’s Bronte,” you poke Steve’s cheek. “And I really need you to stop pretending that you don’t know these authors. It’s gotta be exhausting.”

He grabs the hand poking his face and twists it, forcing you to spin and land against his chest. “I’m not pretending, sweetheart. I don’t know any of these names.”

Steve claims he comes to the library with you because he gets lonely without you, but you’ve caught him rifting through Albert Camus and Erich Fromm. He could spend hours paging through their works. 

But you’ll allow him to keep this one secret from you. 

“C’mon,” you laugh, tugging Steve’s arm towards a new section. “Help me find Fyodor Dostoevsky. I want to study the way he writes his characters’ inner monologues.”

“No way that’s a real name.”

You laugh again. “Just shut up and help me, please.”

Eventually you find Dostoevsky and you become engrossed in his words. They’re intricate and complex, yet there’s a simplicity and plainness that strikes you. You write down a flurry of notes, not wanting to forget a thing; one day you want to command words the way all the authors you’ve studied seemed to do. 

You’re so lost in the world Dostoevsky has built, that you don’t notice Steve’s absence until he returns again. 

“Hey, check this out.” He’s holding a book, his finger saving the line he wants to show you. “This Pablo Neruda dude was like, a total romantic. Wanna hear?”

You lean against the bookshelf, curious. “Are you going to read to me?”

The only response is Steve’s charming smile. He steps closer to you, your breath mixes with his. “‘I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where, I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I don’t know any other way of loving.’”

He closes the book, but he doesn’t move away. Your foreheads touch. 

“Love”. A word neither one of you has said until now. Until Steve read you a poem and uttered the word three separate times. 

He loves you, and you love him. 

Standing on your tiptoes, you kiss him. Steve kisses you back. 

– 

“Do you enjoy it?”

Steve drums his fingers on the table. “Enjoy what?”

“Being someone that kids look up to.”

He breathes out slowly. “I forgot how much you love asking heavy questions.”

You finally look at him. “You’re the one that asked to meet for coffee.”

“Fair point,” Steve scratches the back of his head. “Thank you, by the way. For agreeing.”

“I was in town.” You look away again. “The holidays. And the wedding, I guess. Nancy asked me to come.”

“I still can’t believe she got Byers to agree to a winter wedding.” Steve shakes his head, smiles to himself. “Anyways, to answer your shockingly emotional question: I do enjoy it. I love teaching. I love being someone that kids can come to. Is it terrifying? Absolutely. But selfishly, I like to think I’m good at it.”

Even though you don’t want to, you smile at him. “You’ve always been good with kids.”

Steve doesn’t expect your sincerity. The praise is small, a throwaway comment more than anything else, but it’s the nicest thing you’ve said to him in years. He’s suddenly shy, ducking his head. “I don’t know. Those little bastards were really difficult to handle.”

The little bastards being Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, Max, and El. The kids you grew up with, a consequence of being neighbors with the Wheelers. One day there was a kid on your doorstep demanding you let him use your old scooter.

Mike had been only nine then, but he had been fierce and persuasive. After giving the scooter over, Mike forced you into his life. Then the rest of the party’s lives. 

Nancy came later, then Jonathan, and then, eventually, Steve. 

“They admired you.” You tell Steve, honest. “They still do.”

He blushes again. “You really think so?”

“I remember more than you think,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I remember everything, too.”

– 

The morning of the kids’ graduation, it’s a blur of packed cars and nervous excitement. Steve offered to drive everyone, giving the parents time to get situated and find seats at the high school. 

“Your car reeks.” Mike kicks Steve’s seat.

He glares at the kid. “Why didn’t you ride in Nancy’s car, then?”

“Her and Jonathan are gross.”

Lucas fixes his graduation cap. “They whisper to themselves a lot. It’s creepy.”

Max elbows him. “It’s because they’re in love, doofus.”

“Steve and Y/N are in love, and you don’t see them whispering to themselves.” Dustin points out, which you laugh at.

“I’ll be sure to never whisper to Steve with you guys around.”

Will pokes the back of your head. “Can you tell your boyfriend to drive faster? If we’re late, I think Hopper might actually kill him.”

“My dad would not kill Steve.” El corrects. “He would only hurt him. A lot.”

Steve pales slightly, stepping on the gas. “Alright. Guess we’re getting a speeding ticket, then.”

You end up arriving at the high school with a few minutes to spare. All the kids run out the car, throwing a quick thanks as they scatter. They’re gone in a heartbeat, a mass of green caps and gowns. 

“We’ll see you guys on stage!” You shout through the window, waving as they leave. 

“Remember how nervous we were when we graduated?” Steve asks you.

You shake your head fondly at the memory. “You wouldn’t stop sneezing. I had no idea you were a nervous sneezer until then. Robin thought it was the most embarrassing thing ever. I contemplated breaking up with you.”

“It’s a debilitating condition, Y/N.”

The graduation is long, but with six separate kids to listen for and cheer on, it passes quickly. When their names get called, you and Steve are the loudest ones who cheer. Robin calls you guys dramatic, but she screams her heart out when Dustin walks the stage. 

Nancy cries when Mike walks, and Jonathan, who had only just stopped crying after seeing Will walk, has to hold back his tears yet again as he consoles her. 

The five of you are a mess, and when the kids find you after graduation, you aren’t sure who starts running first. They swarm you, arms encase you and you hold onto them tightly. Will is crying, El can’t stop jumping, the kids are all a mix of emotions, yet they all remain fixated on Steve.

“Did you see the way I walked?”

“I waved at you! Did you see me?”

“You’re really loud when you scream, ya know that?”

“A poster would’ve nice. Just saying.”

All their eyes are on him. Their questions directed at him, eager to be answered. They seek Steve’s praise, like sunflowers following the sun’s rays. 

As you stand back, watching the way Steve is so loved by the kids, you fall in love with him all over again. 

– 

Steve picks at the frayed edges of his old jacket. It’s the same one he bought with you, back when winter in Hawkins was warm and yellow and light. Now everything is dull. Grey and bleak. 

“I never thought that you’d forget.” He acknowledges your hurtful words. He doesn’t like their implications. “I’d never think that.”

Steve’s clipped words make you defensive. Heat rises to your face. It makes your heartbeat spike. “There are a lot of things I thought you’d never do.”

He sucks in a breath. 

The cafe is quiet again. Your coffee remains untouched, cold. 

Steve finally tears his eyes from you, and the loss of his gaze feels colder than you expected it to. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? To see his disdain for you on his pretty face, for him to hurt how you had. Isn’t that why you agreed to this?

The way Steve’s entire demeanor changes, how quickly his smile slips from his face, makes you question why you’re even here. Suddenly you want to take it all back. To mold his face into a happier one, get him to look at you again and trick yourself into believing that the tenderness in his eyes is real. 

“I’m sorry.” The apology comes out fast, the words mesh together, but it’s the best you can manage. “That… that was mean.”

“I think mean is fair.” Steve looks at you, his lighthearted smile is back, but it doesn’t shine like before. “Honestly, I’m relieved you’re being mean.”

You’re confused. Everything he does confuses you. “Is that why you asked me to coffee? Because you wanted me to be mean to you?”

“Partially.” He sips your discarded coffee and quickly spits it out. He wipes his mouth, gagging. “Jesus, that’s fucking rancid. I don’t even know why I did that. I hate coffee, and it’s even worse when it’s cold.”

He’s making a whole show of this. The way Steve talks to you, the questions he’s asking and the way he responds to whatever you tell him. He’s trying to recreate something that isn’t there anymore. Treating your time in the coffee shop together as if you’re two friends catching up.

But you’re tired of pretending. “Why am I here, Steve?” 

“I thought we already established it’s because you walked in the snow.” 

He’s dodging. Avoiding the question and the truths that will come with it.

“Steve.” Hissing his name is familiar, it feels more natural. This is how it should be between you. Anger, disdain, raw.

“And there it is,” He winces. “The fighting begins. We lasted, what? Ten minutes? Merry Christmas to us.”

Fed up, you slam your chair back and stand. If Steve wants to evade every question and act as if this is all some giant joke, then he can go fuck himself. 

The sudden motion makes Steve jump, but he quickly stands up with you when he realizes that you’re leaving. “Shit, wait–”

Steve’s hand grazes yours and you flinch away, reeling back. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Y/N…” He stands still, the venom in your voice cementing him to the ground. In all the time he’s known you, you’ve never rejected his touch. Bitterly, he thinks that you were right about what you said when you first arrived at the cafe.

A lot can change in five years. 

You press the back of your hand to your forehead, trying to calm yourself down. Even though there’s no one else in the shop, you still don’t want to cause a scene. Not here. Not like this. 

“This was a mistake.” You swallow down bile. Steve still manages to get such a vulgar rise out of you, and you hate it. “At Nancy and Jonathan’s wedding, we won’t speak to one another. We won’t ruin their day, and you can sit with Robin. I don’t care. We can just pretend that we don’t–”

Your words die in your throat. You can’t bring yourself to finish them. 

“That we don’t what, Y/N?” Steve knows exactly what you mean to say. He narrows his eyes at you, pushes you to lay the final blow. 

Your breath stutters. Your body is cold. You may still make Steve nervous, but he still makes you nervous as well. He can still cut through you viciously in a way only someone who has truly loved you can. 

He stands before you, begging. “Say it.”

You’ve always been weak for him. “That we don’t hate each other.”

But your words are meaningless. As if you could ever hate each other. 

Steve lets out a bitter laugh. “The one thing I can’t do when it comes to you is hate you.”

“Steve–” You want to take it all back. You shouldn’t have said it. You don’t know why you even said it, but you did.

“I can go five years without hearing your voice. I can wake up without you next to me. I can spend the rest of my life regretting that I lost you.” Steve doesn’t move, he doesn’t come near you. He’s hurt and he’s in pain and you don’t know how to be the one to help him anymore. “But what I can’t do, the only thing I can’t do, is hate you.”

–

The bay window caught your eye first. Then it was the rich brown wood floors, and then the garden that overlooks Lover’s Lake. Inside the apartment there are vintage tiles that you adore and the baby-blue walls make you feel faint.

The home Steve finds for the two of you is, unsurprisingly, perfect. 

“Do we really get to live here?” You ask, breathless as you wander through the empty hallways and bedroom. Never before have you had such endless space to yourself. It feels very adult, very final, and you wouldn’t have chosen anyone else to experience this first with than Steve.

“We better get to live here.” Steve huffs, setting down another box. You tried offering to help, but he scoffed at the idea and told you to admire the apartment instead. “The deposit was fucking expensive.”

Your fingers brush over the cream white curtains. They’re soft beneath your touch. “At least your dad was kind enough to pay it.”

“And if by ‘kind enough’, you mean ‘wanted his son to move out already’, you’d be right.”

“Same difference.”

Steve laughs and the sound echoes through the empty room that you know you’ll have years together to fill. You already have a million things you want to purchase for the apartment. Steve’s only request had been that you make the apartment feel like a home.

As if anywhere with Steve doesn’t already feel like a home. 

Later in the night you order pizza, starving and exhausted from moving. There’s no table for you and Steve to sit at. No chairs to rest on. You eat your first meal in your new home on the floor, surrounded by boxes and laughter. 

It’s perfect. 

“While I’m grateful for Mrs. Wheeler for giving us her spare bedding and all,” Steve wraps the blanket tighter around the two of you. The bed beneath you is lumpy and old, the only furniture that came with the apartment, but a bed is a bed. “I feel weird sleeping in her sheets.”

You press your nose against Steve’s neck, feeling your bones sag with relief. “She’s hot. I’d sleep in her sheets any day.”

Steve chokes on his spit, falling into a coughing fit while you giggle hysterically. He hits his chest, tries to suck air back in, and you’re laughing so hard there’s tears in your eyes. 

“You can’t just say that!” He sputters, still coughing.

“I know you were thinking it!” You giggle again, your smile presses against Steve’s cheek. His body is warm and soft and he smells like home; it's addicting. He’s still coughing when you kiss his cheek and brush his hair back. “Can you stop dying already? I’m trying to kiss you here.”

Steve wraps his arms around you and throws his body on top, smushing you beneath him. You squeal, giggling even harder now as he litters your skin with feathery kisses. “You’re trying to kiss me, huh?”

His nose runs down your cheek. Down across your forehead, to the tips of your ears. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach. “I don’t think you’re doing much kissing here, Y/N.” Steve kisses your eyebrow. His lips skim your chin, they linger in your laugh lines as endless laughter pours from you. 

“It-it tickles!” More laughter, you try to shove Steve away, but he places all his weight against you and kisses the apples of your cheeks. His fingers curl around your waist, nails digging in softly. He has you right where he wants you. 

“Kiss me,” he breathes into you. Over and over he repeats himself, kissing you with every enunciation. “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.”

Steve begs you and you ache. He never has to ask you. You would do anything for him. 

You tilt your head, find his lips, and you get lost in each other. He kisses you slowly, intentionally. With a softness that makes you shiver. He whispers how beautiful you are, how much he loves you, and the syrup in your lungs simmers.

“I love you,” you murmur, lips kissing his chest. “I think you’re my favorite person in the world.” 

A childish praise, but it’s everything to Steve.

– 

Steve orders you another coffee. Black this time, no sugar. The barista brings the cup over when it’s ready, the steam the only source of warmth between you and him. 

Snow falls outside and Steve hasn’t been able to look at you since you sat back down. 

You’re not entirely sure why you’re still here. Neither one of you talk. There is no more disingenuous small talk between you. No more forced smiles. Polite questions about how the other has been.

All there that remains between you and Steve is the absence of what was. 

“Robin said we’d only last five minutes.” 

You remember the surprise on her face when you told her you’d accept Steve’s offer for coffee. She didn’t think you’d say yes, and the surprise quickly morphed into skepticism. She placed her book down, patted your hand, and told you good luck.

Steve laughs, short and staccato. “She has such shit faith in us. We’re nearing twelve minutes now.”

“We’re stubborn.” The coffee is disgusting even without the excess sweetness. Steve is right. The coffee here is truly horrible. 

“If I remember correctly, you’ve always been the more stubborn one.” He isn’t mean when he says this. More observant, stating a fact.

You set the coffee down. “And if I remember correctly, you hit your head a lot when we were kids.”

A small smile. “Which would mean?”

“That it’s possible you don’t remember anything correctly.” You tug at your scarf. “Maybe I wasn’t as stubborn as you’re remembering.”

Steve laughs this time, a real laugh that melts the ice that froze over moments ago. “Whenever we argued, you never let me get a word in. I’ll never forget that. I would’ve found it impressive, if it weren’t directed at me.”

Snippets of memories flash through your mind. You and Steve hardly argued throughout your entire relationship, but when you did, the fallout was always scattered pieces. 

“Doesn’t mean I’m stubborn.” You say weakly, still not quite ready to admit otherwise.

“I’d argue with you, but I was hoping we’d make it to fifteen minutes.” Steve takes your coffee, sips it again and cringes like he did before. Only he doesn’t say anything this time. 

“Is there a prize if we make it to fifteen?”

He smiles into the coffee. “Possibly.”

Silence again.

Steve keeps the mug in his hands, using its warmth to soothe his cold fingers. Years ago, he would use the heat of your hands to warm him. But your hands remain folded in your lap and you no longer want his touch. 

The silence eats at you. You bite your lip, twist your fingers together. You don’t know why you stayed, but you don’t know why Steve stayed, either.

“I was pretty stubborn, wasn’t I?” 

Steve looks at you. His eyes shine for a brief moment. “Maybe a little.”

– 

Shortly after moving into your apartment, you started writing. After years of reading other people’s stories, you felt that it was time to write your own. But finding the story was difficult. Every night you stared at your blank pages, willing them to fill with the words you were unable to write. 

As for Steve, he started picking up spare shifts at the local diner. He hated being a waiter. He thought it was degrading, but as a twenty-two year old with no college degree or work experience, it was all he could do. 

Money was tight, you were both starting to feel the weight of truly being on your own. You weren’t just two kids anymore. There were real responsibilities now. Grappling with your futures rather than imagining them.

And then one day you got a phone call that changed everything. 

“I can’t miss this interview!”

“And I can’t just leave work in the middle of the day to drive you, Y/N.” Steve sighs deeply over the phone. You can practically envision the way he pinches the bridge of his nose and tugs at his hair. It’s grown long. Longer than it’s ever been before. You like it this way. 

You glance at your watch and curse, frustrated tears burning your eyes. “Steve, please. This could make or break my entire future.”

“Sweetheart, I understand that, but if I leave work early, I’m getting fired.”

“You don’t know that!” You need him to say yes. You need him to drop everything for you and drive you to Bedford so that you can meet with a literary agent and discuss your work. 

It all happened so fast. One moment you were sending yet another draft of short story ideas to random agents. The next, you’re getting a phone call offering an interview in a town an hour away from Hawkins.

None of it felt real. That is, until the catch fell against you: the agent can only meet today and you don’t have a car. 

“David explicitly told me that if I leave work early one more time, my ass is grass.” Steve rubs his face, exhausted. He wants to help you, he wants you to finally get your big break. You’re far too talented for Hawkins, you deserve to be somewhere better; but the reality is that you can’t afford it right now. “Can’t someone else drive you?”

“I already called everyone else.” Your face is hot from anxiety. “Robin. Nancy. Jonathan. Hell, even Mike and the kids! But no one can take me and I have to be there in two hours.”

“Y/N…” 

Your head falls against the wall. “This is everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Steve’s heart clenches. He sucks in a breath. “I know that, okay? I-I do. But I can’t afford to lose this job. We’re already behind on rent, we still owe my dad for the deposit–”

“But you can always get another job!” You exclaim, losing whatever grasp you have left of your sanity. “I mean, Jesus, Steve. You’re just a waiter.”

The line is silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

His tone is quiet, it laces guilt into your veins. 

“I-I just meant that there’s a shitload of restaurants in Hawkins,” you’re rambling now, regretting everything. You shouldn’t have called. You shouldn’t have said what you did. But now it’s too late and you’re in too deep. Letting out a breath, your lips tremble. “But there’s only one literary agent who wants to meet with me.”

There’s yelling in the background. Steve mumbles something to someone, you think you hear David yelling at him to get back to work. Muffled rustling, followed by a string of curses.

“I gotta get back to work.” Steve says curtly, not even giving you a chance to respond before he’s already hanging up the phone.

The dial tone rings in your ear. 

You never make it to your interview.

Steve gets home late that night. He walks past you, he doesn’t acknowledge you besides the slam of the bedroom door. 

– 

“I never apologized to you.”

Steve sets the mug down. He doesn’t ask you what you mean. “No, you didn’t.”

You swallow. “I… I’m really sorry, Steve.”

He shrugs. It was a long time ago. He’s forgotten the sting of your words. The marks they left have long since faded. “It was your dream.”

“But you were more than just a waiter. Hell, you were the only reason we didn’t lose the apartment.” You rub the back of your neck, relieving the tension that knots it. “God, I was so fucking naive. I’m sorry for not realizing sooner, for not appreciating everything you did for us.”

Steve shrugs again. “We were just kids.”

The coffee you drank suddenly sinks in your stomach. 

We were just kids.

Sometimes you forget that your relationship with Steve had been your childhood. The two of you met when you were fifteen, fell in love when you were seventeen, and fell apart when you were twenty-three. 

You’d been so young together. The mistakes you made, the hurt you caused, were childish gashes with bullet-sized exit wounds. 

“We were just kids, weren’t we?” The nostalgia in your voice surprises even you. 

A fond smile ghosts Steve’s face. It’s barely there, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. “Young and in love. Now we’re just old.”

“At least we aged well.”

Steve raises his eyebrow at you. “Was that a compliment, Y/N?”

You smile, coy. “Who said anything about you? I was referring to myself.”

Steve scoffs, light hearted. You expect him to retaliate, to tease you how you’re teasing him. Instead, his gaze softens. He leans forward, drawn into you as he always is, and lowers his voice. “You’re as beautiful as ever.”

Years separate you and Steve. It’s been nearly a decade since love first tied you to each other. There used to be a knot, tied into something intricate, small, yet lovely, that connected you to Steve. 

And yet, with one sentence, the strings come together again.

“I still haven’t forgotten,” you fall back in your seat, away from Steve. “How you hurt me.”

He mirrors your body language, moving away as well. “And what about how you hurt me?”

You cross your arms. Steve crosses his. Staring at one another, a stalemate is reached. The memories that tie you together are both your vice and your virtue. The love is still remembered, it’s still warm to the touch, but so is the hurt. 

Robin would call you both childish if she were here right now. You can practically hear her now, annoyance in her voice as she rolls her eyes at the staring contest unfolding. She’s always resented how stubborn you both are.

“Why did you call me?”

Steve inhales sharply. He knows he has to answer the question. It’s only fair that he gives you an explanation for why he decided to call you at three in the morning the Friday before your plane was due to arrive in Hawkins’ small airport for Christmas and a wedding you both were invited to. 

But he can’t. Not yet, at least.

“If it makes me look any better, I called Robin first.” Steve forces a laugh out. “Granted, she told that if I called you that I’d probably die. But still. Blame her.”

Everything unravels after that.

“You never showed up.”

“Y/N.”

A crack to the surface, followed by a fist of anger that shatters everything. “You promised me you’d be there.”

“I was dick, I know–”

“Do you know how humiliated I was?” Steve winces, and his shame only enrages you more. “How utterly shitty it was when all our friends, our families, asked me where you were, and I couldn’t answer them?”

“Y/N, please just let me explain–”

“No.” The mug spills over as you hit the table, standing up furiously. You’re crying. You don’t remember the tears building. “You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, buy me dogshit coffee, and then spoon feed me shitty excuses! You were my boyfriend, I wanted to marry you, and you abandoned me.”

“Is the coffee really that bad?”

Your jaw clenches. Steve rubs his neck, looking everywhere but at you. He’s trying to be funny. His first words to you in five years were inconsequential, and now he’s trying to use humor to ease the sting of guilt that he feels seeing you.

The decision is an easy one. 

“Goodbye, Steve.”

His hand grips yours before you can even turn away. Startled by his sudden touch, you don’t pull back. Not this time, at least. You’re frozen, staring at Steve as he stares at you. He’s pale. His chest heaves and there’s terror in his eyes.

“Don’t.” It’s all he can say to you.

“Let me go.” But still you don’t pull away.

Let us go. Please. 

“I…” He blinks, almost winces to himself. Steve doesn’t know how to tell you the truth. Not anymore. Not like how he used to. But you’re pulling away again and he’s just gotten you back and he can’t lose you. Not again. “I resented you.”

Your back straightens. “Excuse me?”

“I-I know how bad it sounds, but if you just–” Steve gestures behind him, tries to sit you back down. But you don’t move. His eyes plead with you. “Y/N, please.”

He looks so akin to the boy you once knew. The resemblance twists the tendons in your chest, forces the air out of your lungs. You don’t move, but you don’t leave, either.

Steve accepts all that you’ll give him. 

– 

The home you built with Steve loses its warmth. Lazy Sunday mornings cease to exist. He doesn’t hold you at night. Dates go unplanned, dinners eaten alone. Laughter dies and you stop waiting for Steve to come home. Everything stills. Lost in a time capsule that was once your dream. 

Winter comes and the snow that blankets Hawkins softens the dull ache of the distance that’s built between you and Steve. He starts taking night classes at a local community college and you spend your nights writing. 

The first story you write is about a lonely barn owl who hops through dwindling branches trying to find its mate. The creature calls out for someone, its wails echoing through the deserted forest that once was alive with creation. 

A snowflake that gets lost in a storm that it created becomes your second story. Its frail, lithe body too transparent to be anything other than alone. 

Then you write about a dandelion that mourns for its seeds that have been cruelly torn from its body. 

Over and over you write about loss. How cold it leaves a person, the emptiness that can never quite be filled. 

In the end, it’s this sense of loss that gives you everything you’ve ever wanted, yet leaves you with nothing to show for it. 

“I sent my writing to a short story show. I got in.”

Steve unbuttons his work shirt. He worked a double shift at the restaurant, but spares you a tired smile. “That’s great.”

The praise is small, but the rarity of it makes it feel like gold upon your skin. Cheeks flushed, you smile back at him shyly. “Thank you.”

Steve goes back to changing out of his clothes and you’re left to deal with the silence that always seems to follow you these days. Your feet carry you to the bed, sitting down gently as you watch him. He doesn’t shy away from your gaze, but he doesn’t acknowledge it, either.

“The show is in two weeks. Christmas Eve.”

“Oh,” Steve pauses in the closet’s doorway. His hand rests on an old sweater you got him when you first started dating. He pulls out a different one instead. “Well. I already took the day off, so I’ll come.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he makes attending sound like an obligation. A dull chore he has to complete. 

“Robin already promised she’d be front row. Jonathan and Nancy, too.” You get up, stand behind Steve, rest your head on the back of his neck and encircle your arms around him. He stiffens at the touch, so do you. But you can’t let him go. “I think even some of the kids will come. And my parents, obviously.”

“Sounds like you’ll have an entire crowd devoted to you.”

“Yeah, but I only really want you there.” You whisper, vulnerable.

Steve sucks in a breath, releases it. He doesn’t say anything else. 

The next two weeks you read your collection of short stories aloud for hours on end. You rehearse how to present them, the right cadence and intonations. How to make the loneliness heavier, the serenity sweeter. You don’t let Steve listen, claiming you want to surprise him alongside everyone else the day of the show.

Later, you’ll come to understand that you had been afraid of how he’d react. If he’d even react at all. 

The show is a haze of people and praise. Robin brings you flowers, Jonathan takes pictures of you with all the kids. Dustin surprises you with an old leather journal he found for you to write all your ideas in and El hands you a ribbon to bind it. 

Your mother cries and your father hugs you warmly. Mrs. Wheeler and Nancy bring Christmas cookies and organize the large audience you’ve built for yourself in the seats provided by the show. It takes two entire rows to seat everyone you love. 

Robin saves a seat for Steve. He’s late.

The night is spent listening to brilliant writers reading their stories to a small, but kind, audience. There are a total of eight featured writers. You’re scheduled to read your writing last.

After the second writer finishes, you look anxiously over at the audience and bite your lip when you still don’t see Steve. The fifth writer goes on and your nails are bloody from picking at them. Mike murmurs something to Robin, who shakes her head and nervously shifts in her seat, eyes never leaving the empty seat next to her. 

The seventh writer shares a story about newfound love and its warmth. 

Nancy finds your gaze and the pitying look in her eyes makes your nausea even worse. 

You stand in front of a mass of people who lean into every word you read aloud. The seat next to Robin remains empty.

Steve never comes.

And it’s the last time you ever wait for him.

–

“I really was proud of you, you know.” Steve says softly, regretfully. “Robin told me you won an award later that night.”

“I did.” The award had been your ticket out of Hawkins. It got you money, connections with publishing agents. You moved to New York not even a week later.

Steve looks down. “I should’ve been there.”

You don’t bother to agree with him. You don’t want to coddle him, lessen the guilt he feels for how cruelly he hurt you. You’ll never forget the pit that formed in your stomach when you realized he wasn’t coming.

“I regret what I did. Every single day I wish I had gone.”

“You resented me instead, apparently.” Your laugh is cruel, cold.

Steve sits back down numbly, his body falls and the seat beneath him catches it. He places his hands on the table, slowly, defeated. He looks up at you, allows himself to finally confess everything. “I resented how easy everything seemed for you. I mean, you were making a name for yourself while I waited shitty tables and slept through grueling night courses.”

You clench your fists, still refusing to sit down. “And that gave you a right to diminish my own accomplishments?”

“Nothing makes sense when you’re twenty-three.”

Not an omission of truth, but rather acknowledgement of how differently you see the world when you’re young. Though you want more from Steve, you accept this. In a way, you suppose he’s right. 

“I didn’t go to the show because I was scared of how much I was falling behind.” Steve doesn’t look away from you. He’s laying all his cards on the table, open and waiting for you to read them. “We were in over our heads, but somehow only I was the one drowning.”

Rent, bills owed, grappling with adulthood while still shedding your adolescence. Loneliness while being together. Careers that hurt and dreams that struggled for breath. You and Steve had been drowning together. Until one day you weren’t. 

Steve drinks the coffee, he doesn’t pressure you to sit down again. Instead, he sighs. “I let your words get into my head. In your mind I was just a waiter, and I felt that nothing I was doing with my life was worthwhile. The only thing I had done right by the time I was twenty was having you love me.”

The anger that was quick to rise is also quick to dim. There isn’t any left for you to fight. 

Finally, you sit. You take the coffee from Steve and the now cold liquid is a reminder of how much time has passed. “The age old question: do actions speak louder than words?”

Did what I say justify what you did? Or did they cause each other, creating a cycle that we can never escape? 

You won’t forgive him, but you understand him. Steve was hurting just as much as you were, only his hurt came from your own insecure and unsure words. You told him he was just a waiter because you were scared all you’d ever be was an unknown writer. The weight of your future made you scared, the uncertainty of it all overwhelmed you and made you cruel. 

Steve had fallen victim to the same fate.

“Robin told me it was growing pains.” Steve says. “What happened between us. It was all just growing pains.”

Begrudgingly you smile. Your cards are on the table as well. “You called me to discuss growing pains?”

The crinkle of Steve’s smile warms the cold cafe. “Yeah. I guess I did.”

“Tell me, then. Are we done growing?” You lean forward, allow your body to be near Steve’s again and the buzz of the proximity sets your skin on fire. He breathes in sharply. He hasn’t been this close to you in what’s felt like a lifetime. 

Steve leans forward too. You can smell his cologne, his eyes still shine how you remember them. His face is the same, though weathered with age and experiences you no longer know about. You count the moles that scatter his face, heart thumping wildly when you realize you still remember how many there are.

He’s still so beautiful. 

You’re weak for Steve. Your bones still remember the weight of his love.

“I don’t think we’ll ever be done.” Steve sinks even closer, nose almost bumping your cheek. You hold your breath, body humming. 

Breathless, you ask him, “then where does that leave us?”

Steve pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. He studies your face, the familiar angles and peaks of your nose. Your eyes, how they’re still his favorite color. Your hair is the same, maybe a little shorter now, and your perfume still the warm vanilla that reminds him of home. 

You’re still the girl Steve fell in love with when he was a kid. He’s still the boy you fell in love with when you were a child. There is still hurt, memories you both want to forget, but there is love within it. Young love can be formed anew, if someone lets it. 

“Together.” Steve finally says. “It leaves us together.” 

-

⌑ writing masterlist

⌑ please feel free to like, reblog, and comment. i adore hearing from you guys :)

[eyeheartboobiez]

bruce wayne x gn!reader

a/n: I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG PLSSS😭 i really only planned for this to be a couple of hundred words but it ended up being a couple of thousand lmao but i hope you like it🫶🏿

summary: you’ve been stressing yourself over a case at work, leaving your loving husband home alone. luckily, he knows just the thing to help you wind down.

wc: 2.4K

warnings: smut, barely proof read..

Just when you think you've gotten a step closer, you end up taking two steps back.

For hours now, you've been stuck at work, desperately trying to break what may just be the toughest case of your career. The only light illuminating the room was the lamp positioned at your desk, as the office was completely void of life – aside from you of course.

You were supposed to be back home hours ago, yet the pile of reports stacked in front of you was nowhere near finished. The forensic evidence wasn’t matching up with the alleged suspect, and the words on the paper before you got blurrier by the second.

Rubbing at your eyes, you let out a heavy sigh, coming to the devastating conclusion that you wouldn’t be able to solve this on your own. While integrity was one of the most essential parts of the job, a little help from a certain someone couldn’t hurt, right?

However, before you could pick up the phone and call your beloved Bruce, a knock was heard at the door. Who the hell could be here at this time of night? Despite your immense fatigue, you were sure your body couldn’t have gone to the point of hallucinating.

Well you weren’t imaging things, because lo and behold was all six feet and two inches of your husband standing at the entrance.

“You missed dinner, you know.” he said, arms crossed and leaning against the doorway.

He made his way towards your desk, his strides slow but formulated as always. The way he stalked towards you had the likeliness of a predator shadowing its prey. Somehow, the darkness of the room became even dimmer.

You weren’t scared though. Nervous, maybe, but this was your husband after all.

As much as he likes to parade the streets striking fear into the villains of Gotham, you know he was a sweetheart at the end of the day. However, if he couldn’t stand you staying late at work for one night, then he’d just have suck it up and deal with it.

“I know baby, but really, I have to get this done tonight.” you sighed, refusing to go down without a fight.

Stressed enough as is, you really weren’t in the mood to deal with Bruce’s antics right now. Closing your eyes, you put your head down on the pile of papers in front of you, hoping to subdue your worsening headache.

“Alfred even made your favorite.” A pair of large hands found themselves at your shoulders, “He was disappointed when you weren’t at the table, love.”

His digits kneaded at your traps, skillfully working their way into all the knots of the muscle. “C’mon darling, let’s get you back home and fed, ‘kay?”

You let out a deep groan, the tension in your shoulders had dissolved in an instant. Oh you already knew where this was going. 

You see, Bruce was a master at the art of persuasion, as if he had the secret ability to make anyone and everyone bend at his will. It was a power that even your eldest son Dick had picked up (to both your delight and disdain).

While you’d usually fall victim to his schemes, now was not one of those times. You were determined to wrap this case up, even if you passed out in the process.

Noticing your stubborn behavior, the dark knight leaned down and began nipping at your ear, “Damian was even hoping you’d make it back in time to say goodnight to him, you know.”

It was a compelling argument, you’ll give him that, but still you refused to submit to his tactics. 

Your eyebrows furrowed as you started to get irritated. Why was it so hard for him to understand you were busy? 

“Bruce, seriously, cut it out. I gotta stay here and work my way through this evidence.” Lightly shoving him off, you picked up your pen and went back to sorting out the documents before you. Although the break was much appreciated, Bruce was proving to be no help at all.

Hoping he’d actually listened to you this time around, you jokingly made a last remark, “Since Alfred cooked too much tonight, how about you show me how much you love me and go grab me a plate.”

“How about I show you how much I love you right now.”

Before you could even question it, Bruce’s lips found themselves back at your earlobe. Except this time, his small pecks quickly transformed into open mouthed kisses.

His fingers went back to rubbing your shoulders, his workmanship more intense than ever. His fingers stealthily trailed up to your throat, squeezing at the area.

As you felt the pressure increase more and more, you finally became aware of what was happening. This entire time, he had been shadowing you like a wild animal.

And now he was ready to pounce.

“I see how stressed you’ve been recently,” He murmured against your skin, “Do you think I like seeing you exhausted like this, sweetheart?”

Eyes closed, you could do nothing but focus on how he sounds, how he feels. Your chest felt heavy, your mind felt hazy, and you couldn’t seem to get the words out to respond.

“Don’t know how to speak when your husband is talking to you? Guess you must be more tired than I thought.”

“No, Bruce I— ahh!”

Your voice was cut off as his hands began fondling your nipples, the hem of your shirt bunched up at your chest.

“Y’know how much I miss you on nights like this?” he spoke up again, leaving wet, languid kisses along your nape. 

“Waiting on our couch, laying without you in our bed, aching for you. Do you actually like leaving me alone like this?”

Your chest heaved at the thought, has he always been this desperate for you? As he continued to ravish you below the chin, your head moved against his lips, mimicking the harsh circular motions of an ocean wave.

Feeling his hand trail lower and lower, your breaths became more and more shallow. Case work be damned, you’d be an idiot to go back to working at a time like this.

“Bruce, this investigation was really important.” You mewed, “I’m sorry, baby.”

“If that’s the case, I think I deserve a little something in return, hm? Lemme look after you, angel.”

With that, you were pulled out of your chair and immediately brought to your feet. Strong thighs pressed themselves firmly against your bottom, leaving Bruce towering over you. 

His dominating aura was overpowering, and you were left heaving at the thought of all the ways he could take you, all the ways he could claim you.

All at once, he skillfully moved to pull at both your trousers and undergarments, leaving them pooling at your ankles. “Open your legs for me, love. I wanna see you.”

In all your glory there you were, lying chest down against your desk, pants to the floor, with your beloved husband practically rutting into you from behind.

You habitually arched your back, aching to be filled. Bruce sighed in pleasure, stepping back to take a look at his beloved spouse. Just the sight of you like this damn near made him go crazy.

His hands circled our waist, thumbs thoroughly messaging the small of your back, “I jus’ wanna help you out, baby. Would you like that? Hm? For me to fuck the stress out of you?”

“Yes Sir! Anything you want from me.”

As soon as the bedroom name hit his ears, Bruce let out an audible groan. As many cases you’ve solved in your career, you still didn’t have a single clue of the things you do to him.

Emphatically pulling at his belt, Bruce frantically released his throbbing member from his slacks. Violently spitting in his hand, he began stroking his arousal, lining it up with your tight opening.

He teased his cockhead around the swollen area, his pre-cum painting the heat between your legs. It was as though he was playing with you, as if you were some toy solely meant for his leisure.

Finally, after edging you for what felt like forever, he finally plunged inside of you. His sex speared into you with unrelenting vigor. Slowly, his shaft inched its way inside.

“‘M gonna fuck you so good that you wont be able to get up for work tomorrow,” his husky voice was leaving you in a trance, “Would you like that, angel? For this cock to take all your worries away?”

“Mhm, please sir,” your wanton moans were like music to his ears, as if the pearly gates of heaven were calling his name.

At your request, Bruce’s demeanor did a complete 180. His unrushed pace being switched out for something much more barbaric. Wet smacks could be heard throughout the room as his hips jerked into your swollen entrance.

The table shook at the force of his thrusts, leaving your pencil case to fall as a result. Papers were scattered about, some even sticking to the dampness of your skin. Your hands went to grip the edge of your desk, looking for something, anything to keep you stabilized.

“This is what you’ve been missing out on,” Bruce heaved, “This is what you could’ve had all those nights you decided to stay here and work.”

You practically begged him to slow down, the abuse to your hole was getting to be exhausting, “Bruce, mmn— ‘s too much.”

But your pleas fell on deaf ears, as his girth did nothing but continue its relentless assault. Your moans started to match his movements, pitch getting higher with each thrust.

“Shittt,” the hero groaned, “You're doing so good for me, sweetheart. Jus’ be good and lay there for me.”

His words were lulling you to sleep, that deep, velvety voice paired with his raspy grunts were more than soothing. Your lids started to get heavier by the second, you knew you were close. Any more of this and you were sure to tap out.

Your cheek was pressed against the surface below you. Eyes rolled so far back, it seemed like you could take a peek of your brain if you tried hard enough. It felt like your soul momentarily left your body as you started convulsing below him.

“Sir ‘m gonna, fuckkk, I’m coming!”

“There you go, love. Ease into it for me.” Although you were well over your limit, Bruce’s movements were still as vigorous as ever. 

You could tell he was close. As his thrusts got sloppier, your hips dug further into the edge of the desk, leaving marks along the surrounding skin.

“Broosh, please, I can’t ‘nymore. ‘M tired baby.” you babbled. Your barely formed words were only proof of how your consciousness was holding on by a thread.

“Shhhh. Just let me put you to rest, angel. Let your husband take care of you t’night.” Bruce’s cock throbbed, the thick appendage desperately looking for release.

Your entire body was limp by now, overstimulated beyond belief. It didn't even register how lifeless your legs were until you felt two arms scoop you up, hugging your midriff. You could just imagine how insane the scene must have looked, two grown adults humping over a table like a pair of wild dogs.

Eyes shut, you were nearly asleep at this point, the only sign of life from you were the light whimpers slipping past your plump lips. Your only purpose by now was to let your husband use you as he pleased, like some ragdoll.

Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. His movements stuttered as his senses came to a peak, “Mmm s-shit Y/N, just stay right there for me sweetheart, I got you.”

Once again, your insides fluttered as cum coated your heat. You felt his weight collapse on top of you as he tried to collect himself. Feeling him pull out, the thick, white liquid painted your skin as your hole throbbed from the aftershocks. 

Bruce’s member continued to pulsate, airy ‘ahs’ nd ‘mhms’ could be heard throughout the room. Bringing you down from you high, you heard a voice speak up from behind you, “You okay, darling? I wasn’t too rough, was I?”

“Mm-mm,” you rumbled, not having the energy to give a real response. 

“Don’t give out on me yet, angel,” affectionately rubbing at your exposed skin, Bruce moved to tidy you up, “Let’s get you dressed so we can go home alright?”

Grabbing some spare napkins from a nearby tissue box, your doting husband wiped you down. He made sure to clean up every ounce of the thick cream dripping down your thighs.

Kneeling down, he moved to pull up your trousers, softly kissing the expanse of your legs along the way. You could barely react to his touch considering how spent you were.

As you wobbly stood to your feet, Bruce quickly went to pick you up bridal style, your head slugging against his firm chest.

Honestly, you should have known you would end up in this position the second he walked through the door.  As resistant as you were in the beginning, you can help but feel appreciative of Bruce’s actions, the love you have for him growing by the minute.

Unbeknownst to you, however, there was a reason your husband decided to surprise you tonight.

The case you had been working on, well there was a reason the forensic reports weren’t matching up. There had been a new villain roaming the streets of Gotham, and while Bruce didn’t know who he was yet, he knew he was more than dangerous.

As he placed you in the passenger’s seat, Bruce’s mind traveled to all the innocent lives that had been taken by the hands of this corrupt individual. He surely wouldn’t be able to live with himself if you ended up one of them.

Although he admired your determination, the dark knight knew better than to allow the love of his life to follow a path of such evil. 

So if this little “distraction” was the only way to throw you off their trail, then so be it.

a/n: feedback is always welcome and reblogs are always appreciated!! ilyyy

[littlespoonevan]

Princess Diaries 2 au!

not me already cheating askdjfhsa so i actually have the first chapter of this fic written but i never got any further than that so i never posted it. but!!! that means you are in luck bc i can offer you 3.5k almost immediately lmao

i had a lot of fun rereading this though so hopefully this might give me some motivation to keep going with it 🤞✨

-

“You want to do what?”

Buck’s parents regard him with identical disdainful looks. It’d almost be intimidating if he wasn’t on the receiving end of looks like that from both of them at least once a day.

“Evan, this doesn’t concern you,” his mother sighs.

“Like hell it doesn’t!” he exclaims, looking wildly between his parents and his sister. “Aren’t you forgetting what happened the last time you tried to stick Maddie in an arranged marriage-“

“Evan,” Maddie cuts in, voice gentle but firm enough for Buck to deflate. The smile she offers him is resigned. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not alright,” he protests weakly.

“Maddie understands the responsibilities she has as our daughter,” his father says, the, you don’t, heavily implied.

“Regardless, she’s far too old to be concerning herself with something as trivial as a love match,” his mother scoffs and Maddie’s mouth tightens into a thin line.

His parents love to bring up that Maddie is in her late thirties and still single. As if the whole reason for that isn’t because the last person they set up her up with tried to kill her – a trauma from which she’s obviously still recovering. Buck’s not about to let it happen again, not on his watch.

“Do you understand what a match like this could do for our family?” Margaret continues. Buck’s never understood his parents’ obsession with titles and social climbing. He would’ve figured still being a viscount and viscountess would be enough for anyone when, y’know, no one gives a shit about the monarchy nowadays.

“Besides, lord knows the Diazes would be indebted to us for even agreeing to it,” Philip adds with a derisive snort.

“I’ve heard Prince Edmundo is very pleasant,” Maddie offers, clearly trying to placate Buck and possibly trying to convince herself also. She’s putting on a brave face but Buck knows she’s nervous after Doug. It’s been years but Maddie still jumps at shadows.

Buck rolls his eyes. He may never have met him before but Buck has heard the scandal surrounding Prince Edmundo. He fell in love with a commoner and tried to marry her but his parents refused the match. Then, four years ago, a child was left at the palace gates with a letter addressed to Prince Edmundo. Apparently before they were forced apart Edmundo had gotten her pregnant and she was no longer in a position to take care of the child. Within hours, the whole world knew.

The Diazes had hired an entire new security team after that.

Buck hasn’t heard much since but he does know the potential marriage King Ramon and Queen Helena had been arranging for Edmundo completely fell through with the reveal of the child and he hasn’t publicly dated anyone since.

So now they’re here: a proposed match between Maddie and Edmundo so Edmundo can ascend the throne in the fall like he’s supposed to.

 “I still don’t like it,” Buck mutters.

“How about a compromise?” Maddie suggests then. “We have a trial period.

“I personally have no desire to get married to a stranger – I would, at least, like to know the man’s favourite food or his hobbies – so why don’t we see if Prince Edmundo would be agreeable to my coming to stay at the palace? Six months. A proper courtship. And, if anything untoward happens or I suspect something isn’t right, the union is ended.”

Their parents share a look, conversing only with their eyes and pinched mouths. Eventually their father looks back to them. “If the Diazes agree, then fine. But Maddie, you are running out of time. If Prince Edmundo doesn’t marry you then you can’t protest whoever else we choose. You’ve put it off long enough.”

Buck wants to protest but he knows this isn’t his fight. He’ll get his turn whenever they decide to turn his attention to him. He watches Maddie take a measured breath and is, once again, in awe of his sister’s ability to keep her composure. He can never do that. He always feels too much.

She looks their parents dead in the eye and nods. “I understand.”

“I’ll write to Helena then,” Margaret sighs.

~

“I don’t like it.”

Eddie just about refrains from rolling his eyes. He suspects the hand he has braced against his temple is just about the only thing preventing his parents from seeing the exasperation on his face.

“It sounds perfectly reasonable to me,” Eddie says and his mother clucks her tongue.

“Of course it does, Eddie. You’re just looking for a way to get out of this.”

“No, I’m not,” he exhales. He’s long since given up on trying to get out of this marriage. Any hope he had of marrying for love ended when his parents forced him to kick Shannon to the curb. Christopher arriving on his doorstep a few years ago left that hope buried six feet beneath the ground.

Truthfully, he doesn’t care anymore. His priority is Christopher now. He doesn’t need romantic love; all he needs is a political match with someone who will, at best, be decent to his son or, at worst, ignore Eddie and Christopher except for public appearances.  

He understands Maddie’s reticence though.

“Maddie’s last fiancé tried to murder her, Mother,” Eddie points out. “She doesn’t know me. Of course she’d be hesitant to marry immediately.”

“Philip and Margaret never mentioned this when we were making the arrangements though,” his father cuts in and Eddie does roll his eyes this time.

“They probably hadn’t told her yet,” he says. “Really, I don’t mind.” If anything, six months in which his parents fixate on someone else besides him sounds like a dream come true.

His parents whisper to each other but Eddie doesn’t bother trying to listen in. Instead he glances out the window to where Chimney is training in their new security hire, Ravi. The kid looks fresh out of high school and like he spooks way too easily but Eddie still wishes he was out there with them. Or in the playroom with Carla and Christopher.

Or anywhere that isn’t here.

“Fine,” Helena says, snapping him back into reality. “We’ll allow it. But you are to be on your best behaviour, Eddie. Do you understand how difficult it was for us to find you a match after your indiscretions-“

“You mean my son?”

His mother huffs. “You know we love Christopher. But people talk and you must admit your actions with that woman were completely reckless. Just like always.”

Eddie ducks his head, fists clenching in frustration. “Mom, it’s been nearly ten years since I last even saw Shannon. I was a kid. I was stupid. But I’m not going to apologise for it. Not when it gave me my son.”

“Don’t speak to your mother like that,” Ramon commands but then he folds, just slightly, and rubs at his forehead. “This is a good thing, Edmundo. It’s almost time for you to ascend the throne. It is your turn to honour this family; try to see that.”

Eddie doesn’t think there’s a single word in the English language he hates more than honour. Rolling his shoulders, he lowers his gaze and nods in acquiescence.

~

Eddie spends the rest of the day preparing for the Buckleys’ arrival with Hen, taking the chance to duck away to his room when she gets a phone call. She scowls at him and flaps her hand in a gesture that clearly indicates she doesn’t want him to go anywhere but he pretends not to understand and gets out of reach before she can grab him.

She’s confirmed Maddie’s brother, Evan, will be coming with her as well as Maddie’s personal security guard, Athena Grant. Eddie wasn’t aware the children of viscounts needed their own security detail but he guesses for Maddie it might be an extra precaution.

He’s heard the story, of course. How she and her previous husband had beaten the odds. Arranged marriages were common in their world but one that was also a love match was all but unheard of for people like them.

But Maddie and her fiancé, Doug, had seemed like the real thing. Their lavish wedding had been the talk of royal enthusiasts everywhere – the only people who actually pay attention to high society weddings. Then, a little over a year ago, Maddie was brutally attacked and almost killed.

Her husband had been the culprit.

And if Eddie’s sources are to be believed, Doug had been beating her the entire time they were together. Honestly, Eddie’s surprised she even agreed to the match. Though, if her parents are anything like his own, he doubts she had any say in the matter.

It makes him feel only the tiniest bit better about his own situation.

Losing Shannon is a pain that still aches deep inside of him but at least he’d loved her and she’d loved him back. And if nothing else, she’d given him Christopher, the most precious gift of Eddie’s life.

With him and Maddie…well. He doesn’t think they’ll fall in love but maybe they can be friends. After all, isn’t that what marriage is? Companionship? Eddie’s had love now; he knows what it felt like. Once is more than enough for him. He can be grateful for that – it’s more than most people get in his line of work.

A knock at his open door rouses him from his reverie and he looks up to find his abuela standing at the threshold, a mischievous sort of smile on her face.

“Abuela,” he says warmly.

“I hear we have visitors coming?” she says, crossing into his room and coming to rest at the chaise longue near his writing desk.

“I’m pretty sure Mom’s arranging a car as we speak,” he says, flashing a fake smile.

Abuela hums, regarding him with an appraising look as if she’s trying to read everything he’s not saying in the set of his shoulders or the slant of his eyebrows. She’s always been far too perceptive when it comes to him.

“How are you really feeling, Eddito?” she asks. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Eddie hangs his head, letting out a weary sigh, before coming to sit beside her. “Do I have much of a choice?”

“You always have a choice,” she tuts. “Don’t let your parents make you think you don’t.”

“I always knew what my life would be. This isn’t some cruel twist of fate handed down by the universe. It’s my duty – to my family, to this kingdom.”

“And what about your duty to yourself?” she asks quietly and Eddie looks away.

He takes a moment to rally himself before he can manage to smile at her again. “I’ve gotten everything I want from life already. Christopher is enough. I don’t need anything else.”

Abuela watches him with something that could be pity on anyone else. From her, it’s just an overwhelming sense of empathy and love. She reaches out to pat his cheek and Eddie marvels – as he always does – at the way the casual affection he shares with her and his aunt never comes as easily with his parents.

“Protect yourself, Eddie,” she murmurs, a quiet request. “Please. For me. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

He swallows, emotion he doesn’t expect clogging his throat. “You had an arranged marriage. So did Mom and Dad. I’ll be fine,” he promises, lifting a hand to cover Abuela’s with his own where it still rests on his cheek.

“I know,” she says, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “And I was very happy with your abuelo. But you, mi ángel, have always dreamed of love. I want that for you.”

Tears burn behind his eyes but he blinks them away and forces a bright smile onto his face.

“I’m sure the Maddie will be a perfectly good match.”

It sounds like a lie even to himself.

~

Buck yanks at his tie for the sixth time since they got out of the car and Maddie slaps his hand away.

“Relax,” she mutters. “I feel like you’re more nervous than I am.”

He lets his hand drop with a sigh, shooting Athena a winning grin when she casts them both a sidelong glance. She rolls her eyes before turning back to talking to the Diaz chief of staff, Bobby Nash, as they make their way up the steps of the palace. Henrietta Wilson, who is Bobby’s second in command and evidently personally responsible for Prince Edmundo, keeps pace with him and Maddie.

“How are you feeling?” he asks under his breath and Maddie gives him an exasperated smile.

“I’m fine,” she insists, reaching out to latch onto his pinkie finger with her own and giving it a quick squeeze. “You don’t need to worry.”

“I can’t help it,” he mutters.

Up until now Buck has been able to pretend this is all some farcical plan or- or a vacation for him and Maddie! But now they’re here and they’re about to have a formal introduction with the royal family and it suddenly feels real. Maddie’s getting married. Courtship or not, that’s the end goal in all this and she’s not going to be able to say no unless Buck can find a legitimate reason why.

And maybe it’s not Prince Edmundo’s fault and maybe he’s just as helpless in all of this as Maddie is but Buck’s still ready to hate him on sight.

This whole thing feels wrong, out of place. Maddie shouldn’t have to get married again if she doesn’t want to. And she sure as hell shouldn’t have to marry someone just to satisfy their parents’ need for social climbing. It’s not fair. She’s been through enough and he can’t believe their parents are willing to put her through another potential trauma by forcing her into an arranged marriage.

Well, not if Buck has anything to say about it.

He’s older now than he was when she and Doug first met and he’s determined to do whatever it takes to protect her. He even convinced his parents to let him be Maddie and Prince Edmundo’s chaperone during their courtship. (Not in an official capacity but still.)

It’s not much but if it lets him keep Maddie’s safe, it’s worth it.

They reach the main entryway and Buck grinds to an abrupt halt, just stopping short of barrelling straight into Athena. She gives him a look like she knows that’s exactly what he was about to do and he ducks his head, chagrined.

Henrietta clears her throat, clearly attempting to bite back a smirk when Buck looks up at her. “Ready?”

She’s talking to Maddie but Buck still has to tamp down on the urge to say no.

“Of course,” Maddie breathes and the doors open.

One of the other staff members introduces them. Buck hears it just as they step inside.

“Presenting the honourable Madeleine Buckley and her brother, Evan Buckley.”

The royal family are waiting by the staircase for them, their expressions ranging from eager to cordial.

And well. Prince Edmundo is exceedingly handsome, he’ll give him that.

He’s tall, though not quite as tall as Buck, dressed in formal attire with his hair swept back off his face in a way that looks seemingly effortless – unlike the fifteen minutes Buck spends in front of the mirror in the morning trying to make his curls sit just right. His tanned skin and big brown eyes, coupled with the affable smile make him seem…

Charming. He is, quite frankly, the fairy-tale definition of a Prince Charming and Buck feels himself seethe with something that’s not quite jealousy but maybe somewhere adjacent to that.

Prince Edmundo steps forward and, for the first time, Buck notices the little boy behind him. That must be his son, Christopher. He’s got crutches under his arms to keep him steady and one of the Diaz’s staff stands beside him – a kindly looking woman that keeps her hand protectively on his shoulder.

“Miss Buckley,” Prince Edmundo greets, stepping forward to take Maddie’s hand. He presses a faint kiss to the back of it and Buck bites the inside of his cheek so hard he’s pretty sure he draws blood. “It’s an honour to meet you.”

“And you as well, your highness,” Maddie replies, offering up a curtsy and a careful smile. And if nothing else, Buck will admit the smile Prince Edmundo offers in response seems more sincere than Doug’s ever was.

He turns to Buck then, extending a hand to shake.

“Your highness,” Buck greets before Prince Edmundo gets a chance to, giving his hand a too-tight shake and finishing it off with a half-assed smile.

Prince Edmundo raises an eyebrow but decorum wins out above anything else. “Mr Buckley,” he returns, his own hand tightening for a moment around Buck’s. If Buck didn’t know any better he’d almost think he was amused.

Queen Helena interrupts then, gliding forward to take Maddie’s hand. “Madeleine. It’s so lovely to finally meet you.”

Maddie bows again, greeting the queen with a, “Your majesty,” that betrays none of the unease she might be feeling. One thing’s for sure, their parents trained her well.

“Welcome to our home,” King Ramon adds, coming to stand beside his wife and offering Maddie a greeting of his own.

They greet Buck and Athena next, completely pleasant and completely perfunctory. Their focus is on Maddie and that’s abundantly clear. Well, that’s fine with Buck. It’ll make it a hell of a lot easier for him to poke holes in this whole match if no one’s paying attention to him.

“We hope your journey was pleasant?” Helena says, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“It was very comfortable,” Maddie assures. “It was so generous of you to send a car.”

“It was our pleasure,” Helena says then and she looks like she means it. “Well, we’d love to stay and chat a bit more but I’m afraid the king and I have a very important meeting we must attend to.”

“The work never stops,” Ramon jokes. “Eddie will show you to your living quarters and we’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

With that, they take their leave and Buck lets out the breath he’s been holding this entire time.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Prince Edmundo does the same. But then he turns to them with a beatific smile and gestures to the staircase.

“You must be tired after your journey. I can show you to your rooms and give you some time to get settled?”

The car ride had only been a couple of hours but Buck’s not gonna complain. Standing on ceremony is exhausting.

“Thank you, Prince Edmundo,” Maddie says because Buck might’ve used up all his manners by now but she clearly hasn’t. “That’s very kind of you.”

For the first time, there’s something almost awkward in the prince’s demeanour. Buck doesn’t understand what it is until he says, “Please, call me Eddie. I don’t see any reason why we should have to stick to formalities if we’re going to be getting to know each other as we are over the next few months.”

Maddie’s shoulders drop where she stands beside him and Buck is begrudgingly impressed Prince Edmundo – Eddie – has managed to put his sister at ease.

“In that case, please call me Maddie,” she says. “I don’t need any titles. And Evan-“

“Goes by Buck,” he cuts in, flashing Eddie a closed-lip smile.

“Buck,” Eddie repeats, as if testing the name out.

Buck hates that he actually likes how it sounds coming from him.

“I’ll remember that,” Eddie says before glancing over his shoulder. “And um, if we’re still making introductions, I’d like you to meet our chaperone.”

He steps aside and Buck watches as the little boy takes three tentative steps forward to stand at his father’s side. Eddie immediately crouches down to his level once he does, wrapping a comforting arm around him and Buck hates his own traitorous heart for melting a little at the sight. “This is my son, Christopher.”

“Hi, Christopher,” Maddie says, voice warm and welcoming, as she holds out a hand for him to shake. She always was amazing with kids. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

Christopher takes her hand after a moment’s hesitation and stutters out a soft, “Miss Buckley,” that has Buck biting his lip so he can maintain his composure.

Why did Eddie have to have such a cute kid?

“You don’t have to call me that,” Maddie says with a chuckle. “You can just call me Maddie if you like.”

Christopher nods and lets go of her hand and then Maddie is reaching back for Buck. “This is my brother, Evan.”

Buck huffs at his given name but obediently steps forward, crouching down in the same manner Eddie had to get on Christopher’s level.

“My friends call me Buck,” he tells Christopher with a wink, offering him a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Christopher.”

“Nice to meet you too, Buck,” Christopher says with a bashful smile as he fits his tiny hand in Buck’s to shake it.

Eddie clears his throat and there’s something inscrutable in his expression when Buck looks at him. “How about we show you to your room?”

~

[alphabetboyluvr]

HUSH | MYG - SERIES MASTERLIST

pairing: rockstar!yoongi x female reader | mutual disdain - lovers (but also strangers - lovers? kinda?)

Welcome to Hush. We're the dating app that brings it all back; Y2K style. Forget catfishes, filters, and facetune - It's all about 'ASL?', character limits, and screaming into your pillow at 4am, after finaaaaally sending that goodnight text to your crush. Hush is the place to share your secrets. You're anonymous until you choose not to be - so what are you waiting for?! Go forth and multiply, Hush hottie! And by multiply, we mean your Hush crushes, of course! Hush users that match your preferences will automatically be added to your very own Secret Circle. We do the hard work for you (you're welcome), but it's up to you to turn your Hush crush into a secret worth keeping. Our lips are sealed, so yours don't have to be.

genre / tropes: okay, where to start with this one lmao, sexting! and i mean... a lot of sexting (so much sexting oc will probably get early-onset arthritis in her thumbs), yoongi is a dick, he also hates nepotism, and in turn, you. oh yeah, you're jin's sister, you work with the band on tour. jin, yoongi, tae, jk and joon are in The Scouts aka the hottest band since sliced bread. jimin is their tour manager, hobi works up in the head office (he's sleazy and i love him). slight love triangle, one-near-footjob (and counting!), eventual smut, a little angst, dating app that is exclusively for celebrities / people in the public eye, one incredibly inconvenient pairing, yoongi calls the oc clementine / clemmie and it's cuter than it sounds, idk how else to explain this, mistaken identity i guess? although not really? look, just read it lol. smut warnings will be on chapters individually!!

wordcount: x (will be somewhere between 80-120k)

soundtrack: x

start date: 2023.08.31 (originally posted early 2022)

minors dni // originally posted to wattpad

NOTE FROM HOLLY // hush is uploaded to wattpad in shorter chapters that i then combine for updates on tumblr (as are most of my fics!!)

CONTEXT // pls read these before the story

THE SCOUTS - meet the band HUSH - meet the app

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

[jamespottersdaisy]

A man without love

Peter Parker x fem!reader

|1.4k|

a/n: just a fluffy banter during a cozy night

song choice has absolutely no relation to the fic whatsoever, i just listened to it the whole time and liked lmao. dedicated to my baby jay @hollandweather

Moonlight to show the way so we can follow

Waiting inside her eyes was my tomorrow

Then something changed her mind, her kisses told me

I had no loving arms to hold me

Every day I wake up, then I start to break up

Lonely is a man without love

Every day I start out, then I cry my heart out

Lonely is a man without love

Somewhere amidst the mellifluous melody, the door clicks, and you know Peter is home. 

You’ve been captivated in your book for far too long to notice the hour; quite late, might I add. It must have been a rough night for him to decide to stay past two in the morning for patrol.

You grab your phone and toss it between the pages as a bookmark before hopping on your feet.

“Nice song, baby,” Peter murmurs as he dawdles to your room, leaving its door agape. You wager he is changing to something much more comfortable than that suit of his but still barge in the room nonetheless. “How was the night, big guy?”

You catch a few discoloration on his skin as his bare torso moves around beside the bed. He glances at you sidelong, swiftly hauling a grey shirt on. “Smashing success. No criminals left around.”

He might have rushed to shroud his skin with cloth from you, but you are shrewd enough to match his furtiveness. No chance he is hiding those tiny injuries from you. Perhaps he has a good reason to do so– such as the look on your face when you see him hurt– but still, not good enough of a reason to deny you. 

“Lemme see,” you clutch the hem of his shirt to lift it up, only for his hand to grab yours to parry.

“On my period, sorry, beautiful.” His eyes may be drooping from exhaustion, yet his smirk is as smug as always while you glower daggers at him.

“Let me see, Peter.”

“That’s harassment.”

“There’s something purplish on your back,” you try harder, but he is stronger.

“You’re delusional.”

“I know what I saw, quit gaslighting me.”

“Gaslighting is not real. You’re crazy,” Peter shakes his head.

“Are you hiding hickeys of trysting?” you jeer, making him chuckle and release your hand from his at last. 

“Nope, don’t have time for that,” he shakes his head gallantly. “Just bruises of valour.”

Which simply earns a mocking scoff from you.

You don’t see or feel his amorous gaze on you as your fingers trace the new bruises. They’ll heal, you know they will, and still, you want to kiss every one of them into evanescing.

“How was your night?” he whispers, bringing his hand to your hair and pushing a strand behind your ear. 

“Better than yours, apparently,” You now touch the small nick on his jaw tenderly and turn around to get a band-aid from the nightstand.

His eyes follow your movements around, gears working in his brain. “Please, not the pink one–” he calls when you grab a band-aid.

Too late. You are already springing back with a wide grin. “Pink one!”

“Not the pink one…” he closes his eyes in disdain as you strut back to his side and place a screaming pink plaster on his jaw.

He looks down in your eyes as you check his handsome face, clearly proud of your work. “I look so manly.”

“Most manliest you ever looked.”

“Wanna get in the bed with me?

“You’re on your period, Peter.”

He laughs and turns around before throwing himself into the bed. “C’mon, take your book and the music and come here.”

I cannot face this world that's fallen down on me

So if you see my girl, please send her home to me

Tell her about my heart that's slowly dying

Say I can't stop myself from crying

Every day I wake up, then I start to break up

Lonely is a man without love

Every day I start out, then I cry my heart out

Lonely is a man without love

When you sit on the bed, legs crossed with your book on your lap, Peter takes your phone, restarting the same song. He averts his eyes to your book. “Anything new?” 

“Oh, yeah, you’ve missed so much,” your eyes widen with excitement, and Peter’s smile widens intuitively. “I don’t even remember where you left off.”

“The girl’s memories got stolen,” he reminds you. “Want me to braid your hair?”

“I get so sleepy when you do that,” you shake your head and open the book to go through pages with hopes of remembering what you’ve read since Peter left.

“I should hope so, do you know what hour it is?”

“But I’ve missed you,” your head snaps up, and Peter narrows his eyes. His hand is already up in your hair, playing and caressing the locks gently. “Liar. You’ve been reading that book since I’ve left home.”

“And two hours before that,” you lean into his touch.

“You’ve officially lost the right to complain about your headache,” He props up in bed, switching to a more suitable position for easier access to your hair.

“I will do it regardless.”

‘I know you will,” his long fingers take three strands, and you are already feeling sleepy. “Now, please, tell me what happened after the poor girl lost her memories.”

You pause for a minute, mustering all the plot you’ve consumed to drain. As you remember the things the poor main character went through, your blood pressure soars, eyes widen and voice raise. “They lied to her! Can you believe that?”  you exclaim, at which Peter raises his brows in happy bewilderment. “God, I hate her mother so much!”

“Stepmother. Go on,” He interjects before passing to another strand of hair and dividing it into three. “What about her situationship?”

“He is not her situationship, Peter–”

“I mean, they flirt about killing each other, sleep together, but they’re not together.”

“That’s sexual tension and slow burn,” you scowl. Peter lets go of another newly done braid.

“Yep, that’s what I said,” he nods, caressing your cheek with his thumb. ”Situationship. What happened to him?”

That’s when you straighten your back, and Peter rolls his eyes. He never was fond of the male main characters of the books you’ve read. No matter how they looked and what they did, you always seemed to be infatuated with them.

���He was looking for her, and he found her and he freaked out when she didn’t remember her–” You start babbling about the male lead, but Peter is not amused.

“Breathe.”

“But he could not openly tell her everything, it would freak her out, so he–”

“Still not breathing, beautiful.”

“Stop interrupting,” you wave off your hand.”So he lied about who he is to gain her trust and–”

“He’s such a liar, what do you even see in him?”

“He’s hot,” you lightly slap his chest to stop him from cutting off your every word. 

“He is short, but sure, go on,” Peter grabs you by the arm and yanks you closer to his chest. 

This is his favourite time of the day, and you are always too busy to see it. Your voice echoes around the room, albeit he forgets most of the things you are saying by the morning. What matters is that you are talking. To him. With him. 

“Doesn’t matter, still hot,” You nuzzle against his chest, feeling his hands roam around your hair and back. It’s dizzying and yet the most comforting feeling you’ve ever felt. “So, they start spending time behind her mother and slowly grow a bond.”

“There we go, she’s gonna take forever to trust him again,” Peter’s tone is already lowered, welcoming you into a place of drowsiness. Both of you in your pyjamas, tangled together under a blanket that Peter wrapped around you. 

“So, you wouldn’t wait and fight for my love even if it took forever?” your words are heavy, and your voice is slumberous. Peter smiles down at your hooded eyes and rests his chin against yours.

“Baby, you didn’t acknowledge your feelings for me for six months.” He is right. You fought a lot to not ruin the friendship at first.

“I still could have taken my time,” you mumble, eyes closed. “Act oblivious to your flirting.”

“I could not be clearer that I was flirting,” he chuckles slowly, taking the book away from you and placing it on the counter. “And I would’ve waited another six months.”

“You would get bored.”

“Of you? Never,” is all that is said before you doze off and he shuts off the lights.

Every day I wake up, then I start to break up

Knowing that it's cloudy above

Every day I start out, then I cry my heart out

Lonely is a man without love

Every day I wake up, then I start to break up

Knowing that it's cloudy above

Every day I start out, then I cry my heart out

Lonely is a man without love

thank you for reading! let me know if you liked it!!!! love you guys so much!

[sehtoast]

Gods Were Made to Be Worshipped (Homelander x Reader)

(18+)

body worship, oral sex, rimming, pegging, dirty talk. warning: fic contains brief mention of gender dysphoria and chest binding (and on that note, Y/n is written as a pre-bottom surgery trans man. physical descriptors are kept to a bare min for reader inclusivity. Y/n also is a knockoff of spiderman lmao)

technically a sample of a fic i'm still in the process of writing. sometimes you just gotta publish that smut chapter, you know? no beta read for this, so sorry in advance if there's any goofy typos

The second time the pair made love, Y/n was taken aback when Homelander jerked away from his attempts to remove the top part of his suit. He stopped immediately, watching John shut his eyes, mumbling out an apology as he reclined against the headboard.

“Are you okay?” Y/n asked, sitting back to give John space. He watched Homelander drag his hands down his face in exasperation.

“It’s fine. Everythings fucking fine,” he replied in a dispirited tone, looking down at his upper half with no lack of disdain.

Y/n recognized the issue immediately. John’s self image issues had swung into play, sweeping away all sense of confidence he’d been carrying just moments ago. Y/n tilted his head to the side, “Hm… Tell me. Please?”

Y/n watched Homelander run through his typical facial expressions of exasperation and discomfort when he was forced to confront unpleasant feelings. A scoff, a roll of his eyes, a shake of the head as he bit back a breath.

“I don’t…” John began, furrowing his brow as he stopped, looking at Y/n instead and tossing his hands up. “I don’t fucking know!” That wasn’t true. He does know. But how could he explain it? How could he tell Y/n that he failed to find worth in an aspect of himself? That a bad day on set reminded him of just how much he loathes what was under that suit of his.

“John,” Y/n began, his voice gentle and soothing, “talking about hard things is how we get better at dealing with them.” The web-head was kicking himself on the inside. If his childhood therapist could only hear him now, practically parroting her… He reached out, delicately taking Homelander’s hands in his own. “I won't ever force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, okay? But, please. Talk to me.”

“What the fuck do you want from me, huh?! W-what, do you want me to sit here and tell you I’m not good enough? That- that this fucking suit is all that makes me look right? Makes me look like I should?!”

There it was. The bursting of the dam.

Homelander bit his lip, the point of his tooth just barely puncturing his skin despite the force. If he were a normal man, he’d have torn clean through it. He shook his head aggressively. John didn’t know why he threw the blame of the situation onto Y/n just then. Pride, perhaps.

No, it was definitely his pride.

A part of him softened when he saw the way Y/n just continued watching him, seemingly unaffected by his outburst. The truth burned in the back of his throat as the kind eyes before him pulled it free.

“You… No one’s ever…” John lost the words somewhere inside, trapped by his own refusal to admit he’s inadequate. Gods aren’t meant to be substandard, but he certainly was. Homelander looked down at himself once more. “My body isn’t- it’s not fucking good enough!”

Y/n remained silent, only raising an eyebrow to encourage John to elaborate.

“I’m supposed to be- I should be shredded! Strongest man in the world, and I’m like a fucking twig. How do you explain that?” He was rambling, the words spilling out faster than he could consider them. “I can’t even get bigger, I’ve tried- fuck I’ve tried! A-all these actors, these other supes, they roll up to set looking better than me in every fucking way, and all I can do is run around in fake fucking rubber muscles to match them!”

So that was it, Y/n thought to himself. Today’s shoot must have been hard… Y/n watched John carefully, still holding tight to his hands, hoping that the contact would provide him with an anchor, something steadying and grounding.

“I took it off once, for Madelyn- years ago… I’ll never forget the way she fucking laughed at me.” His words were bitter and angry, but the way he was only looking down at himself let Y/n know that all of those feelings were directed at himself. He felt, truly, that he was the root of the problem. “You’re the only one who’s ever-”

He was cut off by Y/n pressing a gentle kiss to his knuckles.

“Do you remember our first time together?” Y/n asked.

“Of course I-" John scoffed, "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?”

“Do you remember what I told you?”

“I-” he sputtered.

“I think you are so, so beautiful,” Y/n murmured, looking directly into John’s eyes, “and you don’t need to have the body of some Greek god to be that way. I promise. You’re perfect the way you are, and I’ll tell you every day if I have to.”

If Homelander only knew just how deeply Y/n understood his plight. Sure, it was from a wildly different situation, but John’s body image issues reminded the web-head an awful lot of his own past sufferings with intense dysphoria. Wearing a binder, sacrificing his physical comfort for the sake of security and peace in his self image. How every reminder of what was hidden beneath would twist like a knife in his heart, sending his mind to war with his physical vessel almost immediately. He wondered if that was similar to how John felt. A disconnect made so much worse when the bandaid was torn away to reveal the wound underneath.

For Y/n, there was, thankfully, an escape from his pain. For John, it seemed the opposite. And for that reason, Y/n bore a unique empathy for his situation.

“I’m more than happy to show you,” Y/n squeezed his hands. “If you want me to.”

Homelander analyzed Y/n down to his blood pressure. Not a single fucking sign of a lie. Not a stutter of deceit in his heart. His little spider meant every word. John’s eyes stung, and he looked away for a moment. He believed Y/n, but he wanted the web-head to prove that he meant every word.

“I… Show me.” John’s voice came out in a whisper as he pulled Y/n forward to straddle him, capturing his little spider in a desperate, breathy kiss. “Show me,” he repeated.

“May I?” Y/n traced his hand down the back zipper of Homelander’s suit.

John nodded.

“Shut your eyes for me…” Y/n’s words came as a murmur, sweet and gentle against the shell of Homelander’s ear.

John obeyed. In no time, the top of his suit was removed, and Y/n’s hands were running over the expanse of his chest, one resting just above his heart while the other trailed up to his face, a fingertip nudging at his lips. He parted his mouth, allowing the intrusion with a soft moan, instantly sucking gently on the digit.

Y/n remained still in his lap, opting to let John continue fixating on the thumb in his mouth. He’d realized Homelander had an oral fixation of sorts during their first time, and he was certainly going to indulge him. Not that it was a problem for Y/n. Feeling John’s tongue lave over his finger was certainly a delight.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” Y/n stated firmly, slipping his thumb into Homelander’s mouth just a tad further. A groan reverberated around his digit, and he withdrew it slightly only to push it back in again, repeating the motion a few times before replacing his thumb with his pointer and middle fingers to mimic the same pattern, coaxing more gentle noises from John. “Do you like that?”

Homelander nodded, his eyes half-lidded as he ran his tongue between Y/n’s fingers. His cock twitched when Y/n pushed his fingers in further, almost reaching the back of his tongue.

“Good boy.”

At those words, Homelander whined pitifully, swallowing around Y/n’s fingers and moving forward, engulfing them just past the base of the knuckles, gagging just slightly.

Oh my god… This fucking guy. Y/n thought to himself, gulping thickly at the sight. He used the fingers in John’s mouth to tilt his head back, exposing his neck to lick a stripe over his pulse point. Y/n blew cold air over the trail, feeling John moan against him, and he began to nip at the skin, biting with more force than he’d ever used before.

Homelander’s hands moved on their own at the sensation, grabbing at Y/n’s waist to steady himself. His little spider was so close, just teetering on the edge of a bite strong enough to do more than simply tickle. His cock was painfully hard at this point. The digits in his mouth withdrew slowly, and Homelander whined in disappointment, trailing the strands of saliva that followed the web-head’s fingertips. He watched Y/n move away from him, off to the side.

“Lay back for me.”

John obeyed immediately, shimmying down the bed to position himself as Y/n said.

“Look at you…” Y/n began, his hands running up John’s sides in a ghostly light touch, making the most powerful man in the world shiver. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. You look like the fucking sun.”

John’s lust glazed eyes softened, and he watched Y/n’s gaze run up and down his form.

“You’re absolutely ethereal,” Y/n ran his fingers down Homelander’s stomach, following the trail of hair leading to his groin. He hooked a finger under the waistband of John’s pants, looking up at him expectantly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Homelander nodded fervently, panting in anticipation.

“C’mon, John. I wanna hear you say it. You’re beautiful.”

“I’m beautiful,” Homelander mimicked, his voice breathy and deep. The finger under his waistband delved a little further. “I’m beautiful,” he repeated, seeking the same result.

“Yes, you are,” Y/n agreed, withdrawing his finger from the band of John’s pants, moving to straddle him instead. He got to work immediately, pinning Homelander’s hands above his beautiful blonde head and leaning down to tongue at a nipple.

Just like last time, John keened, arching into the feeling for more.

Y/n secured Homelander’s wrists together with one hand- regardless of the fact his hold could easily be broken- and went to work with his alternate, thumbing and pinching at John’s other nipple, alternating between teasing the rosy bud and taking handfuls of his pectoral.

Y/n hummed, grinning against John’s heaving chest. “I could play with you like this all day, y’know.”

Homelander clenched his fists, but didn’t fight Y/n’s hold on him.

“I look at you all the time and think about just putting my mouth on you. Anywhere, really. Your chest,” he ran his tongue flat over John’s nipple once more, “your neck,” he trailed up to leave another bite, “but I’ll tell ya…”

John’s eyes were beginning to glow a dim crimson.

“Back before we first fucked, I’d get off all the time to the thought of tasting you.” Y/n grinned down at him, staring straight into his heated eyes. “I’d always think about what it’d be like to suck you off,”

John raised his hips, seeking out friction.

“To have you gag me until I was a fucking mess. Sometimes, though…” Y/n trailed off, smiling deviously at the way John’s lips parted in anticipation. “Sometimes, I’d think about what it’d be like to eat you out…”

Homelander whimpered loudly.

“And you know why I’d always be thinking about this?” Y/n rolled his hips, grinding down on John’s throbbing cock. “Because you’re just so fucking gorgeous that you tease me by just existing. That night I rubbed your back and saw you got hard from it? Took everything I had not to tear your fucking pants off, John.” Y/n leaned down to bring him into a sloppy, heated kiss. The web-head could feel the warmth radiating from under John's eyelids.

“Would you like me to tongue fuck you?”

“Yes!” John cried out, throwing his head back against the bed, “please, fuck! Please!”

Y/n began unzipping Homelander’s pants immediately, practically ripping them off along with his red briefs.

Y/n watched intently as John grasped himself, thumbing at the tip of his cock to spread his precum, gripping his shaft to pump it, holding eye contact with him the entire time.

“Don’t cum yet.”

John winced at the command, releasing himself. He was so close.

“Good boy,” Y/n praised, watching Homelander’s cock twitch in response. He’d found out about John’s praise kink in the oddest way. A simple ‘atta boy’ one night had made him turn red and softened his demeanor almost instantly. He was sure John would jump his bones when he came out of it, but Y/n ended up chasing down sirens shortly after- much to his own dismay.

“Roll over for me. Ass up.”

John complied, burying his face in the bed as he put himself on display for Y/n.

“Oh my fucking god,” Y/n breathed, biting his lip in excitement. This was every fucking fantasy he’d ever had about Homelander come to fruition.

“Am I?” John asked cheekily, breaking from his needy haze for a split second.

Y/n grasped both of Homelander’s ass cheeks, kneading them softly. “You are. You have no idea how many times I've imagined this.” Before Homelander could respond, Y/n was already burying his face in his ass, tonguing gently at his hole.

John whined, the pitch of it endearing and cute as Y/n pushed his tongue against the tight muscle of his hole. He reached back, his hands overlapping Y/n’s to help hold himself open, rocking back into the wet intrusion. He’d never admit to it, but getting rimmed had long been a fantasy of his. Having someone work him open, maybe even with a finger or two, and tongue fuck him until he was a wet, whining, pitiful mess. Giving up his power, trusting the other person enough to take it without abusing it. That was the real fantasy, and Homelander never thought it would happen- until now. He'd found that person he could trust. John was grinning broadly with delight, letting Y/n coax all sorts of noises from him.

“Y/n,” John gasped at the feeling of that wonderful, wonderful tongue finally slipping in fully. “F-finger…” his voice was shaky, needy. Desperate. He was so desperate.

Homelander felt the digit circle around his hole for a moment, teasing him sweetly before sinking in slowly. He pushed back immediately, wanting it deeper.

Y/n stared at the god of supes in amazement, watching Homelander fuck himself on his finger. “You like that, huh?” Y/n teased, crooking his finger to rub against John’s prostate, grinning deviously at the way he nearly shouted out in response. “You like fucking yourself on me?”

John nodded his head against the sheets, gritting his teeth.

“Say it,”

“I li- ah, I like f-fucking myself on y-you,” he babbled, still rocking back to seek more.

“Tell me what you want,” Y/n ordered. He had no idea what possessed him to become so fucking demanding with John. He felt almost feral, and all of Homelander’s needy noises only exacerbated the feeling.

“A-another,” he gasped, “please- more, please.”

Y/n added his middle finger, thrusting deeper into him. He fingerfucked John for a few minutes more, the whines and moans sending sparks of arousal down to his core, his slick leaking out all over his underwear. God, he wanted to flip Homelander over and just ride him relentlessly, to bounce all over his cock until John spilled into him.

A part of his mind begged to differ. There was something far more fun that he could try.

“John, honey,” Y/n cooed, pressing against Homelander’s sweet spot. “You know… I could fill you up even more. If you want.”

Homelander lifted his head and looked back with hot eyes. Below him, the sheets were scorched from the heat of them. “D-do it.” His tone was so needy- so shaky, he could hardly recognize it.

Y/n withdrew his fingers and reached over into his nightstand, fumbling around for a minute before producing a dildo. “Just a second…” Y/n stepped away for a minute, fumbling around in his closet, producing a pair of pack-and-play underwear he never got around to unboxing. He stripped down, putting the garment on in place of his boxer briefs, and slotted the dildo into place. It fit awkwardly, but it’d certainly do the job.

John had rolled over, watching with excitement at what was coming. He licked his lips, imagining what it'd be like to swallow more than just Y/n’s fingers.

“C-can I,” he began, his tongue darting out to his lips once more.

“Hm?” Y/n looked at him expectantly.

“I wanna…” Homelander paused for a minute, testing the words in his mouth, “suck… on you.”

The web-head grinned almost instantly, leaping across the room to kneel on the bed before Homelander. “Help yourself,” he encouraged as he gently took Homelander by the back of the neck, bringing his head close to the silicone cock. He watched John suck at the tip, focusing on it for a long minute before taking the shaft further and further into his mouth, stopping when it got to be too much. “Y’know,” Y/n spoke as he ran his hands through Homelander’s hair, “I used to fuck myself with this thing nearly every night because of you.”

John moaned around him loudly at the confession, and Y/n began to rock his hips in response.

“I bet with those super senses of yours, you can still taste me on it.”

Homelander grasped Y/n’s hips and yanked him forward, pushing the web-head’s cock further down his throat, gagging as it hit the back. He pulled away, strings of saliva trailing from his lips as he looked up at Y/n.

“I would fucking pound myself with it, imagining it was you,” Y/n gripped John by the jaw firmly, yet sweetly. “Could never compare to the real thing though. You were so fucking gorgeous losing control when you fucked me. Couldn’t stop yourself, could you?” He slid back into Homelander’s mouth before he could reply.

“And now, I’m gonna fuck you with it. Really coming full circle, y’know?” Y/n let John continue sucking at his cock, watching the spit drip from his chin as he lost himself in the act. He waited until Homelander had satiated his fixation before nudging him back to lay down on the bed. “Look at you…”

John’s eyes were half lidded, and, if not for the white hot glow of his pupils, they’d be utterly clouded with lust. Drool trailed from his parted lips, and his chest heaved with panted breaths. Homelander’s cock sat heavy and miserably hard against his lower belly, twitching upward on occasion, trailing a string of precum when it did.

Y/n ran his finger down the length of John’s cock, trailing down over his balls and perineum to sink back into his ass. He scissored his fingers gently and reached back into his nightstand drawer to produce a bottle of lube.

“Is this still what you want?”

“Fuck me," Homelander gasped as cold fingers slicked his hole. "I need you to fuck me."

Y/n slid the tip in first, watching John gasp and grab at the blankets, instinctively spreading his legs wider to accommodate the intrusion. The web-head stilled, letting Homelander adjust for a moment before inching in further, eliciting a deep groan with every movement until he was completely buried in John’s ass. He leaned down to capture John's lips with his own, swallowing up every little sound that escaped from his lover. Y/n poured every once of love he had into the act. He prayed that Homelander could feel it.

Homelander wouldn’t last very long, and Y/n knew it. But it wasn’t about that. His longevity had nothing to do with this. This was about making him feel good, making him feel loved, appreciated, wanted, adored. And so, with every thrust, Y/n was stroking John’s cock, praising him, cooing sweet nothings into the air as the man below him fell apart.

When Homelander came, his eyes widened and a beam of heat escaped from them, scorching a blackened streak across the ceiling. His cries were like music to Y/n’s ears as he babbled through each burst of pleasure coursing through his body.

Y/n stilled inside of John, watching him catch his breath. The web-head danced his fingers through the ribbons of cum coating Homelander’s abdomen, bringing them up to parted lips now mindlessly whispering appreciations.

Homelander moaned around Y/n’s fingers, tasting himself. His mind had gone blank and his eyelids felt heavy despite the weightless feeling of the rest of his body. Gentle kisses were pressed to his face, but he could barely register them. Words were dancing around him, but he could barely hear them. Time itself seemed to have stilled until the world slowly faded back into his senses.

Clouded eyes opened to stare up at Y/n, who had been watching with the sweetest look on his face.

“How do you feel?” Y/n asked, gently pulling his fingers from John’s mouth.

“S’good…” he slurred, still riding the haze.

Y/n traced the curve of John’s cheekbone, slowly withdrawing from his hole and stripping the makeshift strap-on off.

Homelander winced weakly at the sudden emptiness, but his complaint ceased when he felt Y/n snuggle into him, entwining their legs together.

“Get some sleep,” Y/n whispered. “You deserve to rest.”

He tried to refuse, tried to tell Y/n that they weren’t done yet until he’d taken care of him in return. Instead, he was cut off by the tender press of Y/n's lips to his own.

“Worry about me later. This was for you. As long as you feel good, I feel good.”

Homelander wanted to argue back, but his eyelids grew heavier and heavier with every passing second until he faded away sweetly into dreams almost as beautiful as he felt.

[ninjahiccups]

The Songbird of Asgard

Chapter 17: Truth...

AO3 Masterlist Word Count: 16.1k Warnings: Some angst, usual GoW violence

The time has come. What will he choose?

Two chapters today because this one turned out way too long... lmao

There had been so many occasions when Heimdall would begrudgingly wish he had listened to Eivor.

Usually for small things. She'd told him not to voice his disdain for Magni and Modi's destructive habits during their training, claiming it would only give them an incentive to do it more often just for the satisfaction of making him angry. He ignored that advice, and just as Eivor had warned, the brothers made a point to train close to his cabin and "accidentally" break a hole through the wall. He'd earned an "I told you so" for that one. One day he was asked to make preparations for transporting materials to Asgard from Svartalfheim, and Eivor insisted he give the dwarves incremental instructions instead of one very long list of goods to gather and sort, explaining that such an overwhelming task would inevitably lead to mistakes that he would have to personally correct later. Another suggestion he brushed off, believing the dwarves would be the ones responsible for any missing materials. Just as she said, when an entire barrel of ore was missing from Odin's requests, he lectured Heimdall for his lack of awareness as opposed to the dwarves' incompetence, and held him responsible. He had to go through the trouble of going back to Svartalfheim and double checking every single item leaving with him before he could finally get it all over with. Of course, Eivor was more than happy to gloat.

Still, he wouldn't admit to being wrong. Maybe he hadn't picked the ideal choice, but never would he say he made a mistake. 

But standing there, exhausted, beaten, pinned to a wall with a spear in his arm, he did not at all deny it.

He really, really wished he listened to Eivor.

Not only was she right that the foreign god had found a way to circumvent his foresight, he was now defeated and about to die in the most shameful way possible. 

And that wasn't even acknowledging the regret he already felt before this fight.

His eyes were clenched shut as he panted, the pain in his arm hurting far worse than all of the wounds he only vaguely acknowledged, mind too busy wandering while he waited for his trip to Valhalla. It was such an embarrassment, especially when he was in top form for this encounter. Sure, he was still mourning his love, but it was that mourning that made him fight his hardest, use every trick he had, taunt his enemy and berate them until they lost focus and gave him an easy win. Yet even when he had everything he needed to win, he still failed.

He couldn't even find it in himself to be angry, or wonder how disappointed All-Father would be. The only thing on his mind was her. How he couldn't avenge her, how her death could be traced back to him, how he had even soiled her memory during the fight by claiming he'd forgotten the last time he'd been struck. He even had to pause in the middle of that bluff, remembering the day in Muspelheim when Eivor proved to be his match, hating himself for speaking as if he'd forgotten about her even if it was intended to be nothing more than a boastful insult.

Eivor's loss was his fault. Her death was a result of his negligence and inability to keep his promise to her. He wallowed in remorse for days only to lose the most important fight of his life. Asgard would be in jeopardy because he couldn't kill a single rabid dog, and all he could do was wait until his dishonorable death came to let the indignity sink into his soul.

There wasn't a part of him that believed Eivor hadn't died without putting up a fight first. At least that meant he could find her in Valhalla and apologize for being a complete fool who couldn't appreciate her enough.

The God Killer's presence retreated, turning away from him.

Heimdall's gaze flew up as soon as he felt it, finding the foreign god staring to his right, spear in hand, motionless. "Wait…" The beast's mind had been mostly blank since his arrival, so much so that he wondered if the man had any brain at all. "What is going on in that empty head?" He despised the way his voice cracked, but that was far from the most disgraceful aspect of this moment. No, his own display of weakness couldn't compare to the absolute blasphemy this waste of life was committing. "Oh no no no no no…you are going to spare me out of pity!" He laughed in disbelief, his very being utterly insulted that this trash was inflicting the worst possible dishonor an Aesir could ever face. 

But his pride as an Aesir was secondary. What really pissed him off was that the old god was mocking him, forcing him to live with both the loss of his Songbird and the compunction of being unable to avenge her. He had the gall to make him suffer longer than he already has, to drag his name through the mud and force him to live with eternal despair. "That's not how this works. You don't get to do that. Not after what you did!" Heimdall spat, growling even louder when the god only gave him a brief glance. "Not after what you STOLE from me!" All the physical pain was incomparable to the crippling sorrow that leaked into his furious voice.

Yet the foreign god only peeked at him again, but this time long enough for Heimdall to catch his confusion.

"You don't even know!" Heimdal chuckled bitterly. One of the brightest and purest souls in the realms was snuffed out by this devil's hand and he didn't even notice. "You have no idea… you're too much of a monster to know what you've done." He took immense satisfaction in seeing the flash of emotion in the foreign god that indicated that he struck a nerve.

The oaf didn't linger, much to his disappointment, merely delivering a stoic, "Let it go and you may live."

Let it go.

Let it go?!

This degenerate took away his pride, his prestige, his reputation, his honor, and his love, and he was supposed to just let it go?! Just to live with the agony?!

This man was truly, profoundly stupid. A complete halfwit, a blundering fool if he believed he could get away with his crimes. Did he think he could just stop being the bloodthirsty beast whenever he felt like? Heimdall’s teeth were grinding together so hard that there may have been sparks in his mouth, the fierce scowl morphing his entire visage with rage. What would make this monster think he could do this to him?!

Unless…

"Is this about the little runt?" The anger melted as he saw the old god finally turn toward him, a look of warning in his eyes. That was when Heimdall realized he could take advantage of this moron's misstep, make him pay by exacting the same loss he had suffered from. 

This monster took Eivor from him. It was only fair that Heimdall took his useless son in return.

"Oh, now I am definitely going to gut him!" Heimdall reached up to the blade pinning his arm to the wall, too engrossed in his rage to see the foreign god lift his spear, ready to take his arm clean off. 

"STOP!"

The world froze.

That voice.

He knew that voice anywhere.

The spear was just a hair's breadth from the ground, the plea stopping the motion just in time. Heimdall swore his mind was playing tricks on him until the foreign god looked over his shoulder. He did the same, leaning a little to his right to see a ghost that took his breath away.

"E-Eivor…?" His voice faltered and fluctuated with disbelief, all the tension in him lost along with whatever will he had to fight. 

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real.

Those beautiful green eyes that he missed so much flickered between him and his enemy before she panted, "Kratos, back off." She paused, collecting herself after hearing how harshly she addressed the man who had her lover's life in his hands. "Please."

Kratos stared Heimdall down for a second longer, like he was reminding him of how lucky he was to still have all his limbs, before he stepped back and walked away, leaving his back turned to the scion. 

This was all a dream. He was dead and this was some sick joke the Valkyries were playing on him while his spirit was flying to the afterlife. There was no way she was alive and familiar with the foreign god.

As Kratos put distance between himself and Heimdall, Eivor hurried to him, all while Heimdall was wondering when the illusion would fade away this time. "Oh, gods, Heimdall," she sobbed, her heart aching at the sight of him battered and bruised, reaching up to caress the bloody gash on his cheek. With that touch Heimdall felt his heart stutter and his breath hitch, unable to resist leaning into her warm skin. 

This was real. She was real. 

Heimdall's left hand flew up to take hers, breathing unevenly as the confirmation that this really was her overwhelmed his senses. With her this close he could see that she was dirty and disheveled, like she had rushed over to him — like she knew he would be there. "What is this?" he whispered to her, at a complete loss. Alive, privy to his location, and in some kind of partnership with the enemy that was said to have killed her? It wasn't possible.

She sputtered out, "I know what this looks like, but —"

"We were told you were dead!"

Eivor's other hand went to his chest, barely able to keep herself from embracing him. "I promise I can explain all of this, I just —"

"That he killed you!" Heimdall added, nodding towards Kratos with pure hatred, voice hoarse and raw.

With those words Eivor's focus wavered. Of course Odin would lie through his teeth to convince Heimdall to do exactly what he wants, regardless of how dangerous and life-threatening it was. What else would he do to Heimdall before he was finished with him? She withdrew her hands and snapped, "And the fact that I'm here means Odin lied to you, doesn't it? What does that tell you about him?!"

As elated as Heimdall was to see her alive, he was immediately irritated that the reunion had already been soiled by conflict. All he wanted was to pull her close and tell her how much he missed her and loved her, and this was the first thing she said to him? Through grinding teeth he muttered, "This is not the time for this discussion!"

She shocked him once again by shedding all of her worry and care for a very stern command. "No, Heimdall, this is the right time for it, and this time you are going to listen to me!"

After getting over the sudden shift in her demeanor, his knee-jerk reaction was offense at the coarse and cold demand, his pride immediately stepping in to defend itself. But then her words sank deeper into his mind, reminding him of his greatest mistake.

The days he had spent without her were the most…miserable days of his life. He still believed it was his unwillingness to truly listen to her that led to her supposed death, and by continuing to brush her off he was only creating the possibility that she would end up seriously hurt. He'd already felt the pain and consequences of that guilt, and he was not at all ready to feel it again, especially if he could confirm her demise with his own eyes. He had to listen this time. He couldn't let her get hurt.

Even so, something in him was screaming for him not to, that nothing she had to say was anything worth his consideration. It was so adamant to label her as false. Why, exactly, he wasn't sure, and the internal conflict was creating an intense physical pain that forced him to squeeze his eyes shut and turn away, trying to make it stop.

“Heimdall, look at me.” Her quiet whimper was as torturous as the developing migraine. He took a deep breath to steel himself before looking at her again, sincerely trying to listen to everything she wanted to say. 

Eivor also had to calm herself, so many words trying to break free that they were about to burst and leave her too tongue tied to get through to him. Most of them were not even related to the point she needed to make. Those words wanted to be spoken to preceed the rejection the pessimistic side of her was so ready for, to just skip straight to the backup plan with the expectation that he truly was beyond her help. She had to choose to at least try, to have faith in him. She owed him so much more than that.

“You know I would never lie to you. I would never lie to you, or manipulate you, or intentionally hurt you in any way. I would never do that to you,” she began, pausing to see if he would have any arguments to. Relieved to find none in him as he patiently listened, her voice grew a bit steadier as a spark of hope ignited her determination. “So believe me when I tell you that Odin is lying to you. I don't know how you can't see it, but I know he is. He doesn't care about you, or anything you've done for him or Asgard, all he cares about is how he can use you, and he will not hesitate to throw your life away if he has a reason to do it.” A moment was taken to regain her senses before the emotion made her voice tremble, the possibility feeling too fresh after narrowly preventing it. “He's already taken so much from you, and he's only going to keep taking until you have nothing left. It's only a matter of time before he sends you to your death.”

With every odious word the pounding in Heimdall's head intensified, the piece of him denouncing her shrieking louder and louder by the moment. He was trying to listen in spite of how ridiculous it was, he really was, but all he felt was increasing contempt and denial no matter how hard he fought it. To ward that distrust off he looked into her eyes, trying to read the honesty from her, but the headache was somehow… suppressing his sight, making it impossible to see what was truth and what could be fiction. To be so uncertain was an experience that was beyond him — that he was too good for, and it only served to make him snap at her. “I am not a god who can be killed!” He shouted, witnessing the exasperation it brought to Eivor.

The goddess couldn't bear to hear his excuse after he almost let himself die as she predicted. Granted, Odin likely didn't ask Heimdall to confront Kratos since killing him would cost his partnership with Atreus, but it still would have been a death the Raven God ignored. The only loss he would lament would be that of Gjallarhorn, not the man who honorably carried it for most of his life. Frustrated by Heimdall's stubbornness, she hardened her gaze as she lectured, “That's exactly what you said when I told you not to come to Vanaheim, and look at you now!” Her hand flew towards him to emphasize his position and the dirt and blood coating his person, a stark contrast to the man he usually presented himself as. She witnessed Heimdall's lip curl up into a snarl at the reminder, signaling her to step back and use patience instead of force, just like she always had. “Heimdall,” she said in a way that calmed his subcutaneous anger enough for her to continue, “if you don't walk away, you will die. For nothing. And Odin won't let anyone remember you.” That point was one he hated, the very suggestion that he would be just a name lost to time was enough to make him seethe. The idea that it was the All-Father himself that would make that happen was more than enough to make the pain in his mind burn hotter. Until he felt Eivor's hands on his chest, gently and soothingly comforting him as she whispered, “You don't deserve that. You deserve so much more than he's willing to let you have.”

Heimdall shook his head, torn between the sincere love from Eivor and the sharp stings keeping his loyalty and debts to Odin in the front of his mind. Every stab he felt whenever he began to give in to Eivor's cries just hurt so much, every ounce of his being condemning the thought of betrayal. He was better than all the other lowlives who were willing to sink to that level.

But was his pride worth more than his Songbird?

Yet another pulse of torment spread through his head, reeling his consciousness back in enough to make him want to do whatever it took to make it stop. He couldn't give a reply, too focused on fighting the pain by squeezing his eyes shut and looking away.

When Eivor lost his eyes she felt her heart sink. She was losing him. Not knowing if she even had Heimdall's attention anymore sucked all of the hope in her, leaving her with nothing to do but implore one more time, “I know how hard it is for you to believe it, but I'm doing this because I care about you. I'm trying to save you.” One hand raised from his chest to caress his jaw, feeling disappointment when it failed to get him to look back at her. “Please, my love. Forget about him. Do more for yourself than he's ever done for you.”

She regretted her choice of words, seeing his jaw tighten in fury once more. The fact that he could still find a reason to doubt her after she was so tender and so loving felt like a sign — a sign that Atreus was right.

There was no other choice then. 

“Heimdall, please, you have to…” Still nothing. As much as she didn't want to do this, her last resort was the only option she had left. “You have to… or —”

He couldn't help the explosion of rage and impatience. The spear was still pinning his arm to the wall, his head was pounding, and every sound he heard only made the anger and pain worse. He threw his gaze back to her while he cruelly snarled, “Or WHAT?”

Were it not for the insanity pouring into his skull he would have reacted to her sudden gasp and the way she jumped back, like she was afraid of him. She remained silent long enough for him to register the loss of her touch and build up a yearning to have it back, not acting on it solely because his mind wouldn't allow it. Eivor schooled her expression into one of neutrality before she spoke again.

“Or kill me.”

In that split second all the agony and dismay dissolved, his face immediately relaxing into one of shock and confusion. In his peripheral vision he could see Kratos look over his shoulder, surprise emanating from him. Too dazed to say any more, all Heimdall could choke out was, “What?”

Eivor closed her eyes for a moment, ensuring that her emotions were hidden from Heimdall's foresight before opening them again. This was already going to be hard enough on him as it is, she didn't need to make it worse by showing him how much it hurt. Her voice was airy and trembling as she slowly said, “If you won't let me help you, I'm going to ask you to kill me.”

Heimdall shook his head, the horror apparent on his features. “Wha— Why would—”

“Look at where we are, my love,” Eivor said calmly, the suffering still showing through despite her best efforts. “I ran away from Asgard. I've allied with Odin's most daring enemies. And now I'm trying to take you from him. I've betrayed him…in every way.” She gave a rancorous smile as she shook her head, “He's not going to let me live. Unless I have a reason to keep fighting…my life is forfeit at this point.”

To hear her regard her own life with so little value made his chest feel like it was caving in. “No…” He didn't even have the words to counter the sentiment. Where did he even begin? She was too special to be tossed away over nothing, too pure to take her light away from the wretched and filthy world it cleaned, too bright for the realms to lose her and inevitably fade into darkness. She couldn't just give up.

Sweetly, affectionately, she explained, “I knew my choices would come to this…but you are worth the risk. If you don't believe me — if I can only wait for the end — then I don't want to die by Aesir magic, or by Thor's hammer, or alone in a cell. I want it to be by your hand…” she swallowed thickly, already holding back tears of anguish as her voice weakened and shook, “so that my last moments are with you.”

Every inch of Heimdall's skin crawled and he felt his stomach churn like it was trying to crush itself. He felt his expression melt into one of terror. All the air drifted from his lungs like they had given up on functioning, like they decided there was no need for air if it kept him alive long enough to hear that. He wanted to just hold her and command her to regain that fire in her that he loved so much, to shed this melancholy that ripped his heart from his chest and made his insides fill with ice so frigid and hefty that it pulled him into the earth.

Eivor's quivering breath kept her from letting a wail escape, intent on finishing her final thought. “I just…I want you to know that no matter what you choose…it won't change how I feel about you.” This time she grinned fondly, showing all the love she felt with one simple gesture. “I'll still love you all the same. In this life…” Then that tiny smile fell. “And the next.”

Gods, he couldn't take it anymore. It was impossible to decide if the continuous pounding in his mind or the stake through his soul was more crippling. 

“I made my choice. So now…” Eivor folded her hands in front of her, showing no intention of interfering with his actions. “I'll let you make yours.”

Her head fell and she looked at the ground between them, certain that she would weep if she watched him. Heimdall's breath heaved while he stared at her, dumbfounded and at a loss for how they ended up where they were. And to have to choose…

With the cyclone of emotions swirling inside, the only one he knew how to release was anger. His teeth grinded together while he glared at her. 

“‘My choice?’” He said quietly before giving a dry chuckle. It was laughable, the idea that this was a choice? What should he do? Cut off his right arm or his left? Stab himself through the forehead or the eye? No matter what he picked it would be the demise of everything he valued and cherished. To call such a dilemma a choice…

It was all so…ludicrous.

He tried to hold in the frustration, wanting to articulare just how nonsensical this “decision” was…but that damned spear was still too bothersome for him to actually focus. Taking his anger out on that, his left arm flew over to the spear and grabbed it as he growled, “You call that a choice?!” His last word was exaggerated by yanking the spear out of his arm, finally letting him take a step away from the stone behind him and fully express how ridiculous this “choice” was.

An argument he never made. As he wrenched the spear free from his limb Eivor flinched and retreated just a bit, her eyes squeezing tighter. But most importantly, her mind closed up completely. The one thing she would do when she didn't want him to know just how upset she was.

She…really thought he would hurt her?

“Brother…” 

Heimdall's eyes flew to Kratos, who had his back to the pair. Mimir wanted to do something before it was too late, but Kratos had learned from his feud with Freya. It was not his place to decide the fate of another if they had already chosen their own path, and he would not make that mistake again. Although a part of him still wanted to ensure Eivor would be safe, he ignored it, simply unclasping Mimir from his belt and holding the head in front of him, neither of them able to see what would happen.

With no sign of an intention to interrupt, Heimdall dismissed them and watched Eivor, wondering how on earth she would think he would stab her so quickly. As his eyes traveled back to her, he caught a glimpse of the spear, looking back at it when he realized how…taut his grip was. His arm was flexed, spear tip pointed directly at her, and all of his muscles waiting for his signal to deliver one fatal blow. He had to, the pins in his brain reasoned. “She's a traitor, she needs to die,” it whispered. It made everything in him scream to get rid of her, treat her like the heathen she was.

But this wasn't just any traitor, said his soul when it finally had the strength to chime in. This was Eivor. His one source of true happiness and peace. All the joy and calm and love in the world encased in one beautiful goddess with an even more gorgeous voice and a perfect soul that made him grateful to be alive.

With this internal debate he could now fully understand why she asked him to pick one path, seeing that she was, once again, right. He couldn't have both. But he wanted both. Somehow, he wanted both choices to coexist in one reality, like a naive child that thought they could have it all. So now he had to choose: his love, or his loyalty?

Eivor or Odin?

Which one could he live without?

How was he supposed to decide?

Looking down at her, arm shaking with tension as it prepared to strike her with the spear, all he could see was memories of her. Of what it was like without her.

The few measly days he lived with the belief that she was dead were… dreadful. He barely made it through, and he only did because he had vengeance to pull him forward. How in the nine realms was he supposed to press forward through that loss not only knowing she was gone, but that her blood was on his hands? He couldn't. There was no way. He would never forgive himself.

He had a life of his own. As the Scion of the Aesir his duty could be the one thing that kept him focused.

Then again…

Throughout the entire time she was gone his duty meant nothing. He merely proceeded with his daily tasks because it was expected of him. It was…who he was. And he was afraid to lose that identity.

Afraid of failing Odin.

Yes, that was it. Without her he was afraid. His worth would be measured solely by his abilities, and Eivor was the only one who treasured him for himself. He wasn't expected to be anything, and in that there was…freedom. After living a lifetime of believing those expectations and responsibilities were all he needed, he found something that felt like so much more.

With her he took far more pride in what he did, even if it was the most annoying, ridiculous, menial task he had to take care of. It was an inconvenience that didn't bother him because he had Eivor to take all of the irritation away. She gave him so much energy and motivation, so much more enthusiasm for life, whether he was on the job or reading a book at home. When he lost her, he had to return to the grind of working day and night just because that was his purpose.

Could he really go back to that?

That soundless voice in his mind howled at him, saying, “Yes, yes! Of course you do! That's what you're born to do!” and all it did was bring a heavier weight to the idea of that cumbersome life he used to have. It was a life he had because it was the life he was given. Eivor was the life he chose.

He loved Asgard and wanted to protect it with his life. He wanted to be the watchman.

But he wanted to be Eivor's too.

The conflict was just going around in circles, and he knew it. Heimdall snarled as he inhaled sharply, shifting the spear in his hand to keep his arm from acting on its own accord.

Every part of him stilled.

Just that little motion with the weapon made Eivor wince again, this time biting her lip as a few tears escaped.

She did think he would hurt her. She really believed that he would kill her without a word and was prepared for it. As if he'd never loved her.

His blood ran cold. 

She thought he would kill her right away, like he didn't love her. If she believed that then…

“ I will ensure you know just how much I love you. I promise.”

His promise.

He broke his promise.

No. He didn't break his promise.

He never kept it in the first place.

Just like everyone else.

Yet here she was. Despite not knowing if he truly loved her she was still willing to risk everything for him, even wanting to spend every second she had left on this earth with him. Because everything she did was for him. It wasn't about her.

It was never about her.

Because he never made it about her. 

That had to stop.

“Give her what she wants then. Kill her. Better that than to watch her die later.”

That voice had a point. They were doomed if they went against the All-Father. All he would do is delay her death.

“What other choice do you have…?”

His eyes softened as he watched another tear fall down her cheeks. He wasn't going to let her cry anymore.

This would be the last time he failed her.

His grip on the spear tightened, breath trembling as he mumbled out, “Asgard…is the only thing I have ever lived for.”

Eivor cowered away just a little more, tears now falling freely. Watching her heart break solidified his decision to end her pain.

The spear quaked in his hand.

One deep breath to prepare himself.

“But the realms would mean nothing if you weren't in them.”

The silence was deafening as Eivor's shoulders loosened and her eyes cracked open. They widened when the golden spear clattered against the ground between them.

Her eyes rocketed up to him, mouth hanging open in hopeful astonishment, finding him gazing at her softly. His brow was still furrowed to fight off the war that had begun raging in his head, but his glowing eyes held only love and regret.

He chose Eivor.

All the emotions burst out of her as she threw her arms around his neck with unhindered sobs, the tears that had built up spewing down her cheeks. Heimdall slung his left arm around her waist, his injured one bending at the elbow to place his palm on her side and he buried his chin into the crown of her head, every agonizing needle that pricked his skull ignored in favor of relishing in the embrace he had lived without for too long. He didn't even pick up on Kratos turning around to see the result, Mimir mumbling to himself in awe, “Would ya look at tha’...”

Eivor didn't care how pitiful and hoarse her shouts into his shoulder sounded as she cried, “I'm so sorry!” between mournful gasps. “I didn't want to do this! I didn't want to do this to you!” Heimdall only held her tighter, inspiring amazement from the timid onlookers when he started rocking her gently, as if to say she had no reason to apologize. “I didn't want any of this! I-I'm so sorry!” 

Heimdall merely held her, trying to sift through the thoughts he needed to say while battling the raucous dispute from within, taking only a few more moments to consider before he decided to go with his gut, as he had on so many other momentous steps in their relationship. He gently pushed her away by her waist, just far enough that he could look her in the eyes, left hand reaching up to her cheek and wiping tears away as they fell in abundant streams. It was such a debilitating sight, this level of suffering from her, so much that he almost lost every word in his extensive vocabulary. Quietly, gingerly, he said, “You thought I would kill you without a second thought.” Her eyes flew down for a moment in sadness, but his thumb wiping more tears away made her look back at him. “That means I haven't kept my promise.” He leaned in just a little closer and whispered, “I'm going to fix that.”

No spoken language could describe the breathtaking smile she gave him, nor the feeling of warmth in him that sprung forth when she gazed directly into his eyes and thought “I will too.” Heimdall could only beam back at her.

Until someone in the background conspicuously gushed, “D'awwww!” from the sidelines, making Heimdall finally tear his eyes away and sneer at the two men he would rather forget.

“I can hear you!” He snarled, wanting to do nothing more than mount the old goat's withering head on a spike for ruining the moment. Too incensed, he didn't catch Eivor shaking her head at him adoringly.

“OH uh, don't mind us! Just passin’ through!” Mimir fumbled, more as an apology to Eivor than Heimdall.

Kratos was unphased, putting Mimir back on his belt as he faced the pair completely with a stern, “That is enough.” Cautiously, he approached from across the clearing. Heimdall felt the alarm bells warning him of the vicious danger approaching, automatically stepping in front of Eivor and holding out his good arm to shield her, only relaxing a little when she put a hand on his shoulder to tell him Kratos meant no harm. Standing before the god he could have killed and the goddess who saved him, the old god first addressed Eivor. “You are unharmed?”

“For the most part,” she shrugged, knowing she looked like a complete mess after traipsing through a jungle.

She was met with a silent nod before Kratos looked to Heimdall, the latter's glare intensifying. “And you will not betray her?”

A simple question, but one that made Heimdall want to throw sense to the wind and douse the brute in as much explosive Bifröst as he could for suggesting he would ever tell Eivor a bald-faced lie. Despite that, his mind was still coercing him, telling him to make a plan to double cross Eivor for her treason. He resisted, able to just barely maintain a calm demeanor as he announced, “...I'm not going back.” The outrage from that internal power forced him to hold back a wince.

Kratos only nodded again, indifferent on the outside, but Heimdall could sense that he was satisfied with the outcome. “Then we have a temporary truce.”

Temporary. It was a word Heimdall agreed with.

An explosion boomed across the air from the distance. Another signal flare to tell the rescue team that they had to withdraw.

Eivor knew this as well, easing the pressure among the group by saying, “You should go. They need you.” 

“What will you do?”

She braced herself for the tantrum she predicted. “Heimdall needs some patching up —”

Like clockwork, Heimdall protested, “I do not need—”

“Is there somewhere we can wait for you?” she interrupted, ignoring the now annoyed watchman.

Kratos briefly paused. “The dwarves have a shop along the river, next to a travel gate.”

Perfect. The dwarves would surely have whatever supplies she needed. “Then go. We'll be there.” Eivor pulled on Heimdall's arm while he stared Kratos down, and the old god did the same to him, like a mutual warning to one another. The Aesir gave in to the second tug, Eivor taking his hand in hers to lead him away from the clearing and towards the river, in the opposite direction Kratos went after he was certain Heimdall would not do anything unexpected.

Mimir didn't wait to share his thoughts while Kratos brushed past the leaves and vines along the narrow path to the temple that was near the signal's location. “I can't believe it. She actually did it! And more importantly, Heimdall actually cares about someone! Ha! I never thought I'd see the day.” He received no comment in return, allowing his thoughts to wander. With a sigh his tone became more thoughtful and reminiscent. “It truly is amazing, innit, Brother? The way one person can take you at your worst and just…turn everything around?”

The severed head was referring to Sigrun, of course, but Kratos imagined another as the sentiment passed through his mind. That's when it occurred to him that, perhaps, he and Heimdall had more in common than either of them noticed.

While looking down at the ledge he approached, watching his son wave up at him with the eyes of his mother, Kratos could only absently whisper to his friend.

“Yes…”

Freyr's rescue was a success, though not without casualties and damage to morale. Despite Freya's worries she left her brother's crew to regroup in their camp while she treated Freyr's injuries at Sindri's home. Everyone was present in the realm between realms, all faces displaying the relief of a mission completed.

Except for one.

“So, uh, Father?” Atreus's voice was the first to break the calm silence over the group as he sat in front of the fireplace. Freya looked over her shoulder from her room, where she was mixing more herbs for Freyr, the dwarves looked up from their work at their forge, Tyr took his worried gaze away from the injured Vanir god, and Kratos set Mimir down on the table by his son, allowing the head to participate in the huddle. The boy swallowed nervously when all eyes were on him. “I…I can't help but notice that we're missing someone.”

The room grew heavy. Freya went back to her herbs, already certain that their newest friend was already gone. Tyr's eyes met the floor and his hands folded in front of him, as if paying respect to the goddess that had been lost. 

“Did…did Heimdall…?”

Those bright blue eyes filled with sadness made Kratos's stomach drop, the sight never failing to unnerve him even at his best, but the sensation didn't linger. He knew it would be gone with just a few words. 

“She was successful.”

Every soul was brightened by the declaration. Freya spun on her heels, nearly spilling the mixture of herbs in her hand while her smile of disbelief grew. The dwarves exhaled their worry and Atreus noticabley straightened his posture with glee when he exclaimed, “Really?!” 

All were thrilled. 

Except for one.

One who almost gave himself away. Tyr stepped forward with a terse, “What?!” Catching himself, he composed himself before attempting to speak further. “That…that's —”

Mimir's ecstatic chuckles cut him off. “I know! I wouldn't have believed it either if I hadn't seen it myself!”

“That's…incredible,” Freya gasped as she walked over to Freyr with more medicine, unable to fight off a hint of remorse for having so little faith in Eivor’s judgment. “It seems we underestimated Heimdall.”

“And Eivor,” Tyr corrected, grumbling too much to appear pleased with such an outcome.

Atreus was too impatient to let anyone notice. “Where are they now?”

“Eivor is tending to Heimdall's wounds at the dwarves’ shop in the River Delta. I requested they remain there until Freyr's rescue was complete,” Kratos answered.

The only person who didn't seem to acknowledge the main point of Kratos's statement was Freyr, who could only just barely manage slurring, “Ehhhh, it wasn't a rescue, it just woulda been borin’ if I busted myself out, yannow?” Freya shot him an annoyed glower that only a sibling could give as she sat down next to him.

“You just sendin’ folks to my shop?” Brok gruffly complained. “What, you think it's just some shitty shack you can point vagrants to as ya please?”

Kratos, not at all bothered, replied with just one frank word. “Yes.”

Knowing the God of War well enough to predict his lack of response, Brok didn't protest further, harrumphing, “Gotta respect the honesty, at least.”

There was one detail that bothered Atreus, one that Tyr was hoping wouldn't be brought up. “You actually fought Heimdall? Why didn't you call Eivor?”

“We tried,” Mimir answered. “Her spell didn't work when we used it.”

“It didn't work? But that's the same one we used around Thor.”

“Aye…” Mimir paused, his tone growing curious. “The only difference is that Tyr used his own tricks on this one.”

A bit too quickly, Tyr explained, “It would seem that the Giants’ magic was incompatible with hers. I will have to apologize next time I see her.”

Much to his well-hidden irritation, Freya was also nonplussed. “Incompatible? I've never heard of such a phenomenon between magic…though I suppose Eivor's is unique enough for it to be possible.”

Tyr was already preparing a more thorough excuse to dismiss the topic completely, but Kratos brushed it off, believing there were more important matters to discuss while everyone was present. “That is irrelevant for the time being. First we must decide what to do now that Heimdall has chosen to forsake Odin.” He missed Tyr's brow twitching slightly at the statement.

Atreus pitched a suggestion without hesitation. “We could bring them here.”

Sindri, from the background, was already growing weary of yet another house guest. “Here? Do we…well, I guess if it's for Eivor it's…acceptable.” 

With the obstacle preventing Atreus's idea from being torn down, Tyr made his own attempt to silence it. “If I may intervene, I would advise that we do not allow Heimdall to stay here with us.”

“Why not?”

Tyr calmly clarified to the young god and all of his allies, “We are forgetting that Heimdall is Odin's left hand, and his knowledge and abilities are not something that he will relinquish easily. Once his search for Heimdall is unsuccessful he will no doubt think outside the box to find him — or rather, outside the realms.”

A potential compromise to their safe haven was a risk Kratos acknowledged, however Freya countered with, “That may be possible, but what is certain is that we will at the very least have Gjallarhorn here with us, and that in itself is an advantage.”

“All the more reason for Odin to stop at nothing to find Heimdall.”

There was a substantial amount of confidence in his argument until Mimir also chose to stand against him. “I see your point, Brother, but I have to disagree. We both know how Odin is with treason. Not even Heimdall will be forgiven, and if all Odin plans to do is get rid of him and reclaim Gjallarhorn, then he'll watch and wait for an opportunity to present itself rather than waste resources tracking him down.”

Another rebuttal crossed Tyr's mind, but he was pushed to wait as Atreus chose to offer his own insight. “What about that thing I saw Odin do with the Einherjar. Would that change what he does?”

“Thing?” Freya inquired.

“Atreus saw Odin giving a ‘sense of self’ to new Einherjar, and I personally believe he's also adding some kind of side effect that makes them unconditionally loyal to him. The lad noticed their eyes are similar to Heimdall's, which makes it likely that he could be under the same spell. It would make sense, considering a man with foresight should be able to sniff out Odin's true nature eventually.”

The conversation was wading into dangerous territory, where Tyr was not willing to allow further deliberation. “That's not possible. Odin may be powerful, but there's no way he could have that kind of control over another god.”

“Don't assume so much, Tyr,” Freya ridiculed stubbornly, her own spite leaking into her voice. “I spent a lifetime chained to a single realm with no means of escape. He has ways.”

“Even so,” Mimir continued, “if Heimdall really is under such a spell he'd only be more of a dead man than he would be without one. If a loyalty curse couldn't keep him on a leash then Odin has no reason to let him live.”

A very valid argument. So valid that Tyr was not able to offer a logical counterpoint, making his jaw clench in agitation.

“Then what do you recommend?” Kratos asked, assessing all the information before him.

“Honestly, this is a delicate situation one way or another, but I'd day we're better off allowing Heimdall to come here. Eivor has proven she can handle him, and I doubt he would leave her behind to go running back to Odin after all this.”

“And if Heimdall plans on harming Atreus, as the Norns predicted?” Tyr was grasping at straws at this point, hoping one if them was sturdy enough to sway the crowd in his favor.

It was not meant to be, Kratos's trust in Eivor too stable after her effort to protect Atreus. “Eivor has vowed not to put her wants above anyone here. She has kept her word, even when it put her life at risk. Should Heimdall threaten anyone, I am certain she will not allow it.”

“Aaaand he's definitely not going to make a move in a room full of gods,” Mimir added. “Not even he stands a chance against all of us, and he would know as much after his fight with Kratos. The man may be more arrogant than an eagle living amongst turkeys but he's not stupid.”

There was a lull in the debate as Kratos summarized all his options, finding every perspective from each of his trusted accomplices to be valuable. Although, he had yet to ask for the counsel of one in the room, and that was a habit he was working hard to break. Turning to his son, Kratos softly asked, “What do you think?”

Atreus was surprised for a moment, but the welcome shift in his father's attitude shook him out of it. He paused for just a few heartbeats, wanting to be totally sure of his answer. “Heimdall did say he would defy Odin if he thought Eivor was in danger, and he's done that. There's no real reason for him to change his mind now, and even if he did, he would listen to Eivor when she talks him out of it. I think it's safe enough to let him stay here. We'll have to keep an eye on him for sure, but as long as we're alert I think we'll be okay.”

Kratos nodded, taking a second to feel the pride in his son's well executed and thoughtful response. With there being a nearly unanimous decision, the course of action was set. “Very well. I will inform them.”

Fists clenching in spite of the dejected tone he made use of, Tyr murmured, “Then please excuse me. It would seem I need time to rethink my outdated counsel.”

Mimir and Atreus called out to him to offer comfort, but their pleas went ignored. Freya, on the other hand, could only smirk at the misfortune that was inevitably coming Odin's way. “Things have taken quite the turn in our favor. It looks like Odin letting Heimdall grow close to Eivor could be one of his greatest mistakes.”

The door to Sindri's broom closet opened, Tyr's shining eyes casting light into the shadows as the raven inside greeted its fuming master. “So it would seem…”

Muninn cocked his head, awaiting the order to open the pathway to Asgard.

Calm waters left behind little sound for the jungle to take in. Animals were quiet, resting after the night of chaos and commotion left them scurrying for safety. The stars filling the dark sky lent the land some of their beauty by shedding their light down on it, illuminating the trees and decorating the river with delicate reflections of white sparkles. A perfect night. A picture of serenity. 

Yet Heimdall could only hear deafening crashing in his head.

Every bit of his sanity was teetering on the line between control and absolute anarchy, the conflict never ceasing to keep him tense and on edge, as if he would be attacked at any second. He knew he was safe. He knew Eivor would never do anything to harm him, but it seemed his mind didn't understand. “Turn around and slice her to bits”, it said. “Take everything you've learned and return to Asgard,” it ordered. “Return to where you belong,” it screeched. 

But why couldn't he silence it? 

He'd accepted that Eivor was telling the truth, that she was truly trying to help. She was worth the risk of punishment or banishment or whatever came out of this horrible night. More than anything else, he was absolutely adamant that he would never kill her as she asked him to do, whether it be directly or indirectly. Still, that side that was loyal to the Aesir was relentless. It didn't accept that Odin had fooled him, or that he had ever threatened or tortured Eivor, nor did it think this decision was anything but the dumbest moment of his entire life. It kept telling him to get rid of her over and over again, and every refusal lit his forehead on fire and dried his eyes into shriveled raisins, his chest heaving with pain and his stomach lurching with nausea. Every impulse to turn around and stab his Songbird made his heart ache and his soul drown in guilt, leaving his integrity wondering just how much his promises meant. An ever constant flipping between one or the other, unable to land on a middle ground.

So far all he could do to reason with both entities was tell himself that he would only stay near her until there was a chance to take her back to the sanctity of Gladsheim, where All-Father would reward him for remaining true to his cause by forgiving Eivor.

But it didn't work any more. He knew it wasn't true.

Was he really so stupid that he couldn't see what was the right thing to do?

“Let me try again.”

Her sweet voice soothed him enough to bring him back from the brink of insanity and focus in the present. Eivor had cleaned the blood from his tunic and his face, but the scratch on his cheek continued to bleed. A sign of how weakened he was. The reminder burned him badly enough to make him scowl, though he schooled himself into neutrality as Eivor came back to his front side, clean cloth in hand.  With Heimdall sitting on the table in front of the shop, facing the river, Eivor was able to stand before him and comfortably lean down enough to gently wipe his face, her loose hair sweeping across her temple, catching his eye. They had been waiting at the dwarves’ shop for some time now and yet she was still dirty, stripes of mud across her cheeks and her hair disheveled. It was another brutal display of her selflessness, worrying about him well before she even considered cleaning herself up. A bitter reminder that he had yet to even attempt to put her first.

“It's stopped bleeding…but there's still a mark.” Eivor took the cloth away and straightened, running her thumb along the scratch, knowing he wouldn't like what she revealed. “It'll leave a scar.”

As predicted, he sneered at the ground. Great. An eternal symbol of his worst days. 

Eivor didn't give him time to fester, instead returning to the shop behind him and taking one last look at the sewing materials she could find before finally giving up. Trying to lighten the mood, Eivor joked, “I guess you won't see that my sewing lessons weren't a waste of time.” She came around to his side of the table and sat on his right, her deposited instrument cases just behind her, glancing at his arm to make sure no more blood had seeped from the tear in his sleeve. “I can't find any thread that matches your tunic.” Donning a smile, she lightheartedly teased, “I could use a different color, but I know you'll complain if I do.”

A roll of his eyes, a scoff, even a cranky denial would have been better than the stark silence he gave in return, not even looking up from the ground. It was a sight that filled Eivor with dread. Not only did she detest seeing her normally confident and eccentric lover so deflated, it was also an indicator that believing Atreus's theory had been incorrect was misguided. He could very well be thinking about discarding his promise and taking her up on her offer.

“You've been quiet…” she pointed out carefully, still receiving no sign that he had heard her. Swallowing her fears, Eivor remained true to her plan. This was his decision now, not hers. “Heimdall, if…if you're having second thoughts…” Shining violet eyes flew to her, finding only her profile as she stared into the river, too afraid to speak directly to him. “I won't think any less of you if —”

“No.”

The painful sincerity and tender hand on her shoulder drew her eyes to his. They were just as bright in appearance but so much more dull in spirit. Broken, beaten, confused, and framed by a furrowed brow marred by agony and a frown depicting a torn conscience. It was a difficult sight for her to take in, one that made her heart bleed for all the trauma she had put him through on that night. “No,” Heimdall repeated, retracting his hand when he felt another wave of excruciating pain assault his skull. “I'm not going to hurt you,” was his quiet conclusion as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, hiding the clench in his jaw. His final remark summoned the worst pain so far, and keeping it inside was almost impossible by now.

Eivor scooted just a little closer, until they were shoulder to shoulder, cooing, “Tell me what you're thinking then.” Still nothing, and that only added to her worry. “I know this is a lot to take in so…let me help you.”

Heimdall could only grind his teeth with frustration. He didn't want to confess. He couldn't. It would be an admission of his fall from grace if he did. 

When Eivor's hand rested on his back, the touch alone enough to pull him back, he chose to confide in her.

“It doesn't make any sense.”

“What?”

Heimdall breathed deeply, ignoring the voice in him telling him to shut his mouth. “Everything you said.”

The sting of rejection was just inches away from Eivor's soul, but she wanted to give him a chance rather than assume the worst from him. She already had once that night, and it hurt him too deeply for her to forgive herself. “You don't believe me?”

“I do.” His fingers curled into his palm, fury aimed at himself.

“Is that wrong?”

“No, but…”

Eivor couldn't see what didn't make sense until she once again reconsidered Atreus's theory. “And you don't believe Odin?”

Now Heimdall was boiling, growling through clenched teeth, “I believe both of you…but that's—” He cut himself off, thinking of nothing but how idiotic he was for not being able to figure out what was true or false when all the information was right there. It should be so simple! He was obviously intelligent enough to immediately see when something was amiss, but on this matter he was just blind, deaf, and dumb. And he hated that.

Next to him, Eivor was much more forgiving. She knew exactly why he couldn't make sense of any of it. His inability to understand reality only confirmed her worst fears — and made her feel more powerless than she'd ever been before. After all this effort, all this time spent together, this could very well end with Heimdall killing her anyway regardless of whether he wanted to or not. Then all he would be left with is grief that he couldn't ignore but also wanted to dismiss. 

It was despicable what Odin did to him.

It hurt so much to watch knowing that there was no means to comfort him. Even if she told him about Atreus's hypothesis, he wouldn't have the capacity to believe it if it was true. No explanation she could offer would be substantial enough to solve the confusion he couldn't escape, and nothing she could say would make it stop. Her heart wept at the pain he was in, and the fact that it was pain he was oblivious to.

With nothing else to do, Eivor fell back on her tried and true methods. Gradually, careful not to startle him, she reached across him to put a hand on his cheek, her touch making his eyes open and the lines on his brow relax just a tiny bit. A little pressure was applied to pull him closer, a request he fulfilled by sitting up straight and facing her, violet irises still sour and angry. She raised her other hand to place it on his opposite cheek and leaned closer, a motion that he mirrored until they were just inches apart, Heimdall finding some solace in her verdant gaze. 

A deep inhale to prepare her voice, then Eivor began to sing his favorite tune.

The effect was instantaneous. Heimdall's eyes closed again and he melted into her, his forehead resting on hers while he let some of his weight fall on her, greedily taking in her support. It had been far too long since he heard her sing, since she made him feel truly at peace. Though he was disappointed to find that irritating voice still poking around at the back of his mind, too powerful for him to take just a few minutes to recover from such an awful night.

Eivor's hands slid along his face and past his ears, feeling the golden cuff she gifted him so long ago, when things were so much simpler. Her fingers didn't stop until they were carding through his hair, mollifying him so much that he totally ignored everything that wasn't her voice or her presence. Though it may have helped him, Eivor was still at a loss. Singing may subdue him, but it wouldn't free him. It wouldn't give back the autonomy that every other being had. It couldn't take away all the frustration and unending confusion. That damned spell, whatever it may be, couldn't be dissolved by treating the symptoms. If only she could —

Maybe she can.

She slowed her tempo a little, hoping he wouldn't notice that she seemed to be stalling. Her fingertips dug just a little deeper into his scalp, which Heimdall didn't mind in the slightest. Remembering Freya's advice — that her magic knew its bounds better than she did — she let it whisper into him just enough to search for a trace of magic, just like she would if she was tracking down the source of a stave or making use of a trail left in a spell's wake. Reaching just a little deeper, having barely any hope that she would ever find anything, she gently reached into his being and tried to uncover something.

And she did.

In an instant she had to partially close off her mind in case Heimdall picked up on her mixture of shock and excitement. A source! A binding spell! Complicated and unlike anything she had ever seen or studied, but as customized as it was, all binding spells had the same basic principles. Undoing them was no different. 

Every binding spell needed an anchor of some sort — a location, an object related to the subject, a tie to a different type of magic or material. There was something in Heimdall that Odin used to get this spell to take root. If the Einherjar also had the same spell cast on them, then the base had to be the one thing the scion and the undead had in common.

Bifröst.

She reached the chorus even with her slowed notes, meaning she had only so much time until there would normally be a long pause between verses. Heimdall couldn't disrupt her, not with how deep-seated this spell was. The music slowed a little more, adding in more vibrato and variation to make it sound like she was trying to give more flare and beauty to each note. Gold lights flowing from her hands, she desperately prayed Heimdall wouldn't be able to feel her sifting through the deepest reaches of his being. He didn't seem to, and she was able to let her magic sink in deeper and deeper, little trails of gold encircling this cluster of energy buried inside. Like obedient vines, gold wisps merged into threads that encircled this casing of magic and tied around it tightly, determined to pull it out of place.

With the chorus started, she hid her efforts behind her music. She needed some physical movement to help the magic unwind this spell from the bifröst within, creating that motion with her fingers. With every few slow words, her fingers curled inward, as if she was petting his locks in a comforting manner, then stretching them out and placing them back down, repeating with the rhythm she manufactured. 

The only problem was how stubborn this magic was. Expected, considering Odin wouldn't treat such a serious spell with carelessness. It proved to be infuriating in just moments, her magic snatching and tearing at the source to get it to move, but it refused to budge even by the smallest margin. Her heart began to sink when it seemed like she didn't have the skill to take the spell away.

No. There had to be a way. No spell was infallible, not even Odin's. What would Freya do…?

“It is a natural force, and like any other it cannot be controlled, only…shepherded.”

That's it. 

Once again, Freya's expertise proved to be invaluable. Forcing it wouldn't work, but directing it somewhere else might.

Finding motivation once more, her voice grew stronger as her fingers gently brushed along Heimdall's scalp again, this time coaxing the spell with her own magic. With one motion it began to listen, on the second it shifted a tiny bit, and on the third it loosened. It started to relinquish its form to her golden lights and separated, the energy gliding along her magic and out towards her hands.

Just a couple more lines in the chorus. With one she made a more dramatic stretch of her fingers, pretending to be taking her petting slowly, feeling the new, cold magic seeping into her hands. She ran her nails along his hair one more time, deceptively inviting whatever magic remained to join the rest of its kin in the outside world. The last few words spilled from her lips as her fingers splayed out again, her gold dust fluttering away and dispersing into the air. While her hands went back to playing with his hair she cracked an eye open to peek at the reflections on the river, seeing a gold dust carrying streaks of bright pink and a sickly green that matched Odin's ravens into the air and abandoning it to disappear into the night.

Eivor wasn't even sure if it worked, Heimdall not moving an inch as he breathed in the new silence, ruminating on the essence of her music. The anticipation was unfathomable, and to fight it off she juggled the one question that had popped into her mind: if Heimdall's eye color came from the curse, what would they look like without it?

She could just barely hold in a gasp when she got an answer.

When his eyes opened…they were extraordinary. Beautiful shades of blues, pinks, and violets swirling and shifting in gorgeous patterns around his pupils, retaining that unique shine that always set them apart. They resembled traditional bifröst much more, but with this glow and life to it that could never be replicated. She never thought his eyes could get any more stunning, but now they were. Because they were his. 

The moment Heimdall could see her again he already felt an unshakable sense of peace. No confusion, no voice telling him to do unspeakable atrocities, no weight on his shoulders commanding him to disregard everything he cared about and return to his post. She took all of that away, lifted that weight with nothing but a few quiet minutes, gentle touches, and a sweet, alluring voice. He could think clearly for the first time in days, and though his distaste for his current predicament was still in the back of his mind he could only see those green eyes, linger in the echoes of her singing. 

Looking down at her, feeling all of the love she put into every single moment with him, he knew he made the right choice.

A torrent of emotions washed over him all at once, and everything he'd been wanting to say since he last saw her spilled from him. “I thought I'd never see you again…” He couldn't even be angry with the way his tone trembled and gave away his weakness, too busy pouring out everything he'd been holding onto so tightly. “I thought…I thought I'd made a horrible mistake. That I had made the worst mistake. I chased you away, I ignored you. I put all of my needs first, unjustly put the rest of the world above you…” He had to pause, realizing for the first time since he'd chosen her that he truly meant it when he said she was worth more to him than anything else. More than himself, his home, his duty, his skills and foresight, even…All-Father. 

Yes…he really did. For years he'd thought as much but this felt like the first time he really believed it.

“You didn't know,” Eivor whispered, trying to comfort him while holding back the despair bubbling into her throat, torn apart by how sorry he was even though it was beyond his control. 

Shame pushed his revelation aside. “I should have. I should have seen it.”

“You can't be so hard on yourself, Heimdall.”

“Yes, I can. Because I'm a fool.”

Eivor couldn't help but see a parallel to their first real fight years ago, where he insisted he was worthless to her because of his mistakes. Which meant she had the perfect counter to his stubborn guilt. “And it's okay to be a fool sometimes. You're allowed to be a fool. You don't always have to be the best or better than someone else to be you…” Her hand caressed his cheek as she gazed into those radiant, true bifröst eyes. “...to be the wonderful man I fell in love with.”

Heimdall's eyes shot downward for a split second as he felt another sense of foreign familiarity. It was a concept he had heard before, one she tried to teach him several times now. This time, it seemed to finally sink in. He seemed to finally…accept it.

By the gods, how had he gone so long with this nonsense when the answer to all of his woes had been right next to him for years?

Unsettled by his silence and dazed eyes, she pinned on a phrase that would make her point obvious. “It's not your fault.”

It was. He truly felt all of her misery was his fault, but of course she would never acknowledge it. 

At least not out loud.

Eivor's worry only increased when Heimdall pulled away, leaning back with a sorrowful, yet hardened look on his face. Dreading the devastating truth he would have to revisit, he turned slightly to reach behind him and take something that was tucked into his belt. She blanched at the very familiar sight and mumbled, “My songbook…”

Heimdall held it in both hands, staring down at the leather cover for a moment before he flipped it over and opened it to the last page, making Eivor's stomach drop. The scion sat in silent thought for a moment before saying, “You were hiding this from me. Hiding all the pain you were in.” Eivor said nothing and looked away, unable to bear the devastation in his message. She wouldn't return the favor when she felt Heimdall's eyes on her. Sighing, he closed the book without another word, holding it out for her to take back, which she did reluctantly. As soon as she had a firm grip on the book Heimdall released his and quickly took her extended hand, getting her to finally look at him. He took the book once more and set it down on her lap, allowing him to take her hand in both of his and gaze at her both sadly and amorously. Amidst the misery in his fresh bifröst eyes, Eivor could see something else. Something brighter, almost…hopeful. His voice the quietest she had ever heard it, he made a new promise to her that he now had the ability to keep. 

“I may not have been the cause of your pain, but I did nothing to stop it…and that makes me complicit.” His hands squeezed hers even tighter. “For that I am so sorry. I will never hurt you like this again.”

A rare, sincere apology followed by a verbal expression of the lengths of his devotion. It brought her back to the first time Eivor had heard him apologize, when he promised to always show that he truly cared about her. Back then it was enough to elevate her into the clouds, but this time she flew straight to the moon. Odin had whittled his humanity into a mere puppet — an unforgivable act that he would pay dearly for. Yet despite the horrible truth that he had lived his life suspended on invisible strings, left unable to do anything that was not approved of by the puppet master, he was still here with her. Even when the most powerful god in the realms had his will in the palm of his hand, Heimdall's heart still won. And that meant he had grown so much since they met.

Eivor brought her other hand over his, smiling so wide that it hurt her cheeks as she replied in a way that mirrored the past. “I believe you. And I forgive you.”

He knew why she responded with those exact words, evidenced by the first real, wholesome, genuine smile she had seen since the day before she fled Asgard. That same uneven smirk with a dash of love that he saved just for her. She'd missed it immensely, her chest lighting up with warmth when he followed her example with a shake of his head. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

His smirk grew into a toothy grin that Eivor mirrored affectionately, both of them laughing at the other for no apparent reason. No words needed to be spoken when Heimdall began to lean in, Eivor meeting him halfway in a deep kiss. Their hands released each other, leaving the book on Eivor's lap while Heimdall took hold of her cheeks and Eivor resting her fingers on his shoulders, one hand slowly drifting backward to play with the loose hair framing his neck. For those long, heavenly moments there was no chaos in the jungle, no danger in the form of scouting Einherjar, no ravens watching over them, no friends that could drop by at any moment. It was just the two golden gods, sitting among the still waters and the singing cicadas with nothing but each other on their minds. A moment they yearned for and desperately hoped they could share after such a lost separation.

Neither knew how long they had been there, lengthening their connection to make up for all the time they lost, Heimdall finally withdrew just enough to rest his forehead on her again, feeling the urge to say one thing he should have said a thousand times by now. “I missed you, Songbird. So much.”

The adoration in that phrase almost drove Eivor to jump on him and never let go. Her control managed to keep her sitting, only smiling as she returned the sentiment with her own charm added to it. “I missed you too, Dollface.” She couldn't hold back a giggle when he chuckled and shook his head at her, hardly even trying to pretend he hated her silly pet name. Whatever restraint she had wavered just lost enough to make her dive into his chest and burrow into his neck, and right away he responded by taking her in his arms and basking in the presence that finally gave him a sense of peace. A perfect moment, one of the many he'd had with her over the years, and one that made him want infinitely more for the rest of his days.

Such perfection, however, could only last so long when they were out in the open. While Heimdall kept his chin on Eivor's head his changed eyes opened and flickered across the water, his foresight picking up on something approaching. Einherjar, he guessed, who were probably looking for Freyr or his crew. The alarm bells soon died down, signaling that the intruders were not heading in their direction. They could have continued the serene moment, but it only served as a reminder that they were far from out of the building flood they had waded into that night. He took one more deep breath to enjoy this, taking in her scent and warmth just a bit longer until he sighed, bringing up the subject they couldn't avoid. “I still don't trust them.”

Eivor backed away and sat up, looking straight into his eyes as she asked, “Do you trust me?” Without hesitation, Heimdall nodded wordlessly. “Then trust my decision to work with them. None of them wanted to help you, but they still gave me a chance to get to you first.” When Heimdall looked away with doubt, Eivor cupped his cheek and directed him back to her before gently declaring, “They aren't just barbarians who want to fight everything. They understand that this is far more complicated than anyone wants it to be.”

Still not convinced, Heimdall grumbled, “And why should we expect them not to wait until the perfect moment to get rid of us? Especially…”

He didn't need to finish for Eivor to know who he was referring to. “I know Kratos is…stoic, and…blunt, and seems unapproachable, but he's reasonable. He won't act with hostility if you don't. You just have to try to find a compromise.”

The scion rolled his eyes, acting like he would have actually attempted to make peace without a problem. Before he could offer another gripe his head turned slightly, forewarned of the magic approaching behind Eivor. “Speak of the God Killer…” As soon as he said it the stones of the realm portal began to stir and rise up to frame the door between realms. Heimdall and Eivor exchanged one last loving smile, then they both stood, prepared for what could be a difficult encounter. Heimdall merely glared daggers at the door as they waited while Eivor gathered her instruments and secured them to her belt, taking her place on Heimdall's left as they waited. In a few moments the blue bifröst door opened and the pale god stepped through, the darkness of the night contrasting with his ghostly skin in a way that made him look even more intimidating than usual. Heimdall acted instinctively, taking a step forward and putting his arm in front of Eivor to shield her from the enemy, but he stopped when he felt her hand on his shoulder. His eyes went back to her as she let one hand rest on his bicep and lowered the one closest to him to take his hand in hers, getting him to fully relax and regard Kratos with caution rather than mistrust. 

Kratos stopped a few paces in front of them, quiet until Eivor asked, “How did it go?”

Always brief with his words, the only detail he gave was, “Freya is treating her brother. And you are well?”

Heimdall had to hide a sneer, catching right away that Kratos was asking if he'd done anything to her. “I'm fine. We both are.”

The God of War nodded, then directed his stone gaze to Heimdall, pausing for a moment to consider the petulant god he had spared. “And your decision still stands?”

Again, Heimdall was more than irritated at the implications behind his questions. “No, I simply waited here to experience your excellent conversational skills.” Eivor elbowed him in the side at his thick sarcasm, not needing to speak for him to know exactly how much she disapproved of the attitude.

Kratos didn't seem to notice, or at the very least he didn't care. “You will not go back on your word?”

This time Heimdall didn't bother being upset with his assumptions, jumping straight to the matter that was more important to him. He harshly and defiantly spat, “I am not leaving her alone with you again.”

It was an insult, a reminder that Heimdall saw Kratos as a vile monster, yet when he looked into the Greek god's eyes he found a single thought in that empty head.

Respect. 

And it was a respect that was slightly reflected in his expression. For just a second Kratos regarded Heimdall with a hint of admiration for his protective instinct, a drive that he also kept close. Just as quickly as it came, the glint in his eye faded and he continued on without a hitch. “Very well. We have agreed to let you come back to our home with us…on one condition.”

Heimdall already despised being “invited” to the enemy's stronghold as a “friend,” but he kept his mouth shut. Eivor asked him to trust her, and she had yet to give him a reason to doubt, but he still rolled his eyes and drawled, “Oh, I wonder what it could be…”

It was incredibly obvious to Heimdall, yet he still tensed when Kratos took one step closer and held up a commanding hand as he sternly laid down the law. “No harm will come to Atreus.”

Ah. There it was. Heimdall scoffed, “So that's his name,” thoroughly vexed that it had been revealed to him before he found out for himself.

“You knew?” Eivor asked.

“I knew it wasn't Loki…but I never picked up the name he was hiding.” During their first fight in front of the Great Lodge, Heimdall made it known that he knew the twerp was lying, but he clearly didn't get the hint.

Kratos ignored the tangent, remaining just as severe. “That condition is not negotiable. Should you show any sign of aggression,” his voice dropped to a low, menacing rumble, “I will not hesitate.”

Heimdall felt a disgusting chill run down his spine and his traitorous eyes flickered down to the cursed gold ring on Kratos's hand, the pain of that spear impaling his arm already coming back to him. The only thing that kept him from lashing out was Eivor's fingers squeezing his hand, already aware of how serious he had to take that threat. Getting over the effect of such a brainless statement, Heimdall regained his confidence and rolled his eyes with a sigh, reluctance apparent. “Fine. I won't hurt the half-breed.”

Kratos subtly showed he didn't appreciate the term, but it was Eivor who wouldn't stand for it. She cleared her throat, glaring at him expectantly.

“I won't hurt the runt,” Heimdall corrected.

Again, not good enough. She lifted the hand on his upper arm and slapped him sharply.

“I won't hurt your son,” Heimdall forced out, nearly snarling at Kratos as if he was the one reprimanding him. The older god only nodded, accepting his answer and turning around to return to the realm portal, listening to the bickering behind him. “What?!” Heimdall hissed.

Eivor criticized, “He has a name! Two, in fact! You couldn't use one of them?” Heimdall only replied with an annoyed sigh, not wanting to inspire Eivor's wrath in front of another.

Their jaunt through the Realm Between Realms was a quick one, and Heimdall spent it boring holes into Kratos's back, having yet to accept that the foreign god could be trusted in the slightest. The only thing that could pull his attention away was the sight if the building the portal took them to, styled in a way he recognized immediately. “Dwarven. Lovely,” he grumbled.

Setting aside her admiration for his accurate knowledge of architecture, Eivor made sure to stamp out his sass as much as she could before they went inside. “Sindri is an old friend of mine. Behave.”

He would do what he could, making no promises when it came to the Huldra brothers. “When am I not well behaved?”

“That's a joke, right?”

Heimdall only sighed yet again, his spirits sinking lower and lower with every step. This was just so…humiliating. The Watchman of the Gods, defeated and scarred, being escorted into enemy territory on the condition that he refrain from punishing them for challenging All-Father and Asgard. It was a testament to how far he'd fallen from his mighty perch among the Aesir, and it was a dreadful reality.

Then he felt Eivor's hand squeeze his again, as if she knew how uncomfortable he was. She probably did without having to look at him. 

It was a reminder. Eivor had been so dedicated to him that she put her life on the line to ensure he lived, shoving all of her effort into his well being. He needed to do the same. He would stomach the humiliation for her, put her needs and desires first. This wasn't about him, and he was going to make it about her. Even if it stained his pride beyond repair.

Besides, playing nice gave him time to think of how to set things right. He would find a way to get her back to Asgard and back into All-Father's good graces with a simple plea from his loyal servant, then everything would be fine. There was no way this ridiculous charade would go on for long. 

There was something new stirring in him though. Doubt, he realized. After all, with Eivor still alive then it had to be true that All-Father lied to him…

No, there was a mistake. All-Father wouldn't lie to him.

His ponderings were dismissed when the trio stepped inside, Eivor letting go of his arm so that he could maintain his detached and aloof image. The first voice to spring up was Sindri's from his forge, excited to see that Eivor was alright. “You're back!” His enthusiasm waned at the sight of yet another new visitor. “And…with a friend.”

“Well stuff my ass with hot coals and call me Surtr, she actually did it!” Brok exclaimed, earning a glower from Heimdall. With no fear whatsoever, he added, “Who knew the watchman was such a sucker.”

Heimdall retaliated, “I'd be happy to destroy your forge again, dwarf.”

Eivor didn't get a chance to ask exactly when he had done so in the past before Brok gave his own comeback. “Joke's on you, this ain't my forge.”

“Please don't!” Sindri begged, revealing exactly what Brok meant.

Already feeling the look Eivor was giving him as a warning, Heimdall ignored them, muttering, “Huldras…” under his breath as he rolled his eyes. This was already turning out to be worse than he expected.

Kratos stepped away to speak to the dwarves, though he only gave Heimdall space to examine his behavior when a threat was not standing right next to him. Freya was the first to give him a sample on her way to deliver more herbs to her bumbling brother resting on the chaise near the kitchen. She paused in front of the pair, her expression as neutral as she could manage. “Heimdall.”

“Frigg,” Heimdall answered just as coldly.

“Freya.”

“Sure.”

The goddess gave one last glare as Eivor offered an apologetic look in exchange. Once Freya moved there was no obstruction between Heimdall and Atreus, who leaned on the dining table next to Mimir, the latter giving a greeting that almost sounded like gloating. “Look who's back! Seems ya did a good job patchin’ ol’ Heimdall up, lass.”

Heimdall paid him no mind, sneering at Atreus so intensely that the boy started to fidget with discomfort, grateful for his father's very attentive surveillance. Then he took a longer look at the scion and his eyes, thinking that they were “different.” A thought Heimdall could see.

…was he really so stupid that he never noticed Heimdall had glowing eyes? Of course they were different.

Finally fed up with the endless snarling, Atreus chose to speak up, attempting to sound as friendly as possible but only coming across as confused. “Uh…hi?”

The watchman made his point by nearly growling, “Atreus,” clearly displeased that he had caught the youngster in yet another lie.

“Well, yeah. I mean, Loki works too…I guess.”

The blue dwarf across the room came to Atreus's rescue by calling out while approaching the broom closet on the opposite side of the entrance. “You really got beef with a kid, O Dainty Scion? What a joke…’ He successfully got Heimdall's full attention, the Aesir turning away from Atreus and stepping closer to the dwarves, Eivor sighing at the sight of yet another unnecessarily heated confrontation that took place less than five minutes after they arrived. “Hey Tyr! Get out here, we have a guest!” Brok's banging on the closet door was what made Heimdall snap.

“Enough of your stupid noise you troglodyte —”

“The fuck you call me?!”

“I don't care about Tyr, nor do I even remotely want to be introduced to everything hiding in this filthy house!”

Even Kratos glanced at Sindri when he dramatically gasped and dropped pieces of metal armor with a loud clang! He planted his hands on his hips, tone proving just how offended he was by the insult while also missing its figurative nature. “You take that back! This place is spotless and I won't tolerate such slander in my own home!”

Of course, Heimdall would not take such an order and continued to bicker with the dwarves in the pettiest manner, so much so that even the careful and suspicious Kratos lost interest in monitoring them as closely. Eivor sighed again, using two fingers to rub her temple and wondering how she ever thought this wouldn't be so much more difficult than she expected. Hearing more mumbling from Freyr, she grew concerned for him and approached Freya, who was sitting on a stool beside the chaise and gathering empty cups that were once filled with potent herbs. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You've already done enough, all he needs now is rest.” Freya stood to clean the cups and refill them with more medicine, placing a hand on Eivor's shoulder on her way to her supplies, shouting, “Now stop talking, Yngvi!” as Freyr continued to slur some nonsense about kelpies and mermaids.

Eivor was almost worried by how delusional he seemed and looked back to Mimir and Atreus to ask, “Is he doing this because —”

“Herbs,” they answered simultaneously.

Excellent. If it was from his injuries that was one thing that could wind down once he healed, but if his treatment was the cause, then this would become even more hectic when Heimdall inevitably tired of it.

A prediction that quickly proved to be correct. The new voice made Freyr sit up and take a closer look at his surroundings, not hiding just how interested he was in the new goddess. “Wait a sec, who's ’is?” As soon as he uttered the words as suavely as he could manage in his state, Heimdall's head immediately swiveled to the Vanir god, the dwarves forgotten as his blood burned and he marched straight for his Songbird, Kratos following until he reached Atreus and Mimir to watch the scene unfold. Freyr was only a couple paces from Eivor, who couldn't hold back an unimpressed roll of her eyes and crossing her arms despite the state he was in, fully prepared to shut down his attempts on her own. “Well, helloooooo there —”

Before Freyr could get any closer a rough hand slammed into his chest. “Hello,” Heimdall mocked openly with a sinister smile, pushing his enemy back while Eivor groaned at how overprotective he was.

Freyr, just barely able to catch himself as he stumbled, one arm holding the side that was still slightly sore while he clumsily gestured towards his former captor with the other. “Who invited ‘im?!”

“Says the moron who is out of his mind with just a few blades of grass.” 

Eivor was already putting a hand on Heimdall's arm while Freya yelled, “Yngvi, sit down!”

Freyr attempted to shove Heimdall back but was so far off the mark that he didn't even need foresight to know he didn't need to move an inch to avoid it. He gave it another go by rotating his arm like he was preparing to throw a punch, almost incoherently threatening, “Y'know, I still owe ya f'r Van'heim. I r’lly oughta —” 

“Yngvi!” Freya dropped the herbs she was mixing to force her twin to back down.

“Enough!”

The room fell silent at Kratos's powerful roar, gaining everyone's attention and keeping it with his authoritative demeanor. Now with the room calm, he quietly instructed, “Our actions in Vanaheim will have consequences. We must plan our next move while there is still time.”

Very smug with his arms crossed and a smirk painted on his face, Heimdall remarked, “Well, there won't be consequences because there already are consequences.”

Kratos eyed him carefully, irritating Heimdall once again by having a mind so clear that it almost didn't feel natural. “Explain.”

Putting the blunt and unappreciated demand aside, Heimdall complied. “The Einherjar have been ordered to get rid of Freyr's cohorts. They're busy hunting them down right now, I'd say.”

Freya, who had finally managed to get Freyr to sit back down and continue sipping his medicine, shot up and gasped, “What?! And you're only revealing this now?!”

“Well, no one asked until now, did they?”

Eivor nearly facepalmed. He really wasn't doing himself any favors.

All Freya did was snarl, but an inebriated Freyr had no problem expressing his thoughts. “Dick.”

“What else do you know?” Kratos said, still in complete control.

“Many things,” Heimdall boasted proudly.

“Heimdall.”

Eivor's warning did the trick, a fact that made Atreus smirk to himself at how easily she could get Heimdall to cooperate. “Including that this is also a lower priority task. If the forces already present are depleted, they're ordered to cut their losses and move on.”

“Then we can help,” Atreus concluded. 

Mimir, however, was more suspicious. “And why exactly are you giving all this away so easily?”

In a split second Heimdall's thoughts raced, the question throwing him off. He could never recall a time when he had spoken about his orders so freely, always keeping everything All-Father told him close to his chest. Even if the information was mostly inconsequential, what made it so easy now? It was a question he would never reveal to a crowd of enemies, shrugging nonchalantly to hide his dilemma. “That ‘army’ is more of a nuisance than a real threat. Letting them go makes no notable difference, really.” An answer that everyone believed, but he could already see Eivor's thoughtful eyes indicating that she knew there was more to it than that.

Kratos left no room for further argument, grunting, “Then we prepare. Atreus, bring your bow. It was damaged, yes?”

The boy followed his father as he returned to Sindri. “Coming! It's just a scratch though.”

“Didn't I just polish it for you?!” Sindri cried.

“I didn't mean to scratch it!”

Freya watched Heimdall carefully and noted the softness of the look Eivor gave him, reminding her of the tender stories she shared before the rescue. That, paired with the new color to Heimdall's eyes, cooled her sizzling hatred just enough to remember that he wouldn't be there if there wasn't truth to everything Eivor said, therefore giving her enough reason to put out the fires that had long since started burning bridges. Taking one step closer to the scion, Freya calmly said, “Thank you.”

It was still flat and lacking her usual level of sincerity, but it made Heimdall raise an eyebrow nonetheless. It was not what he expected, no sarcasm or anger. She was…genuine. And he couldn't make sense of that, not when he wasn't speaking to Eivor. “For what, exactly?”

“Helping…even if it is in a terrible way.” He didn't respond, still dumbfounded by Freya's willingness to look past his delivery and appreciate the message. 

These people were…stranger than he anticipated.

Eivor sensed his confusion, taking hold of his arm and gently asking, “Take a seat, I'll get supplies to fix your clothes,” before she headed to Sindri for sewing materials. Atreus let out a snicker, finding Heimdall's immediate obedience funny, only stopping when his father expressed his disapproval with a frown.

Heimdall had pulled out a chair but had not yet sat down when Brok spoke up again, grumbling, “What's that old codger doin’? He's still hunkerin’ down in his hidey hole instead of spitting out his ‘bites of wisdom.’” Once again he banged on the closet door and barked, “Tyr, get out here!”

Heimdall, thinking nothing of it, revealed the one thing he had yet to mention since Brok's first attempt. “There's no one in there.”

So casual, but it made the air in the room freeze. All eyes slowly went to Heimdall, a feeling of unease taking over the atmosphere.

Brok, not too bothered, grumpily argued, “Look here ya stiff, I saw him go in there, and I ain't seen him come out.”

“And you trust your sight more than mine?” No counterpoint was made, and the entire house grew colder with fear as Heimdall insisted, “He isn't there.”

Silence.

When the tension became unbearable, Sindri nervously chuckled, “I-I'm sure it's nothing! Maybe he, uh, went out for a walk. Lord Tyr does admire the World Tree, after all.”

Atreus sounded just as spooked as everyone else. “But I talked to Ratatoskr while Father was gone. He said everyone was here, and he would know…”

Another bout of stillness, nothing but questions absorbing the room until Brok waved a hand at the door to the closet and made his way back to the forge. “Feh, whatever.”

Eivor, sewing supplies in hand, returned to Heimdall and found him staring at the closet, like he was trying to see through the wall. It tied a knot in her gut. “Are you sure?” She questioned quietly.

Heimdall, perplexed at the vaguely recognizable presence he could sense, didn't have a complete answer. “There's something in there. But it's not a god.”

Eivor felt her heart drop as she asked Heimdall to sit down again, wondering if bringing him here could unveil a much darker secret that was right under all of their noses.

She shook it off. She'd been sneaking around Odin for years, she was just letting her usual mistrust get to her.

At least she hoped.

Eivor was not the only one considering what might be hiding in their haven, but they had to settle their doubt with one question: who did they trust more, Tyr or Heimdall?

Unfortunately, everyone except Eivor would not choose Heimdall.

[mickeymagpie]

find the word!

@marypsue tagged me, and gave me the words sharp, take, moon, pile, and dream. I have to see if they show up in any of my WIPs, and then post the snippet they appear in if they do.

1 million 'ctrl+F's later... doing just my two main fic WIPs here because i didn't want to search every document lmao.

From ouroboros, ever hungry, the Rise of the TMNT longfic:

Donatello wakes with a violent jolt, gasping for air that doesn’t come fast enough. He reaches up, presses his palms flat over his tympana, closing his eyes again, shuddering in relief when what greets him is silent and dark. His heart beats a solid reassurance in his chest, as he gets his breathing under control. He’s still here. He’s alive. He’s alive. And, perhaps more importantly, he’s alone. Not in the room, of course, but there’s nothing in his head except for his own abating panic, and the fading remnants of the dream.

2:

“Listen, Case, I know you said it’s’all good, but I’m jus’ saying, if you want us to help you beat the shit outta someone, we will,” Leo slurs, because of course his response to the good news was to throw a party, and if there's one thing the resistance is never short on, it's alcohol. “I, for one, wouldn’t ask any questions.” “Your loyalty is noted,” Cassandra says seriously, patting Leo on the shoulder with one hand, and—with grace befitting her ninja training—using the other to slide his tin cup of moonshine out of his grip, smoothly replacing it with one full of water. When she twists her arm back, Donnie follows through with the hand-off. He takes the alcohol further away, out of Leo’s line of sight, before downing it himself.

And the rest from the Gravity Falls triplets fic:

“Bill!” Hands on his shoulders and Bill is shaking, staring at his hands, flesh and bone and skin and fingers and joints and unchanging dimensions too much and too little and he’s bound like this, stuck. He laughs, hysterical, and “Bill, calm down! You’re having a panic attack.” Is he? Is this what panic is? Huh. Funny. Horrible. He hates it! He doesn’t want it anymore! Take it away, folks! Bill realizes he’s still laughing, hyperventilating, words and questions and curses entering his mind but none of them reaching his mouth because he can't get enough air-- “Just breathe with me, Bill,” Mabel instructs. “Listen. In and out.” Seething, he snaps his mouth shut with the dull click of equally dull teeth, and does as told, matching her exaggerated inhales and exhales second-for-second until the room stops spinning and the heavy thump-thump-thump of his heart against his ribs doesn’t feel so much like a death sentence.

2:

“Why do you care?” Bill demands. “Because--” Ford starts, and then… realizes he doesn’t know. There’s no reason to. No reason he should care what happens to Bill anymore, no reason he wouldn’t be within his rights to leave Bill out in the woods alone. But he can’t do that. Not-- not now. “...I’m not just going to let you get yourself killed out here.” Bill laughs a little, half-hysterical, and steps right up to Ford, lip curling with disdain and anger when he has to crane his neck back to meet Ford’s eyes. “Why not, Sixer? Huh? Why do you care what happens to me? Why haven’t you cut the shit and killed me yet?!” He shoves Stanford backward with both hands. Ford stumbles, almost falling back over a stone. He has to look down to find his footing again, and when he looks back up, Bill’s staring at him sharply, as if anticipating retaliation.

3:

“Ooooh,” Mabel exclaims in one store, beelining for a rack of different colored corduroy overalls. She looks through the sizes, pulling down a set in bright yellow to hold up to Bill. He doesn’t immediately reject them, and the legs look the right length, so she nods, slinging them over her arm with the rest of the current to-be-tried-on pile. She then grabs two more sets in the same size: one pink, and one blue. “Oh no,” Dipper says, already knowing what’s coming as Mabel turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “Dipper, do you know what this means?” “We’re gonna become those kids that teachers can only tell apart when they’re color-coded?” And wow, Bill going back to school with them in September is a super weird and terrible concept to think about.

[valentinoappreciator]

Here is the (for me, lol) long awaited Draal fic that I began working on this morning❤️

Based on an RP with my lovely girlfriend. No warnings, but be advised that Draal has a cock piercing in this piece 👀 pry that headcanon from my cold, dead hands lmao

Media: Trollhunters (Tales of Arcadia)

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Draal the Deadly / Female!Reader

Warnings: Not Applicable

Additional tags: cock piercing, huge cock, rough sex, vaginal sex

Where else to find: AO3 (username TheWeirdDane, title To Train A Trollhunter) link below https://archiveofourown.org/works/44529901

Since tumblr has implemented a text-character limit per post, I'm forced to just give you a glimpse :(

Enjoy the filth, my lovelies!

----------------------------

So apparently there was an entire society living beneath the solid pavement, asphalt, and humans’ feet. This society was made up of trolls, gnomes, and a whole slew of other creatures that you had no idea about just yet.

You had been declared something known as the Trollhunter - an important figure amongst the trolls. The Trollhunter was someone who protected good trolls and humans alike from the bad trolls, known as Gumm-Gumms.

However, having a human Trollhunter wasn’t something that most of the trolls were keen on. When your mentor - Blinkous Galadrigal, known as Blinky - explained the situation to a particularly angry troll, you momentarily feared that this other troll would kill you on the spot.

It spoke with a man’s voice, was a good deal taller than you, had spikes protruding from his back, and had truly magnificent horns on the top of his head. His body was a certain hue of teal, and he had a piercing in his triangular nose.

He snorted in your direction before turning his attention to Blinky who stood steadfast.

“This is our new Trollhunter? Bushigal! I’m the rightful heir!”

“With the proper training, Draal, she—“

The troll - named Draal, apparently - rolled his eyes and poked a short, wide finger into your chest. You took a step back, swallowing hard.

He was right. Whatever ‘bushigal’ meant, she was not meant to be the Trollhunter. There had to be some kind of mistake!

“Please, Blinky, he’s right,” you said, looking to your mentor.

“On the contrary. The amulet called to you. This is your destiny. Don’t mind him, come, your training awaits you.”

Blinky calmly walked towards the tunnel leading to the Hero’s Forge. You had trained here a few times already, but the grandiosity of the place never ceased to amaze you.

However, as you walked, you had the uncanny feeling of being watched; the small hairs on the back of your neck and on your arms stood on end. Your neck prickled. But as you looked over your shoulder, you couldn’t see anyone.

It was just Blinky and you.

“He won’t let it go, will he?” you asked quietly and donned your armour while Blinky started the machine.

“Doubtfully,” he answered in a serious, matter-of-factly way.

You had only trained for a few minutes before the gate to the arena opened. Already breathing hard from the exertion of fighting while wearing the armour, you looked to the entrance - and your heart dropped.

Draal waltzed in like he owned the place. Wearing a smug grin on his face and a kilt around his waist, he walked up to Blinky and you.

“Draal, you’re interfering in important Trollhunter business,” Blinky said firmly while you swallowed hard. Why had Draal followed you?

“That’s precisely why I’m here, Blinky,” Draal replied and sounded way too smug. “I thought I might offer my assistance to the Trollhunter, as a sparring partner.”

“Sp-sparring partner?” you whispered shakily, looking to Blinky.

“That’s preposterous, Draal, she’s still in her early training. She does not yet have the skills to hope to match your… vigorous fighting style.”

Draal laughed boisterously.

“Are you admitting that your little fleshbag protégé isn’t a good enough Trollhunter?”

“Hey! I’m trying my best here,” you exclaimed, puffing out your chest. Draal snorted and glanced at you. There was contempt and disdain in his eyes, like you were nothing more than a worm, and certainly not worthy of him.

Then why was he so hellbent on training you? Something wasn’t adding up.

Blinky was uncomfortably silent.

He could not be considering this.

“Blinky,” you practically pleaded, bringing urgency into your voice, and glanced at Draal who crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You can’t seriously be considering this!”

Blinky looked immensely torn, tapping his many fingers together.

“Well, you could do with some more rigorous and practical training,” he said, but made sure to avoid your gaze.

Your blood froze, and you were pretty sure you exhaled sharply.

“Then it’s settled,” Draal grinned.

[millionsnife]

thanks to @swarmedhost for putting up with my rambling once more and also enduring the weird topic switch this became bc this definitely started as an elendira thought train and turned into a conrad and knives ramble but some thoughts on knives, elendira, conrad and the search for absolution in a god you've created.

also this all based on the english dub of stampede, which is what i base my portrayal of knives on; some of this may not match the sub in terms of wording/personality so keep that in mind when i mention stuff.

it's something i noticed about conrad and knives at some point during various episode rewatched while making icons and just overall double checking my memory of various events but like? i think conrad is the one to plant the concept of godhood into knives.

like sure he absolutely 100% was kinda fucked up by trauma and everything else and he absolutely would still have gone off the rails no matter what, but i think without conrad, the idea that he is a god wouldn't quite be a thing. conrad (at least in the english dub) tends to speak of knives, to knives, with an odd sort of otherness. when they do the final run of the plants when he and vash meet again as teenagers conrad says "forgive us. forgive... my kind". putting an emphasis on "my kind", on the way knives is not human.

he asks knives to forgive them, as if knives is the only one capable of granting humanity forgiveness for what they've done. this, i think, traces back to tesla. to the things they did to her. i don't think it's ever explicitly stated outright that he regrets it or that he wants to undo what was done but the photo he keeps and the way he reacted to her eye makes it pretty clear how he felt about it after the fact. knives definitely forced him into working for him, but i think tesla's eye in his arm was the real deciding factor. i think conrad desires absolution from tesla, forgiveness for what was done to her but knows she'll never be able to grant it.

knives is the closest thing he can ever have to that, so he builds him up. and knives takes the seed he plants and runs with it. knives accepts godhood as his due and conrad pushes that agenda in the search for absolution he's never going to find.

as for elendira; conrad calls her an 'it' and says she's a lab grown clone that is neither human nor plant. he mentions that she and the others around her are collaborations between him and knives which to me implied that knives provided the plant dna that conrad used for their creation? it's not actually stated outright though and he doesn't really explain for sure so it's just speculation on my end lmao. but i have the impression from that whole scene that she's basically a plant/human hybrid he grew in his lab.

but knives doesn't really acknowledge her, i think. conrad raises elendira. most of the scenes she appears, she's at conrad's side. she's holding his hand. it's clear he's the one to raise her, care for her. and she seems to revere knives? based on the very short snippet where vash offers to help with her arm after wolfwood injures her and she gets mad at him, calls him a traitor and says he should hear how 'lord knives talks about you'. it's clear conrad's raised her to consider knives above everything.

knives on the other hand, at least pre july i think barely realizes she exists, and when he does acknowledge her it's with a distant sort of disdain for her existence. a 'you would be perfection if not for the taint of humanity in you' sort of thing'. he's cruel when he remembers she exists. if he remembers at all.

post july if he finds her again he's better about it; he recognizes that he was a shitty person to her, and she didn't deserve that and since he's trying to be better he tries to actually form some sort of relationship with her.

[lady-lunaaa]

I come with QUESTIONS for the question game.

What is the last scene you wrote for your neighbor obi wip?

Share the scene you just wrote, written by another person pov- mafia Zeke wip OR the pock breakup wip

Share 3 songs from your playlist for OSAS

What is your favorite scene you've written so far? Your mythology wip please

What is the last dialogue line for neighbor obi, mafia Zeke, mythology wip, spy au, werewolf pock, pock break-up

Share your fave paragraph for werewolf pock

Give the first line for your break up pock wip

Write the next five sentences for merman nai and share

What's the last scene you wrote for werewolf pock

Choose any number you want and give us the inside scoop on the spy au with our fave aot loves and merman nai

Bonus: Do you have any Dottore crumbs to share?

GIRL, YOU WENT HAM. I am wheezing! I love how you know each and every one of my current WIPs 😂 I love you, baby 💙 I shall answer under the cut

The last scene I wrote for my next door neighbour!Obito wip was a little dialogue draft between Kakashi and Obito discussing how he (Obi) needs to let people (aka reader) in.

Lil' mafia boss Zeke pov:

He burst inside to find you lounging behind the bar, sipping on a drink. You liked to help yourself. Only fair, he thought, since he did the same with your sweet pussy. You quickly straightened at the intrusion, perfect tits clad in lace bouncing with the movement, before you noticed it was him and relaxed back into your casual stance. Your elbows leant on the polished wood counter as you eyed him curiously. He didn't bother with a greeting as he stalked over to join you. Time for that drink.

You watched him silently as he catered to himself, downing the first measure of whisky he poured into the crystal-cut glass before pouring another. And then another.

The good thing about you was that you didn't ask questions, never had. You just followed him blindly and let him handle his business while you handled yours. Not to say that you were stupid or timid, far fucking from it. You were the smartest, most calculating, and fucking craziest bitch he'd ever met – you were his perfect match, he'd admit if he was being sentimental.

Okay, I absolutely adore my OSaS playlist so I love this question! It's hard to pick just 3 but Fear of the Water by SYML, Won't by Tanerélle and Her and the Sea by CLANN.

Hmmm I haven't actually written a whole lot for Hephaestus!Obito yet but if I had to choose it'd be the scene between Fugaku and the boys in the throne room. I'll add a snippet:

Itachi sighs, looking at the place his brother once stood with a troubled expression. Fugaku hasn't taken his eyes off his eldest son, a look of disdain clear on his features.

"And you, boy" Obito hates when he calls him that, he is well past the age of being addressed as such, a man of two and thirty, "dress appropriately for when our guests arrive, I will not have you embarrass me any more than you already do."

Obito's jaw ticks as he clenches his mouth shut to keep the foul words he wishes to speak spilling from his tongue.

Last line of dialogue from next door neighbour!Obito (I chose this WIP since it's the only one with actual dialogue so far lmao):

"Because….nothing is gonna happen."

"Is that the truth or what you want yourself to believe?"

Again, I'm not into the meat and bones of werewolf Porco yet but I'll include a snippet of a scene:

"What?! If she wants to be one of us, she might as well get used to the ridiculous superstitions that run this hick town. It's a borderline cult…" Zeke mumbles, wiping at the stain on his front.

"What do you mean by that?" you ask, a feeling of unease creeping into your gut at their shifty reactions, but morbid curiosity wins out. You always were too nosy for your own good, your mother would tell you as a child, "curiosity killed the cat".

"It's nothing, really. Just silly old wives tales, that's all." Marcel answers for him with a nervous chuckle, his eyes darting away from you too soon, betraying his lie. A half-hearted attempt at changing the subject if you had to guess. But you don't give in that easily.

"Oh come on, I haven't encountered anything nearly as interesting as this since I got here. Unless sheep farming and trees count…how's a gal supposed to keep herself entertained?" you take a nonchalant sip of your rum and coke.

"I like this one," Zeke grins wolfishly, showing his teeth, Pieck sends another jab his way before sliding her hand under his and entwining their fingers. They make a cute couple, opposites attract and all that.

First line from ex-boyfriend Porco WIP:

How long does it take to fall out of love with someone?

The last scene I wrote for werewolf Porco was him and reader meeting for the first time. It's in note form so I shan't be sharing a snippet. But he runs into her (literally) all shirtless and sweaty 🤤

I literally hadn't started Merman!Nai besides notes so y'all get the boring beginning 🤣

The ocean is a predator, its roar deafening and inescapable, swelling up as if to devour you whole. The ship shrieks and cracks as its body is ripped apart and claimed by the sea. You can hear the horrified shouts of your men but you cannot see them. Nothing but the dark blue maw opening before you is visible, foaming edges curled like fangs, as it descends upon you.

Okay, I'm choosing my AoT spy!au and I'm just gonna share my favourite moment so far:

You saw the shadow of emotions flicker behind his eyes, saw it in the set of his clenched jaw, the subtle flare of his nostrils. And for a moment you thought he might not keep his cool, but to his credit, he smoothened out his countenance and even pulled a hand from his pocket and held it out to you. Before you knew what you were doing you were placing your hand in his. Your calloused skin softened over the months prior to the war (although your scars remained), but his were still rough and warm against your own, and it jolted a memory loose of the last time your flesh met his.

It was at an ambassador meeting shortly after the peace treaty, a show of good will between two previously warring nations, and the feelings that had welled up inside you threatened to raze the building to its foundations. Who could really blame you for what happened after that? A carnal clash of hatred, desire and frustration.

You didn't even bother looking up at the man as you leant fowards and placed a hand on his chest, resisting the urge to dig clawed fingernails into his heart, and murmured, "Drinks are on you, Galliard."

I unfortunately do not have any Dottore crumbs 🥲 it is my greatest shame, preparing for my flogging as I write this. Maybe one day...

[feyresdaughter]

A Court of Wings and Ruin, chapter 15:

Unsurprisingly, Cassian and Azriel were casually seated in the dining room across the hall, eating lunch and marking every single breath Lucien emitted. Cassian smirked at me, brows flicking up. I shot him a warning glare that dared him to comment. Azriel, thankfully, just kicked Cassian under the table.

Azriel kicking Cassian because he was about to make some comment lmao

To the ring now on my finger, at the star sapphire sky-bright against the silver. A simple silver band sat on Rhysand’s matching finger. We’d slid them onto each other’s hands before coming downstairs —more intimate and searing than any publicly made vows.

Awwww, WHY IS SJM ROBBING US OF EVERY MATING CEREMONY/WEDDING POSSIBLE

I’d only kissed him, murmuring about someone thinking rather highly of themselves, and had placed the ring he’d selected for himself, bought here in Velaris while I’d been away, onto his finger.

He selected a ring for himself all ALONE while Feyre was away 😭😭😭

“I was willing to lose my mate to another male. I was willing to let them marry, if it brought her joy. But what I was not willing to do was let her suffer. To let her fade away into a shadow. And the moment that piece of shit blew apart his study, the moment he locked her in that house …” His wings ripped from him, and Lucien started.

My cheeks heated, especially as Cassian and Azriel stalked closer, those hazel eyes now filled with a mix of sympathy and wrath. I had never talked about it to them—what had gone on that day Tamlin had destroyed his study, or the day he’d sealed me inside the manor. I’d never asked Rhys if he’d informed them. From the fury rippling from Cassian, the cold rage seeping from Azriel … I didn’t think so.

Brother Mode activated... AGAIN

"...because the next time you look at my mate with that disdain and disgust, I won’t bother to explain it again, and I will rip out your fucking throat.”

Mark me scared and horny

He glanced behind us, to where Rhys and Cassian waited inside the dining room, drinks now in hand, leaning all too casually against the giant oak table in its center. They became immensely interested in some spot or stain on the surface between them.

Lmao not them eavesdropping

Or when I continued with my tale, Cassian often chiming in with his own account of how it’d been to live with two mated-yet-un-mated people , to pretend Rhys wasn’t courting me, to welcome me into their little circle.

Trilogy Cassian is adorably funny

“I hadn’t realized I was a villain in your narrative,” Lucien breathed.

[madstronaut]

OMFG OMFG OMFG SHE UPDATED JOHNNY BOY!!!!!!!!!

GOD WHERE DO I EVEN FUCKIN START

emma telling mama her secrets?!?!

can she smell johnny on mama oh god the awkwardness

mama equating whats best for her is (not) whats best for emma re: (failing spectacularly at) pushing johnny away?

mama disdaining charlie aka mr. mid milquetoast fuckboi but putting up with him cos she hates johnny even more? RAAAAAGGGGGGHHHH

so many fuckin bangers in this chappie, a selection of some (not all) of my faves below: 

“You searched around for anger, or even mild irritation, but it was gone, used up entirely by Johnny.”

“Why couldn’t you just let sleeping dogs lie?”

“That was the thing that made you consider it. Johnny. He was your kryptonite, your achilles heel, and you needed to burn his touch off your skin.” cue me biting my pillow to ABSOLUTE FUCKING SHREDS

“He wouldn’t share food with anyone, not even Tom, but if you asked he would always tear whatever it was in half and put it on your plate.”

“Johnny texted back something enthusiastic and barely legible.” LMAO picturing him just responding something super scottish and/or switching to gaelic cos hes so excited

also fucking obsessed with the full moon behavior lore and also johnny absolutely running to text her back immediately

“You planned on grabbing it for her for Christmas, a token of your appreciation for her help with Emma.” also smol sidenote but this is just an adorable lil touch i love friends who do this <3 (and try to do this for my friends as well)

“To see it for what it was felt…odd. You had heard about wolves claiming human spouses, putting a bite on their throat like a wedding band and never, ever letting go.” hahaha mama’s confusion 100 and brain bluescreening trying to comprehend johnny’s feelings for her is very relatable

“You didn’t think it was possible to hurt Johnny, but you did. It flashed across his eyes, his jaw tightening into a straight line.” YAHAHAHAH BOTH CLUTCHING MY CHEST AT THE ANGST BUT ALSO REVELING IN HOW DEEELICIOUS IT IS

“I’m not a good man, kitty. Hell, I’m not even a man, not really. I know I’ve hurt you, and I’ll repent every fuckin’ day for it, but if you let him touch you, I’ll gut him like a goddamn fish.” slow clapping at this whole exchange - mama being able to hold her ground and look him in the eye to cut him right back with her words while he literally has his claws sinking into her is E X A C T L Y why you’re such a good match for johnny, just give up no never stop fighting it is fucking hot as hell

"Your words weren’t working–they were working him up instead, like Emma when she watched the neighbor’s squirrels chase each other in the trees." fucking l o v e this line and also how from her outsider's perspective re: wolfish ways is also sorta from the inside thanks to emma

"Emma shouldn’t see Mum and Dad argue.” yes “arguing” indeed is that what they call it these days

"The audacity of men." a-fucking-men indeed

"You took a bite, just to appease them. You could still feel the small, stinging cuts his claws had scraped on your jaw." honestly feeling v empathetic for reader - when i am in emotional turmoil food just tastes like ash and i get an upset stomach afterwards even if im physically starving and eating something delicious

RAAAAAAAAAAA @ghostgorlsworld sending you so many smooches and chef's kisses for these developments MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH MWAH 😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌😘👌

guess wot my fellow hoes (fellhoes?) you’re getting a two-fer-one deal

obligatory alpha post link below:

because I have been deep in my werewolf/hybrid!CODmen fixation while I was drunk off reading moondrunk I decided to take a break...

....by reading johnny boy and i dont want to even look at that ao3 history stat that tells you how many times you've visited this story IT IS A LOT

my record for one of my comfort stories is 79 times and that was back in january last i looked, and it doesn't count the copypaste backup i have in my notes in case of airplane mode. don't look at me rn (cough obligatory @the-californicationist G&G reference/tag here)

ANYWAY MOVING ON 🐺🐺🐺

Reading: Moondrunk Monster by @ghostgorlsworld

so I went to watch the Love Death Robots episode referred to here and UNFFFF forgot how good that whole series was! wolflovers, go watch the Shape-Shifters episode from S1

once again i love a good fleshed-out reader backstory and this one is no exception

also as a certified graves simp the spittake I had to clean up at reading the phrase “Captain Graves”

also wolf-friendly pain medication? please i would happily read an appendix or endnotes/footnotes about the lore/worldbuilding here <3

"They weren’t used to humans being kind to them."🥺🥺🥺🥺

me to myself: tbh in many ways this is the world we are living in rn

that line about reader sleeping in the back of the med bay reminded me of this famous pic I saw way back when:

U.S. Army nurse Amy Stuart of the 5th MASH unit deployed in Saudi Arabia naps on a cot while hugging a teddy bear sent by her family during Operation Desert Storm (February 22, 1991)

getting a little too real but at my age, always hurts my heart and deeply disturbs me to see people younger than me who i consider children going off to/waging war COUGH ANYWAY SRY ESCAPING REALITY BACK TO FANFIC-

piney has such a succinct, tight way of writing to set the scene and story premise up so well - fucking salivating at ghost taking reader to their tent and him getting miffed at her sitting on soap’s bunk until she sits on his <3 LMAO I SEE YOU GHOSTY YOU LITTLE LOVESICK PUPPY YOU~

You glanced down, seeing the Scottish flag on the wall, the photos of a couple that looked exactly like Johnny. “Oh, sorry.” 

ok but also johnny WOULD have selfies of himself up on his own bunk

“ahm easy on the eyes, aint i LT”

“shut it”

You were American, so you didn’t have much taste for tea unless it was iced and sweet. 

me, a rabid tea swiller, raising my hand: UM NOT ALL AMERICANS HATE “TREE PISS” AS TED LASSO CALLS IT OKAY (okay but I love that show so much)

unfff wolf!ghost crowding reader into his own bed forcing her to sleep in it is just *so many chef’s kisses*

Gaz was healed within a day, coming to visit you with a Snickers bar as thanks. “I’ve been saving it for an occasion,” he said. “Wolves…well, we can’t really have chocolate without quite a bit of pain so I thought I would give it to you instead. As thanks.” 

ok this was the most adorable loredrop ever also literally heartbroken at the idea they can’t enjoy chocolate!!!!

The adjustments were freezing slabs of raw beef and plating it up still half-frozen. this reminded me of this frozen organic dog chow i kept getting insta ads for after dogsitting for a friend (if u can hear this siri/insta ad algorithms, FUCK YOU RESPECT MY PRIVACY) anyway in the ad the way the person plated it for their dog and the way their dog ate it with such gusto made me, a human, want to try the dog food lol

“Not everyone in America lives in Texas, Soap.”

👏thank👏 you👏facts👏

You smiled. “A small town in Oklahoma.”

“Bloody hell, that’s just Texas.”

👏also👏 facts👏 (don’t come for me texans this new yorker will (lovingly) fuck you up; god bless amurica)

He was wearing gloves, as always, but they were warm when he pressed them against the scars, fitting his fingers into the obvious claw marks.

The 141 was silent, watching Ghost with a mixture of surprise and horror. Price looked as if he were about to intervene, his knuckles white around his fork.

i fucking l o v e this entire scene

They were still strangers to you, but the base felt too quiet without them, and your skin felt bare without Ghost’s stare upon it.

i am shivering at how good this sentence is

ghost: has a record for being more wolf than human and acts of aggression against humans

also ghost: makes tea for reader regularly when she can’t sleep

also reader if you’re having a eat-three-powdered-donuts-in-one-sitting kind of day, you eat that whole box girl no one will fault you for it <3

Ghost hummed, then came the unmistakable sound of licking the sugar off his fingers. There had also been blood on his fingertips, from the night’s previous activities.

You don’t want to think about why that makes your belly clench. 

😏😏😏we love the feral ones

also unexpected gifts are some of the best ones

i felt the adrenaline of the humvee ambush like i was watching a live action movie - i could picture the entire scenes very easily in my head <3

and ghost taking off her boots >>>>>>>>

A man in a skull mask was asleep in the chair in front of you, his head tipped back against the wall, his legs relaxed and spread wide. 

ah yes, classic submission position~

The meek little nurse that had put a Colonel’s son in the ER. 

meek is one of my favorite words. i have heard an alternate definition for this as “meekness is great power under control” and it stuck in my head ever since; pls bow before medic reader my meek badass queen

Your heart raced. It was such a human instinct, to see a predator and want to either kiss it or run from it. 

ah yes imho the heart of why wolf/hybrid and enemies-to-lovers etc. etc. etc. tropes and fics are so popular~

Ghost seemed to like your attention, his ears perked at the top of his head. It was oddly endearing, and you normally considered yourself a cat person.

hehe big ghost wolf, smol floppy ears - i will not let this image leave my head

ok and the wolflore about the recessive genes!! eating it all up <3

also i know this is a ghostfic but soap blushing and mumbling bout his coffeeshop crush is soo <333333333

"you’re too young to feel old and miserable like me.” Soap smiled, a bit of cheer back in his eye. “You’re only three years older’n me, lass, I wouldn’t call ye old.”

literally me to anyone <30/even a year younger than me

"ALSO, yes i'm setting up for a future soap/cafe!reader fic"

okay the unholy screech that erupted from me at reading this author’s note i’m-

Graves sat in a simple metal chair, cool, calm and collected without a single blonde hair out of place. 

me fully knowing graves isnt even doing anything here, just sitting: go off, king

“I wasn’t going to let that boy take my soul, sir,” you said calmly. “Not for something as worthless as a career.”

well said indeed <3

You wondered if he would come visit you, if you asked. If he would sit in your dusty, frilly living room and drink from your pumpkin shaped mugs.

PUMPKIN-SHAPED MUGS <3 <3 <3

Price looked up from a paperback, a twitch in his brow. He preferred to keep out of conflicts between the pack, only interfering when blood was spilled. 

oh please my headcanon for price is that he inhales gossip like oxygen and keeps it filed and sorted alphabetically and chronologically in his mind palace to pull up as needed

They were on active duty, for Christ’s sake, it wasn’t like he could bend her over against one of those cots and stake his claim,  COUGHOMGWHYTHEEVERLOVINGFUCKNOTCOUGH no matter how badly he wanted to.  

The 141 hunted at night, so during the day Gaz and Soap would occasionally bring you a muffin for breakfast or a stray cup of coffee. Even Price, the fatherly man he was, brought you one of his extra novels to read while you were awake during the night shift, one of those cheesy detective thrillers that helped you get through the night without passing out on a patient.

who doesn’t love familial!141 🥰🥰

it’s nice to remind yourself that you’re still a simple woman that appreciates a nice mani-pedi and a good hair day.

this is so real - taking care of yourelf/reminding urself to feel human is so important <3

You had the rank and the experience, so of course, you got the lion’s share of reports. ahem this a small almost throwaway line but much appreciated - LEADERSHIP IS FOR SERVICE. TO SHOULDER THE BURDEN FOR THOSE UNDER YOU, AND LIFT THEM UP. TAKE THE HITS SO THEY DON’T HAVE TO - ONES THEY AREN’T EVEN AWARE OF IF YOU’RE GOOD AT IT. anyway stepping down once again from my soapbox-

ah reader i can think of many MANY MANY spicy ways to motivate ghosty to do his patriotic duty~

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

AND ALSO Reading: Johnny Boy by @ghostgorlsworld

first off being thrown into the deep end of the incredible lorebuilding had me ready to swim and dive deep without even taking a breath of reality because the story!!!! the worldbuilding!!!! absolutely immaculate

a recurring daydream/brainrot scenario ive gone back to time and again with my blorbos through the years is getting knocked up with their spawn and having to escape and go on the run and hide the child then have an implausibly wild reunion, often with some physically impossible makeup sex and then birth my own private sports team's worth of children to build our world empire (drama, romance, intrigue, adventure - i would buy out opening night tickets to the movieplots my brain spits out, anyway ty for coming to my BedTedTalk) anyway this has such a unique niche in the CODfics ive read with the almost enemies-to-lovers-back-to-enemies flavoring with brother’s best friend trope in play

on that note, shaking tom’s hand vigorously for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life, then backhanding him with my other hand - also for sneaking johnny back into reader’s life

cute-ass mactavish sire emma needs to eat raw meat to survive? her supernatural senses make her an old soul in a child’s body? no further comments, absolute perfection. i love the explorations of “hey scenting/being a hybrid, ESPECIALLY growing up as one, ain’t all its cracked up to be and is not just all 100% sexy times and funsies” and her picking up on mom being sad all the time a certain someone is near and declaring “if mommy doesn’t like him, I don’t either” just UGGHHHH i just want to give her a hug and tell her it will all work out, shes is in good hands (including but not limited to her own!) also tear the throat out of anyone who would dare steal her childhood (fistbumping my fellow immigrant first gen firstborns&eldest daughters who had to grow up too fast/take care of adults)

also one of the reasons i love this fic is the very fierce and protective love reader has for her emma and their really beautiful bond <3 fanfic can be so healing and tender in very unexpected ways and their relationship slipped past all my walls and armor and just stuck me right in the feels <3

the conversation about grandpa jack haunting them and turning the book pages for him was so sweet i think my molars rotted away on the spot, 🥺🥺🥺 piney i will be billing you for my dental visit expenses; be prepared to pay cos ive always wanted to secretly try out grillz as a new yorker girlie 

also random brainrot but 1000% positive grandpa jack was a fucking hottie in his glory days (underground fighting rings? picturing tyler durden rn)

also please give mama reader a fucking medal, cutting up raw meats and organs first thing in the morning (EVERY morning) is a feat indeed

also johnny/reader’s first meeting at the funeral home is absolutely exquisite, the perfect amount of drama and angst!!! raaaaaa biting my pillow and tearing it to pieces

- reader’s physical reaction to the “he’s behind me, isn’t he” revelation

- johnny’s physical glow-up described through reader’s eyes is just UNFFFF *chef’s kiss*

- reader going straight into panic/mama bear mode re: emma

- “it could have been longer, john” HOLY FUCKING SHIT MY ICE COLD QUEEN PLEASE I CANNOT KNEEL BEFORE YOU FASTER OR I’LL BREAK MY KNEECAPS

- “your voice so cold it stung your tongue as you spoke. The ache in your chest was overtaken by rage, pure and hot. “Excuse me.” i am f e r a l for this line, this is PERFECTION i can taste the emotions here like viscerally on my tongue 

- honestly kudos to reader for not punching tom’s lights out when she’s running to get emma from him

“I don’t care.” You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. You wanted to dig your nails into his skin and hurt him like he hurt you. “We don’t need you, we never needed you. I loved you, and you left for years . Deal with the consequences.”

Johnny Mctavish, a wolf, a soldier, flinched from you. 

It wasn’t the victory you thought it would be.

AAAAAAAA YES THIS IS ME AS I READ THIS REVELING IN THE ANGST

also the last line of ch1 being “Forget him. John always runs.” and summary of Ch2 being “Johnny comes home.” ????? gonna run out of my lipstick giving chef’s kisses to piney here

the way piney fleshes out reader and her story and history with johnny just makes me want to give her a ginormous hug, also like an all-expenses paid weeklong vacation to the maldives or something for the absolute bullshit she’s endured (might have to join you on this though dear reader my salary/responsibilities working in [redacted] means i also need an all-expense paid weeklong vacation to the maldives)

also I FUCKING SUSPECTED JOHNNY WAS SECRETLY TRYING TO SCENT READER WHEN HE SNUCK UP ON HER TO GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SURPRISE HER BY PUTTING HIS MITTS ON HER SHOULDER; i love that emma picked up on this through her nose

“Because you still smell like me, kitty.” brain going brrrr being overloaded with conspiracy theories about teh many layers what this may mean

wolves were different from normal men. Territorial. 

me, reading about fictional territorial wolfmen on tumblr: 🥰🥰🥰

me, reading about IRL men being ‘territorial’: 🤢🤢🤢

“Grandpa was like me,” she said, loyal as always. 

i’ll be totally honest the character i fell head over heels with in this story was not johnny taking first place no - EMMA MACTAVISH MY HEART <3 i hope my future children will be brave, kind, wise, funny and compassionate like you <3

It seemed that the only person suffering in this situation was you.

this line + the short almost throwaway line of reader “laughing wetly” just before it just ughhh my heartache! shoutout to all the hardworking parents/caregivers simply Trying Their Best And Getting No Recognition™️ (madstronaut sees you and applauds you, great is your reward in heaven and or the pits of tumblrhell, dealer’s choice)

“It wasn’t your decision to make, Tom,” you said, your voice reaching that pitch that made you feel like your mother. god this got too real, when i hear myself sound like my mother sometimes (esp. when im mad) i literally narrow my eyes at my own reflection and have to check myself before i wreck myself iykyk

also freaking love the lore about hybrids/wolves being discriminated against in society and johnny’s own experience and pitfalls navigating the world! lorebuilding>>>>>>>>>>>>

You were dressed more appropriately this time, a Black Sabbath tee and sweats, your work clothes of pencil skirts, trousers, and wool sweaters currently drying on the laundry lines in the backyard. 

ok reader i see you my little rocker <3 you would love saint vitus bar in brooklyn; make tom or johnny watch emma so we can headbang to our heart’s content and you can enjoy a well-deserved night out <3 (on that note #REOPENVITUSYOUCOWARDS)

Emma two-handed it, just like you tell her to. It seemed she was trying to be on her best behavior, the little traitor.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH EMMA YOU LITTLE DEVIOUS ADORABLE SHIT (said goodnaturedly) I LOVE THIS LINE SO MUCH

Something in your chest squeezed when Johnny tucked the blanket around Emma’s skinny arms, more gentle than you had ever seen him.

ok though real talk men being gentle and tender, esp. around kiddos - hi, yes please sirs you can indeed help me mop my panties off the floor

Susan didn’t know what to do with a little boy that chewed on the furniture and got sick when she didn’t let him eat raw meat. 

i physically need to see fanart of young wolf!soap gnawing on an armchair leg

This was why you liked Charlie, he was so, so reasonable. 

hello charlie or as i like to call you “walking beige flag” the way i would roast him if i was bffs with reader..

also emma drawing that wolf catcher memory and waiting until soap was there to show it to both him and reader - AAGGGGH I freaking loved this and how clever this is i can do an entire pepe silvia conspiracy board meme breakdown of why and how much i loved this whole interaction

emma knowing it is a tough memory for her mama but choosing to draw and show it specifically to johnny - and waiting til they are all in each other’s presences (presence? idk)

i can see reader fighting (a losing battle lets be honest this is johnny fucking mactavish) tooth and nail so far to maintain the armor of assumptions and explanations she’s told herself to deal with the pain of being in love then (from her pov) rejected and how this has bled into how she paints johnny to emma despite her best efforts 

and yet as they say sometimes the body says and knows what the mind/heart cannot say yet and 1000% sure that little miss wolf emma mactavish loves her mom but is also sure that momma isn’t sure on where she stands with johnny

also ALSO the fact that jack raised both johnny and emma HAS TO MEAN SOMETHING RIGHT - even though they’ve just met i love the little tidbits of the special wolf-to-wolf and father/daughter connection they have

AND AND AND so my grand theory here is that i believe emma made and showed this drawing to johnny because from what she knows - she perceives mama reader to despise johnny on the surface, yet still wants him - but based on what she’s told her about johnny, thinks johnny may not want mama - and drew this to prove mama is still worthy and a great protector - “You haven’t got any teeth or claws but it didn’t matter.” - and “showing her off” to johnny COUGH ANYWAY THAT’S WHERE I’LL END MY THESIS TYVM

also i love the bits sprinkled around the fic about johnny’s eyes sparkling eerie/brighter when he gets worked up

Perhaps all the war and killing really was good for his temperament.

HAHAHAHA OKAY SHIT, MAMA, WHO IS THE DELULU ONE NOW????????? (tbh it’s me, hi im the probl-)

johnny trying to find excuses to spend his PMC savings & money on reader + emma - IRL me and my bills & student loans crying laughing hysterically at reader turning this down

“Shut up!” Tommy said, frowning at you from the couch. “Fuck, lovie, he’s a friend from work.”

The man in the mask raised a hand in an awkward wave.

HAHAHAHHA SIMON!!! his entrance totally threw me off but ofc tom’s SHUT UP (true sibling energy right here, no greeting, just yells) and simon’s lil wave just UGGGGGGGHHHH such a nice palate cleanser from the intense but delicious angst - also tipping my hat at the subtle way to introduce Bi!Tommy with the “he’s not company he’s a guest” line 😏

You felt Simon’s eyes on you, judging, appraising. You were sure Johnny probably didn’t have the nicest things to say about you–most likely that you were an irritating little girl that followed him around for twenty years then proceeded to get pregnant and raise the child without him knowing,

would love to know what and how TF141 thinks of mama reader from how johnny has described her…despite her own misgivings <3

Johnny was an unsuspecting kind of violent, always smiling and laughing until he wasn’t, until it was serious.

Simon was different. He felt older. 

aaaaaa this is SUCH a good characterisation of them both

You had missed him like a lost limb-

ooh i absolutely love this phrase! I have one person in my life i went through a friend breakup with (iykyk - these are more painful than romantic breakups imho) and we mended things and discovered afterwards we both referred to our break in our friendship as ‘having lost a limb’ to other folks (!) sometimes birds of a feather really do flock together

 “It’s just…we’re adults, and adults have tricky feelings. preach mama 🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️🙋‍♀️

but also pls mama i know you have a kiddo but putting on nail polish right before a date? nooooooooooooooooo though chanel polishes ARE superior cos of that fat brush so all is forgiven <3

also obligatory FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCK to charlie for forgetting the date, do you EVEN KNOW THE SUFFERING WE PUT OURSELVES THROUGH TO GET READY FOR A DATE? TO GET READY TO FACE THE WORLD OUTSIDE OUR DOOR, PERIODT?

IF SOMEONE DID THIS TO ONE OF MY GIRLIES I WILL BE READY TO FUCKING SHOW SOMEONE’S BITCH ASS THAT YOU DO NOT NEED TEETH AND CLAWS INDEED TO GET RIGHT FUCKED UP

anyway climbing down from my soapbox on behalf of women everywhere, back to the fic

as a tiny tiny redeemable bit - charlie having weekly dinners with his gran is a huge green flag trait

He stilled, looking at you. His hand came up, pinching your chin like he used to. “You havnae called me Johnny in a very long time.” The rawness of his voice broke you down into someone you used to be, someone that loved him.

me, extremely pleased, reading this: ah yes, in vino veritas~

The alcohol had dampened the anger in your chest, you felt…open. Open to talking about it. Bleeding the poison from the wound.

<3 <3 <3 this line <3 <3 <3

irl sidenote: u can also do this without alcohol my friends <3 trusted friends, therapy, long retreats into nature, safe places, safe people all very effective and cutting right to the heart in the gentlest ways possible, painful but highly recommend over the alternative (and lesser) options of keeping the poison inside <3 

Within a blink, Johnny was kneeling before you, his hands on your knees as his eyes bored into yours. You felt a chill, a whisper of fight or flight pricking your neck at his predatory stare.

ahem hello this is it

this is what does it for me

kneelng for your prey <3

also i love that their first real physical intimate contact after reuniting, beyond that hug after the wolf catcher story, is johnny LICKING reader’s tears off her face

“All I had was a picture and letters, but I could get off just from you writing that you missed me, just from your smell lingering on the fucking paper.” whats that phrase? marines make do? 🥰🥰🥰

me, reading about lacy underwear getting shredded: mmmmf yes sexxxxxyyyy

also me: ok i just know that was expensive, cringing inside at having to replace it

also fics that have men talking to ur pussy as they take care of it >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I CANNOT WAIT FOR READER TO WAKE UP AND SCREAM AT HERSELF 

[theship-thewalrus]

One more, one more ending for the Aegon fic.

Rhaenyra and reader get into an argument, and the stress of it all causes the reader to miscarry. Nobody else can get close to her, so Aegon has to help her deliver a stillborn.

Hi anon! I love everyone's endings ideas! You all seem to hate happy endings lmao >:) Don't worry I hate them too. This takes a couple days after the dinner. Hope you all enjoy!

aegon ii targaryen x targaryen! female! reader

pretty much the ask

word count: 1029 words reading time: about 6 minutes warnings: miscarriage, blood

part 1 || part 2 || ending 1 || ending 2 || ending 4 || headcanon 1 || headcanon 2

For a moment you thought this conversation with your mother would allow the pair of you to reconnect. To finally be some sort of family again but as yout voice raised to match your mother's, you realised that perhaps it was all behind you now. The times you ran to her when you were younger when you were scared or upset, how she would bundle you up in her loving embrace. Was it all nothing to her? Did she simply do it out of obligation? To show she could be a good mother?

"You betray you were family! And for what? Love? Aegon does not love you! Stop being so foolish!" Rhaenyra's voice bounced off the wall, and the rage on her face was unmistakable. Her once pale face flooded with blood. Tears well up in your eyes, no matter how much you try to push them back. Yet they fall down your cheeks, wetting your face and the front of your dress.

"Do not speak about him in such a way! He is kind! He is trying his best and you simply refuse to see that!" Despite wanting to reconnect with your mother, to have her take you into her loving embrace. You could not allow such an insult about your husband, the man you loved, to go unquestioned. Pushing makes you sad you try to draw on the rage you feel, matching your mother's energy. The older woman laughs in your face, thinking you are joking. There was no way you would choose Aegon over her. She was your mother.

"I should've never left you here! What have they done to my sweet girl? He feels you with his child and now you are adrift. Come home with me, return to your real family." Her voice lowers, trying to coax you to her side. To make you believe you were misled, that she can set you right and heal you. But you were not misled or broken, something that needed help. As Rhaenyra moved forward you took a harsh step back as though she burned you. The look on her face dropped, her arms resting at her side once more. Her face hardened "Fine, I see where your loyalty lies. You turn your back on your family for what?" Her words were filled with venom, as her eyes held nothing but disdain for you. Striding past you you can feel the anger and disgust roll off her in waves. It broke your heart, cutting you deeper than any sword.

The hallway felt ice cold without your mother's fire to warm it. Your tears flowed from your eyes with no restraint anymore, making your way to your chambers for some privacy. Upon pushing open the door of your chambers you saw the back of your husband. The person your mother was just shamelessly insulting right to your face, thinking that you would agree with her. He did not seem to notice you as he lounged on the plush couch, indulging himself in some food left by the maids. It made a watery smile appear on your face to see him, the stress from the argument with your mother leaving you for a moment.

"Darling?" His voice was soft as he looked over at you from his position on the couch. There was a small smile on his face until he took notice of your state, the tear streaks on your cheeks, your red-rimmed eyes, and the drops of blood splashing the ground under you. Jumping up from the couch the man had not moved so fast before, grabbing you firmly yet softly by the biceps. The liquid that you felt between your legs only truly registered to you when Aegon mentioned it. your mind to catch up in the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts about your mother.

The blood that began to flow from you only increased as the second passed. To much blood for it to be normal, something was incredibly wrong. "Aegon?" Your voice was full of fear as your knees buckled under you, the only thing keeping you from collapsing into the pool of blood was the hands Aegon had on you. The man did not know what to do, who to get, or how to help you. All he could do is watch. moving you to the bed he tried to calm your racing heart.

"No, no, no, Aegon, Aegon please." Your voice chanted as your head rested against the pilled your hands clawing at him. You did not want to be alone, to be left in this room. A fresh set of tears stream down your face as your eyes wander to the blood that now stained the white sheets. "I-I need to get the maester. You need help." His voice was weak, despite needing to be strong for you he couldn't. He was just as scared as you, worried for your health and the babies.

"No! No, please Aegon! Aegon stay pleas-" A moan of pain interrupts you as your grip on him tightens. You could feel your heart breaking, knowing what this meant. Your child was not well, something was wrong and you feared your child has not made it. Your heart breaks for the life you are never able to know. The child you will have hold in your arms, to hear them giggle. The perfect mixture of Aegon and yourself will never be greeted in the world. You will not hear their cr as they leave your body.

Aegon stayed with you, he could not leave you like this. Not as he saw the utter terror in his eyes, the fear in your grips. "I'll stay, I'll stay with you, my love." Pushing back the hair that stuck to your forehead he kissed you softly. Wanting to provide a little bit of comfort to you in any form he could. Another wave of pain made you twist in the bed, your body not being able to stand such utter pain.

The baby was coming, but instead of the child crying and announcing its arrival to the world. You would be wailing and mourning the life that was never lived.