#when you see that glare think of it as my despair {threads}

[julemmaes]

Always Been You

Nesta Archeron x Cassian, ~2.5k words

a/n: I saw a reel of a baby and this was born, it's trash but I love them, so enjoy!

"Sweetheart, do you know where my sweater is?! The black one?"

Cassian was rummaging through his wardrobe in desperate need of something heavy to wear in the frigid winter Velaris was hitting them with.

Nesta's robotic voice came from the speaker of his phone, hidden somewhere between his bed sheets. "Uh, might be here, actually."

Here, as in her place. On the other side of the city. More than half an hour from his flat.

He groaned, bending his head forward and halting his hunt.

"Care to tell me why yet another piece of clothing of mine is at yours?"

Nesta chuckled, rejoicing in his despair. He glared at the phone, thankful that his best friend couldn't see him and level him with an equally nasty look.

Her words came muffled this time, more distant, and Cassian knew he'd put him on speaker.

"Not my fault this time. You used it to wrap Little Miss Sunshine up," he couldn't help the smile at the nickname he used to call her daughter. "You claimed she was gonna be too cold on the oh so long way from your car to the door."

"Sounds like something I would do," he muttered to himself, a dopey grin on his lips still. He loved that little nug of happiness that was Nesta's daughter. He loved her as if she were his own.

He shook his head, focusing on the date ahead, and put on another sweater, of a light brown colour he despised, and shook out his duvet, fishing for the phone.

Turning off the speaker, he put it to his ear, "You think I could pass by after the pub?"

Nesta only hummed, seeming distracted.

A few beat of silence, "What is the girl's name again?"

Cassian clenched his jaw, pondering whether he should lie or not, and knowing full well that if he gave Nesta too much information she would stalk the poor lady till sunrise.

"Her name is Anne," he lied.

"Liar," she scoffed. Then she grunted, "Whatever, keep your secrets. But don't come crying to me when you'll find out she has a secret dark past as a pig slaughterer."

Cassian laughed, "You're so dramatic."

"And you love it." She couldn't even begin to understand just how true those words were. "Now leave me alone before you're late to the party."

Nesta didn't give him the time to say goodbye that she'd hung up.

***

Slamming the door and closing himself shut in his precious, silent car, Cassian finally got to open his texts app and check what Nesta had sent him mere minutes before.

The date hadn't gone terribly, but Lidia was not his type. And he wasn't hers.

That had been starkly clear after the first fifteen minutes they'd spent talking about a new friend of hers, a certain Ruhn that she'd been crushing on for a while now.

He was her type. He and him only.

She had apologised, and Cassian had laughed, confessing that he had been forced into this date by his brothers, who were so over seeing him brooding because he was single and they were married and with kids.

Their words, not his.

Because in reality, Cassian was happy.

He was happy waiting for his friend to notice he was there for her, when she decided she was gonna have him.

He was happy splitting his time between his own apartment and Nesta's, whenever Logan requested his presence. Which nowadays bordered on always.

Exactly why he wasn't surprised when, opening his thread with Nesta, he found a video of the little girl, now almost one year and a half old.

A weak smile blossomed on his face as he clicked on it.

Nesta was lying on her side, her right arm under Little Lo's head and the baby was looking up at the ceiling, probably staring at the bioluminescent stars he had glued there.

He didn't press play immediately, because the picture of his best friend's half face was too distracting.

Nesta wasn't even fully in the frame, but Cassian wasn't seeing anything else. Her lips were tugged on a corner, a half smile there as she cuddled with her daughter. Her nose glimmered with moisturizing cream, something he knew she put on every night before bed. Her eyes were hidden, out of the picture.

He could have killed, if it meant the promise of tracing his finger down the nape of her perfect nose, to her lips and chin. Of caressing her jaw, holding her face in his hands.

He would have killed to taste those lips, even once.

Taking a deep breath and pretending he wasn't unsettled by the mere thought of touching Nesta, he pressed play and his heart clenched in his chest.

"Da-da, dada, da-da-da-da," Logan was simply calling out for him, basically whispering in the quiet room, brushing her fingers on her lips. "Dadadadada, dada."

His eyes stung lightly and his pinched the tip of his nose, reigning in his emotions.

The little girl turned to the phone once she noticed her mom was recording her and the smile she gave him ended him. Lo yawned in the most cute and tiny way on video and Cassian's stomach tightened to the point of pain.

He loved her.

She smacked the phone from Nesta's hand, calling for her dada once again and everything went black for a few seconds.

The moment colours and pictures came back up, it was Nesta's face smiling at him, now sitting with a writhing Lo saying his name over and over again.

Nesta tilted her head to the side, avoiding being smacked in the face by the baby, "I need you to come here asap. This little beast won't go to bed unless she hears her favourite uncle's lullaby."

Uncle.

The video ended with an otherworldly screech from Logan and Cassian turned off the screen, throwing the phone on the seat, a weird kind of sorrow pulling at his heart.

Uncle.

Nesta had this bad habit of calling him uncle whenever Logan insisted on calling him dada, or dad, or any other way that pointed to the girl thinking he was her father.

And he couldn't be mad. Fuck, he couldn't do shit about it if not accepting the fact that that was the truth.

Logan wasn't his daughter and the only reason they had stopped trying to make her call him anything but dada was because of the meltdowns she had whenever they did.

She was definitely too little still to understand what they were saying, but she rejected the idea anyway. It was like trying to take her favourite toy away.

Putting the car in reverse, he drove out of the parking spot and on the road, hoping Lo would still be awake once he got to their house.

He tried to keep his thoughts at bay as much as he could, failing miserably.

Cassian wanted in on their life. Cassian wanted to be part of it, every morning he wanted to wake up next to them and love them the way they deserved all day long and at night he wanted to hold them tightly to him and fall asleep again. And do it all over again the next day.

For the rest of his life.

He didn't have a single dream or goal that topped this one.

And he was so tired to pretend anything else was more important to him.

***

He cupped the chubby rosy cheek with his palm, passing his thumb over her eyebrow over and over again, watching the way her tiny, tiny lips moved in her sleep, as if she was latching. Logan's little body twitched in his arms, and Cassian repositioned, hoping not to disturb her too much.

Her minuscule hand clutched his shirt and she rubbed her face in the niche of his elbow.

He lowered just enough to place a kiss on her forehead and the small sigh she released did something to him.

He was so focused on memorizing every little detail on her baby face—knowing perfectly well how fast she was growing—that he hadn't noticed Nesta standing just outside the nursery door.

"I'm happy she has you," she whispered.

Cassian didn't look up from Logan, too afraid of his own feelings, which were riding rampant in his mind tonight.

"I'm glad she..." Nesta paused, drew a deep breath and stepped inside. She sat next to him on the fluffy couch and pulled her legs up to her chest.

He hoped she didn't feel him tense when she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder as she put her hand on Logan's belly.

"I'm glad she can count on somebody else. That is not me."

Cassian paused his face massage, sliding his hand under Logan's head and moving so her neck wasn't straining. He fixed his gaze on the floor, not daring moving a muscle.

"Sometimes I think I'm fucking everything up by not actively looking for someone that would step up as her dad, but–"

Nesta moved again, pressing closer to him, moving her hand from Lo to his arm. He knew that if he looked at her, even if he just turned her way, he would kiss her.

When she spoke again, her voice was trembling slightly and Cassian's heart was threatening beating out of his chest.

"What I'm trying to say is, thank you. For being here for her."

He stayed silent, not knowing what to say. He just resumed tracing lines on Lo's cheekbones, something that never failed to soothe her before bed and that knocked her out almost immediately.

It was a long time before he found the courage to talk.

"Nesta, I–"

Or maybe not.

What if he fucked everything up?

What if he was reading her wrong, and all of this was just in his head?

"Yes, Cassian?" She whispered.

He took a shaking breath, closing his eyes, and said, "I don't wanna be her uncle."

The words were out now. And he couldn't seem to be able to stop them.

"And I don't want you to text me during a date that you can't get her to sleep because she needs me to sing to her. I don't wanna have to drive all the way down here every other day because you might need something from me. And it's frustrating when I'm at home and I wanna eat something, just to remember that I bought it for your place and not mine. And don't even get me started on my clothes. Half of my wardrobe is in this house, as far as I know."

Nesta retracted from him so fast that his head whipped her way. He missed her warmth on the spot.

She was looking at him like she'd hit her. Her brow was furrowed and her eyes were shiny, watering with unshed tears.

His throat closed, "Nes, what–"

"I'm sorry we're such a fucking problem to you," she hissed, doing a piss poor job at hiding the hurt.

Cassian's eyes widened with horror, "Problem? What are you talking about?"

She didn't give any sign she'd heard him, "If it's such a pain in your ass driving here just to make her happy, then don't. I annoy you with my texts, I'll stop texting, no big deal." She was heaving now, emotion and exhaustion from a long day taking over. "And you can get your food and your clothes and get the fuck out of here and never come back for all I care. But you could've told me sooner that we were such a bother to you, I'd have kept her from getting so attached."

Cassian was moving before he knew what he was doing.

One second he was on one side of the couch, looking baffled and confused for all the shit that she was spitting at him, the next he was on her, Logan's body close to his chest as he lunged for Nesta's lips.

He moved his hand to her hair, sliding his fingers to the back of her neck, pushing her towards him. He closed his eyes, savouring the plush touch of her mouth on his for the first time.

Taking in everything she was giving him.

Nesta didn't react immediately, but as soon as she realized what was happening she melted into the kiss, backing away slightly before going back for more.

Her hands went to his face, cradling his neck and bringing him impossibly closer to her, as much as she could without hurting her daughter, and Cassian soared.

They both lost track of time before they stopped, never going far. Nesta pushed her forehead against his, brushing her nose sweetly to his.

"Explain," she breathed out.

He chuckled, stunned, "I want her to call me dad, dada, daddy, whatever she prefers. I wanna be there for her, I'm happy to be there for her." He started, leaving a kiss on her lips.

Nesta turned her head sideways, keeping the contact with him, "Focus."

"I hate driving up here every day because I wish I didn't have to go back to my house. It's just another reminder that I'm a guest, someone that is temporarily here.

"I forget I bought food and brought it here because I eat basically all of my meals with you girls, and I want the entirety of my wardrobe to be in this home. I hate going back there. It's lonely. And I want to be here. All the time.

"I want this to be my permanent home. I want you to be my permanent home."

Nesta was keeping her eyes closed, but a tear was running down her cheek. He swiped it away with a thumb, and then passed his fingertip to her lips.

"Cassian," she said.

He kissed her again, a slow, full-of-love peck on her lips.

He inhaled, "I love you, Nesta, and there's literally no other place I'd rather be, than here with you and Logan."

She opened her eyes then and let him in, at last. She let him see the love there, the wanting and longing that had been eating at them both for years.

But they were done running.

"It's always been you," she said, running a soft hand down his cheek.

Cassian nodded, nuzzling her palm, "It's always been you."

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[vivifriend]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @thequeenofthewinter, thank you. 💕 Tagging @rainpebble3, @bostoniangirl21, and whoever is reading this right now.

Have a few projects on-going. This particular one is a modern-ish Skyrim AU. (a fluffy Saturalia fic featuring my OC Karic, and Brynjolf).

>>>>>

Moving rapidly toward the back door when he heard another scuff, he tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the sound, still startling when someone rapped on the door. Good thing I am home. If someone's knocking they got fouled up by the storm. Still, the brief worry of vampires taking advantage of the storm to hunt flashed through his mind so he opened the door carefully.

A tall man stood on his back steps, wrapped in snow-crusted clothes, the howling wind teasing at auburn hair, his scent identifying him as the missing thief.

Swiftly, Karic chivied him inside, bracing to push the door closed, turning completely.

"Sorry to drop in like this, lad. Getting a bit hard to see but thought I saw your light on."

"Brynjolf," he said, pushing up to snag the edge of his brown scarf, helping him tug it off. "What were you doing out in this?"

"Ah, promised Copper and Kott I'd make it to Copper's place for the Holiday. Figured I'd have another hour or so before the storm got too bad. Should've remembered that Tundra blizzards aren't like what you find elsewhere."

He shook his head, helping him out of his jacket, grabbing one of his hands when they got the glove off. "You'd think a thief would remember to wear thicker gloves," he complained, pressing his hands together, wrapping his around them.

"They'll thaw," Brynjolf responded, his scent growing heavy with a thread of embarrassment, and a touch of carnal interest that had Karic's cheeks flushing slightly.

"You need to treat yourself with more care," he scolded, pulsing a small healing spell through, helping him thaw out a touch quicker, glaring up at him when he heard a small rumble. "And when is the last time you ate something?"

"Ah, it's not that bad, lad. Figured I'd eat at Copper's. Vilkas might despair of my vocation but that's not stopped him from welcoming me to his table, and he's a damn good cook."

"It's bad enough," he grumbled, wolf agitating with his agreement. "But you should be thawed enough to take your boots off. Come into the kitchen when you're done and we'll figure out a meal. I was just about to start some sourdough bread but I can make something else while I do that."

"Explains the apron," he responded. "Looks good on you."

[healer-rosier]

aselwyn​:

At the minute she noticed Rosier is there, she kind of froze. Artemisia kind of knew who is on the Dark Lord’s side and he was definitely one of them. She couldn’t bare with them and she did have her own suspicions about her brother as well.

He looked offended by her assuming he was waitressing. That kind of make her laugh, so she allowed herself a little smile. Art knew it is not nice but she still couldn’t help it.

“Oh, sorry, I was obviously wrong. No, coffee will do just fine.”

.

It was too early. A fact that had only been made worse by the - he honestly couldn’t tell if it had been an honest mistake or a joke and that was what concerned him the most with the interaction. Evan knew better than to dwell on it though so he handed the change over to the waitress.

“I haven’t had caffeine so I apologize if I seem a little standoffish,” His words sounded far too diplomatic for his liking but he wasn’t about to switch his tone. Not when diplomacy was the one trait he needed to work on despite knowing he had no chance in the sham election the Dark Lord was hosting.

“Are you having a good day so far?”

[hic-sunt-daemones]

Ties That Bind

So, let’s talk Black Butler II. I know it’s the odd one out—non-canon, polarizing, and often overlooked—but I can’t help but love it. There’s something about its dark themes, Alois’ desperate search for love amidst his trauma, and the intricate way it ties everything together that sticks with me. And Claude Faustus? Twisted, detached, and fascinating in all the best (and worst) ways.

This brings me to my OC, Chasan—a mute angel drawn into the tangled web of this story. I don’t know exactly where this fanfiction will take me yet, but sometimes you just need to let the words out and see where they land.

I’ll be exploring this mix of despair, desire, and detachment in a way that feels right for me, so expect snippets, musings, and maybe more as the story unfolds. Here’s to diving headfirst into this beautifully dark world. Let’s see what comes of it.

Read "Intro: The Spider In The Morning" below (956 words)

Intro: The Spider In The Morning

The first rays of dawn barely pierced the heavy drapery of Trancy Manor, their golden light suffocated by the shadows that clung stubbornly to every corner. The air was thick with a sense of unrest, a quiet tension that had become as much a fixture of the manor as the spiderweb filigree adorning its furnishings.

Claude Faustus ascended the grand staircase with measured steps, a silver tray balanced effortlessly in one hand. The other adjusted his glasses, the lenses gleaming faintly. On the tray sat a porcelain teapot, a single cup, and a dish of cream, all arranged with the same precision that governed every action the demon butler performed. Yet beneath his immaculate façade, irritation festered—a persistent thorn embedded in his pride.

The master of this house had become insufferable. Alois Trancy’s erratic nature had grown even more unhinged since Claude’s failed attempt to sever their contract. It was a bond that should have dissolved when Alois’s fixation on Ciel Phantomhive derailed their shared purpose. But the boy’s desperate wish, driven by a need to bind Claude to him, persisted. That wish kept the threads of their twisted relationship intact, much to Claude’s chagrin.

When he reached the door to Alois’s chambers, Claude paused. He could hear the restless rustle of sheets, a sharp inhale, and a muffled groan of pain. No doubt the wound Alois had sustained in his duel with Phantomhive still troubled him. Yet the boy’s agony evoked no sympathy from Claude—only a cold satisfaction that he masked with perfection.

With a flick of his wrist, the door opened, and Claude stepped inside.

Alois lay sprawled on the bed, his frail form barely filling the vast expanse of silk sheets. His pale skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, and his blonde hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. The moment his sapphire eyes met Claude’s yellowish ones, they burned with a fiery mixture of anger and desperation.

“You’re late!” Alois’s voice cracked, hushed and petulant, though he knew Claude’s punctuality was unerring.

Claude closed the door behind him with the quiet finality of a tomb. “Good morning, Your Highness.” His voice, smooth as polished silver, betrayed none of the disdain curling in his chest.

He approached the bedside table, setting the tray down with a delicate clink. Without waiting for acknowledgment, Claude poured tea into the waiting cup, steam curling like ghostly tendrils. He turned and offered it to Alois, who sat up with a pained grimace.

Alois snatched the cup, glaring at Claude over its rim. “Don’t act like everything’s normal, Claude. I know you hate being here.”

Claude’s piercing gaze betrayed no emotion as he adjusted his glasses. “Your tea is prepared to your exact specifications, Master. A blend of Darjeeling and Assam.”

“Oh, shut up!” Alois slammed the cup down, tea sloshing over the delicate rim. “Do you think I don’t know? You want to run off to that damn Phantomhive brat, don’t you? Still thinking about his bloody soul, aren’t you?”

“Your imagination is as vivid as ever, Master” Claude said, his tone impeccably neutral.

Alois flung back the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his nightshirt slipping off one shoulder. He winced, clutching his side where the bandages peeked through the silk. His voice dropped, trembling with suppressed emotion. “You tried to kill me, Claude.”

“And yet Your Highness remains here, alive and well,” Claude replied, his words carefully measured and refusing to let his disdain slip through it.

Alois laughed bitterly, the sound raw and uneven. “Alive, but only because you couldn’t finish the job. Admit it—you’re stuck with me, bound like a spider in its own web.”

Claude turned toward the window, ignoring the cutting twist in his gut as he pulled the curtains open. Sunlight poured into the room, harsh and revealing. Alois shielded his eyes with a dramatic groan, but Claude’s attention was elsewhere. His sight swept over the grounds beyond, pausing briefly at the edge of the forest where shadows clung unnaturally to the trees.

“What’s on the agenda today?” Alois’s tone shifted abruptly, feigned nonchalance poorly masking his need for engagement. “There is nothing scheduled for today, Master.”

Alois perked up, his features gleaming with sudden, manic energy. “Nothing? A whole damn day to myself? Oh, the possibilities!” He rose unsteadily, pacing toward the window with a frenetic bounce in his step. “Maybe I’ll hunt something. Or set something on fire. What do you think, Claude? What would entertain me?”

Claude didn’t answer immediately. His sight remained fixed on the treeline, where he thought—just for an instant—he’d seen a figure. A flicker of movement, a glint of something silvery. But the shadows held their secrets, and the presence was gone before he could focus.

“Claude!” Alois’s voice snapped him back, cuspid and demanding. “Are you even listening? Or are you thinking about him again?”

Claude turned, bowing slightly. “My Master has my undivided attention.”

Alois’s expression hardened, his lips curling into a sneer. “Good. Remember that.” He stalked past Claude, his movements uneven but full of purpose. “I think I’ll find something to break. Or someone. Let’s see how far I can push you then before you finally snap.”

Claude inclined his head, his voice calm. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

Alois moved toward the door, his energy as erratic as his thoughts. Yet Claude lingered by the window, his golden eyes narrowing as they scanned the forest once more. The unease simmering beneath his perfect surface refused to dissipate.

Unseen, from the shadows of the trees, grey eyes watched the manor with quiet intensity. A faint breeze rustled the leaves, carrying a whisper of something ancient and foreboding.

Chapter I-I: The Spider In The Garden →

[healer-rosier]

Evan & Open January 15, 1981 - The Leaky Cauldron

“You know,” Evan mused. "The timing of getting a free bagel would have been better if it fell on a busy hospital day or speech date, but I appreciate it nonetheless.” It was a nice gesture and an unexpected one since breakfast hadn’t been on his before work plan for the day.

“I must have had a night shift this time last year,” He added, glancing over at where his coffee should have been. “Since it’s news to me that this is something they do annually.”

[healerrosier]

Evan & @perniciouspotter​ July 21, 1984 - Diagon Alley

A few “sick” days spent home with Theo left Evan feeling significantly better after the events of the weekend before. In truth, it was precisely what he needed to recharge and begin to feel a bit more like himself instead of feeling as though he was merely going through the motions to keep afloat during a trying time.

He intended to keep a low profile for the sake of not having a full idea toward how his father would react. Low profile yet stubborn enough to make a few public appearances to test the waters. That stubbornness was precisely what brought him to Diagon Alley. Well, stubbornness and acknowledging a food run needed to be done instead of being something he or Theo put off.

Evan paused at one of the benches by the Leaky Cauldron, cautiously setting his purchases down beside him so he could take a moment to rest. A few deep breaths proved necessary to get control of his rushing thoughts. Anxiety wasn’t a new thing for Evan but it seemed to be rearing its head more often than he could appreciate. He had been about to gather his belongings and head out when he spotted James Potter, not bothering to try to silence the low groan that escaped when they made eye contact. So much for a low profile.

“Can’t seem to avoid you lot,” He muttered under his breath then shook his head, speaking a little louder when he continued. “I suppose it’s good to see you.”

[catschimericalcreations]

@1988-fiend oh my gosh, same! I don't think I've been that heartsick over an animated character since watching the shoe die in Who Framed Roger Rabbit. I scoured my local charity shops for rhino plushies in the weeks after I first saw Lost Ollie; that scene legit haunted me

But, to set your mind at ease, I'll tell you what happened to the rhino, as it was told to me:

When the cloudburst started and the mid-afternoon sky abruptly darkened, the people working in the thrift store hurried to bring the items displayed outside safely under cover.

That included the box that the rhino had been in; unfortunately he'd been so enthusiastic gesturing to Zozo that he'd ended up in a precarious position and in all the rush and hurry, he tumbled out, unnoticed, and was accidentally left outside.

This is how Zozo was able to catch him alone in order to attack him.

However, while the store's human employees might not have noted the rhino's absence, his thrift store pals soon realized that he hadn't come inside with the rest of his box brothers. After closing, a couple of the Barbies slipped out to go look for him.

You can perhaps imagine their horror at the scene that greeted them in that damp alley.

But, toys in search of their second life know a little bit about hope, and so, despite his grievous injuries, the rhino's donation bin sisters gathered him up and bore him gently back inside.

Having only rounded plush paws or moulded plastic hands, and no access to a sewing kit, the repair job carried out by the rest of the thrift store toys was rudimentary at best. Rosie herself might have flinched to see what was left of the rhino that night.

Still, he was warm and dry and among those who cared, and there are toys who have recovered from worse with less.

And so, the next day found the rhino back in the sale box, and back on the sidewalk when the store reopened that morning, though his spirit was much diminished and in his heart of hearts he despaired of finding his second life.

And at first, as the rhino bade goodbye to first one and then another of his bargain-bin brethren, it seemed that he was never to be gathered to his new home. The bright blue price sticker affixed to his fur grew faded and grubby, and the figure written there was crossed out and replaced by a succession of smaller and smaller numbers.

Soon enough, the sale box was empty except for the rhino, and the thrift store employees had another batch of aging plush due for reduction and display. Threadbare teddies and rag dolls with sun-faded hair of wool were stickered and arranged just so, and when the box was once again placed outside, the rhino lay crumpled on the countertop, forgotten once again.

Which was when a young family, arms full with back-to-school clothing in almost-right colours and nearly-there sizes, came up to the till. Tangled in the over-long sleeves of a pea-green raincoat (ages 10-12, and bought to be grown into), the rhino was scooped into an overstuffed plastic bag and shoved into the back of an aging people carrier.

Later, on a scarred kitchen table amidst piles of aging fabric sorted by colour and care label, the rhino lies exposed beneath the harsh glare of buzzing fluorescents. A mother tuts at the leaky stuffing, limbs held on by dangling thread and rifts sealed shut by price stickers donated from other thrift store toys. An older sibling threads a wide-eyed needle while a younger one picks through a rag-bag for scraps to replace the parts that can't be salvaged, or where too much has been lost.

The rhino's second repair job is messy, inexpert, and colourful. The children use embroidery thread and pieces of flannel shirts washed to softness, and their mother goes over the stitches with more concern for sturdiness than aesthetics. When it's done she scrubs the rhino with a rough-edged sponge dipped in a detergent that smells like lavender.

He's set out to dry on a small white desk decorated with pink trim. There are other toys here, well-loved and worn with play. In the day, the sun streams in through the low, wide windows and his stitches thrum with a deep, healing ache. At night, his new brothers and sisters whisper to him, songs of safety and of home.

In time there come tea parties and grand adventures, sleepovers and swashbuckling and midnight feasts. A dozen patchwork repairs, a hundred stories, a thousand thousand cuddles. A family. A home.

Lost Ollie on Netflix

No that rhino plush is fine actually, he survived and was adopted by a nice family who patched him up and now he lives a nice life with lots of cuddles and many stuffed animal brothers and sisters

[your-averagewriter]

The Rumbling: Part 3

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Summary: After being brought into the woods by the Cart Titan, (y/n) is reunited with some old friends. Sitting around the campfire (y/n) grows tired of them arguing. (This is still Jean x Reader but Reiner is my favourite character so I’ve brought him into this quite a bit, sorry)

Warnings: Swearing, canon-level violence, blood, saying god in a non-religious way (I think that’s all)

SPOILERS FOR EPISODES 81 - 85 (MAYBE 85 I DON’T KNOW)

Word count: 1.7K

-

Walking towards the fire I look at all the people standing around, enemies, friends, higher-ups and children even. I heave the bag of potatoes over my shoulder and drop it down with a thump right next to Hange. I walk over to Jean as he stares at Annie and Reiner. Reiner looks so defeated and lifeless. His eyes are filled with despair rather than the confidence I was used to seeing in the cadet corps. He isn’t smiling like how I remember he did, no signs of happiness grace his face and I don’t blame him, why would you be smiling at a time like this? You’d have to be insane I think. I wonder how much I’ve changed in his eyes. I wonder if he’s thinking about the creases in my face, developed from stress. I wonder if he’s noticed how I’ve cut my hair? Those are all things a brother would notice. At least I’d hope so, I wouldn’t know. I miss him so much...but that’s not allowed. I’m not allowed to associate with him, be friends with him or even console him. My thoughts are interrupted as Hange breaks the silence. “Wanna stop glaring at each other and lend me a hand?” She says slicing the potatoes and throwing them in the stew. The man across from us scoffs before speaking. “Sharing a meal with enemies of war, huh? I’m curious: what changed your mind?” He says holding on to a bottle of something, probably something strong and alcoholic. I sigh as they all start arguing with each other. “I’m gonna go get some more supplies,” I say quietly slipping away from the situation. No one acknowledges me leaving as I’m concealed by the towering trees. Dragging my feet behind me I start feeling the effects of the day. The long tiring day that is now drawing to a close, thank god. The sound of shouting fades out and the light from the fire is out of view not even poking its way through the trees. Once I reach a tree that I deem far enough away I slump down against it and thread my hands through my hair. The overwhelming pressure placed on me finally sets in. I haven’t had a moment to myself since falling off of the wall when the Rumbling started which I wouldn’t say was a peaceful moment. I can’t believe this is happening. Luka is dead. Floch is a terrorist. I am basically a fugitive. All of my friends’ lives are now in danger and I can’t help but think that it’s my fault. I know there was nothing I could really do, god knows I’ve thought about it enough. But I still should have done something, there must have been something I could’ve done. I relax my legs, letting them rest on the ground whilst I grip the hair on the back of my head. Pulling it so hard that a tingling burning feeling envelops my scalp. I sigh as I realise that if we ever come into contact with Eren one of us is gonna have to kill him. It won’t be Mikasa or Armin, I can say that for sure. It won’t be Conny, or Jean. It narrows down to either me, Annie, Reiner or Hange. No, I’m not sure Hange could do that to the others. There’s a high chance I’m going to have to kill him. I throw my head back against the tree and struggle to hold a strangled scream within me only letting a few tears escape my eyes as I cover my mouth with one of my hands. Why does this keep happening? Why are there so many battles, why are there so many deaths? I can’t keep going like this, this was meant to be the end. Jean and I were going to get married and live in the interior putting the military behind us. We were going to live happy lives and now I don’t even know if we’ll live through tomorrow. Hearing a stick snapping, suddenly, I pull out a dagger I keep in my boot and lazily hold it in front of me not really caring anymore. I lean my head back up against the wood and raise the dagger with tired eyes. The figure comes into view, they’re tall but that’s all I can tell from their shadow. I think it’s a man but I can’t be sure. I stare at the hidden figure as it gets closer. Finally revealing itself I lower my dagger and slide it back into my boot and resume my position against the tree. Reiner Braun. Now, why is he here? “Are you here to kill me?” I say sarcastically but tiredly. “No.” He says with a hint of a chuckle. “There’s no way they just let you leave the campfire.” He walks towards me and slumps down against the tree next to me. “They probably haven’t realised I’m gone yet.” He says quietly. I chuckle. “Wow, master of deception,” I say wiping a stray tear from my lip, silence surrounding us. “I missed you,” I whisper to him leaning my head on his shoulder. “Me too.” He says just as quietly placing his arm around my shoulders. Tears fall down my face as I recall all the times we’ve spent together similar to this. Times when we were cadets in the meadow. The times on top of the wall sitting and eating shit rations. Times when we comforted each other in the safety of our beds. “Why did everything have to become so complicated?” I ask him, my voice wavering as tears trickle down my face. “I’m sorry.” He says. “It’s my fault.” “Yeah, maybe.” I say knowing that if he didn’t do what he did, someone else would’ve. We sit there in silence for what seemed like an eternity but couldn’t have been anything more than a few minutes. I regret my words before they even leave my mouth. “We should go back, they’re probably worried about us.” “You.” He says unfaltering as I look at him in confusion. “They’ll be worried about you.” He says. I sigh quietly. “C’mon… let’s go back.” We start walking back, the shouts return to earshot and I’m filled with dread. I don’t want to deal with this, or what comes next. I almost hope I don’t make it at this point. “Do you ever wish you could just die?” I break the silence with a heavy question. With no reply, I answer it myself. “I do. I’m not sure if I can deal with what comes next.” “You can.” He says sharply still looking forwards. I scoff. “You don’t know that.” “I do, you’ve made it through worst. I’ve seen it.” “Yeah, with you…and Bertholdt,” I say frowning. Silence fills the conversation again as we’re both reminded of our fallen friend. “I’m still here.” “Yeah.” I allow myself a small smile. “I hope it stays that way.” Arguing fills the air, Jean shouting along with the Marleyan general. I sigh as the forest is slightly illuminated by the campfire showing us how close we are. We walk forwards into the light and I’m bombarded by a sudden silence, ironically. They’ve been shouting for the past ten, twenty minutes and now they’re silent. I smile, acting as if nothing has happened but I come to a halt as Jean stands in front of me. Reiner’s already sat down next to the two kids out of the way but I’m faced with a furious Jean. “Where have you been? Where did you go?” He asks loudly, worried. “I went to get supplies but I got lost in the dark, no need to worry,” I assure him, smiling. “Why didn’t you say?” “I did! You were all just too busy shouting and arguing that you didn’t hear me.” I say slightly irritated although them being unaware gave me a few blissful moments of peace. “Why was he with you?” Jean asks pointing to Reiner. “I don’t know, you tell me.” I say. There’s a pause in the conversation, everyone unsure on what’s going to happen next. He walks over to Reiner and kicks him in the fast forcing him back against a tree. “Jean! Get off of him! What is wrong with you?!” I run after him as he goes to punch him again. I grab his arm and he ends up punching me instead (accidentally). I fall back onto the ground and my hand flies up to my face feeling blood on my lips. I winch touching it as everyone rushes over to me trying to check if I’m okay. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you!” Jean quickly apologises kneeling down next to me checking if my face is okay. “You know what, you know why Reiner was with me?!” The feeling of spite fills my mind. “It’s because he’s clearly the only one who actually cares about me here!” I say standing up defiantly, looking down at the others now crouched on the floor. “None of you cared when I left, none of you cared when you realised I was gone, none of you actually cared about me!” I pause for a minute as no one says anything, “Forget it, it’s fine.” I say walking over towards Reiner. He’s slumped against the tree nearly unconscious and his face is bloodied. I crouch down next to him and wipe some of the blood off of his face. “Are you okay?” I whisper to him and his eyes flutter open. “I’ll be fine. Just…Just need to rest.” He says finally going unconscious. I walk away from him and back towards everyone else and they freeze as I get closer. “I’m going to bed,” I say quietly and I cringe at how I sound. I sound so…defeated. I drag my feet behind me as I make my way towards the makeshift bed - basically just a sleeping bag - I kick Jean’s away from mine as we had placed them together originally. Finally relaxing as the others talk amongst themselves quietly I lay on the floor looking up at the trees and stars with my hands and arms folded under my head. “Goodnight,” I say thinking of all the friends and cadets that have died in battle. Marco, Miche, Hannes, Ymir, Erwin, Bertholdt, Sasha, Luka, the list goes on. I stare at the stars once more before closing my eyes succumbing to sleep and giving in to the darkness hoping it doesn’t get light again.

-

Hey, I hope you guys enjoyed reading and if you’d like a part 4 then just comment.

I love Reiner so much which is why he’s in this chapter a lot (it won’t all be centred around him).

Tag list:

@studywithrosie01

@janinazoe100

@ifimnotabushimnoone

[plush-rabbit]

The Start of a Family

Picture Perfect Series

Warnings: Sickness, Forced Pregnancy, Noncon

Word Count: 2.9K

A/N: I love being a degenerate with him

-

The sound of your door creaks, footsteps light as they make themselves to your bed. You let out a low whine, turning over onto your back, your hands loosely grasping at the sheets. The bed dips and you mumble your partner’s name. You believe it to be Danny, you're so sure of it, yet the hands that hold your face and they feel off. The skin is smooth, pressing into your cheeks without the press of nails. You feel off. It’s a slight feeling that twists at your stomach and you’re unable to figure out why. You open your eyes, your vision blurry and mind delirious with sleep, the only thing you’re able to make out is white, blurry at the edges and mixed with black and in your state, you think it's Danny coming home from work.

You whimper his name, closing your eyes and reaching your hands to grab at his face. However, instead of stubble that pricks your skin, it’s plastic, almost rubber in it’s feel and your hands edge towards the middle, meeting mesh. You open your eyes, blinking harshly in an effort to erase sleep from your eye but in that moment, a hand covers your mouth. It’s heavy and forceful, covering the lower half of your face, the body now above you, legs straddling you and the full body weight pressed onto you, digging into your hips. Your eyes widen, and beneath the hand, the name of your partner is muffled. You believe it to be a sick joke but when your lamp turns on, the glaring light shooting against your face, your blood turns into ice. You go rigid, your hands trying to pry off the one on your face, so desperate for air and yet, the force stays solid above you.

Terror spikes throughout your body, eyes wide and sickness thick on your tongue that you fear you’ll become sick against him and the thought of what he might do in that case terrifies you. His petrified look of a scream haunts you, mesh black that stares at you and with a body covered in black, he blends into the darkness, his body evaporating but weight still heavy on you. He wastes no time, removing your clothes and his, his body bare above yours and hands finally away from you but instead of hitting him, you lay there, with your hands over your eyes, as his mask brushes along your collarbone. You thought you were safe; you really thought that you were safe.

“Did you miss me?” Ghostface whispers, his breath nothing more than a wisp against your skin. “Because I missed you.” You let out an ugly wheeze in response, your palms wet with tears. “I miss you so much that it hurt.” His hands- covered by gloves- scratch against your skin, they squeeze against a breast, fingers pushing into your supple breast. “I couldn’t take it. I had to see you. I had to feel you under me, writhing and squirming-” his other hand cups at your sex, two digits pushing past your folds and teasing at your entrance- “feeling your cunt milk my cock.” His gloved fingers squirm inside of you, massaging at your walls, encouraging for the tight fit to become smoother. “Did you miss me?”

You take in a loud breath, peeking between the gaps in your fingers, looking to the door that remains open. “Danny,” you gasp, hoping that by saying his name, he’ll appear. The fingers inside of you stop inside of you. “I want Danny.” Tears slide down and wet at the crevices in your ear, and slip to the bed sheet beneath you.

“Danny, huh?” You look at him when he speaks, chills running across your body. “Is that your boyfriend’s name? The one with the camera at all my crime scenes?” Your mouth is stuffed with his gloved hand, the taste of your essence lingers against your tongue. “You know he’s a bit too involved, walking around, staining the soles of his shoes with blood.” His cock is erect, pressed harsh against the inside of your thigh, slipping past your folds and pressed against your entrance. “I wonder what he would do if he saw you getting fucked by the Ghostface?” He pushes himself inside of you, and you let out a wail muted by the hand that sickens you. “You’d think he’d join in?” He rocks inside of you, steady and hard, making sure to slam himself against your hips. “He could fuck your mouth with I fuck your pussy.” He lets out a breathless laugh, his mask closing in on you until you can smell the scent of alcohol on his breath. It’s intoxicating in all the wrong ways- thick and bitter, making your stomach churn and acid creep into your throat. “Fuck, that would be something, huh?” He slams himself back into you, grunting and letting out your name intermixed with his moans.

“Stop,” you cry, hiccupping and choking on your tears. Your hands clutch at your chest, stopping the bouncing motion from his roughness. “Please, just stop. I haven’t told anyone, please. You can go away,” you cry harder, wishing for death. “Just kill me,” you wheeze out, your chest stuttering with your heavy cries.

He pauses, stilling his movements for a moment, his head tilting. “Kill you?” He breathes out. He shakes his head. “No, no,” he repeats. “I could never kill you.” He resumes his thrusting, pushing himself deep inside of you. “I love you too much to ever do anything like that to you. Did you know that?” Despite his mask, you know that he’s staring into your eyes, watching for any reaction that you can give to him. “I love you so much. And when you get pregnant-” his hand curves over your belly- “you’ll never be able to escape me.” Your eyes go wide, and you suck in a deep breath. “You’ll look so cute with a round belly.” The mesh of his mask presses against your lips. His lips wet at the mask and his spit is on your lips. “You’ll be plump and begging for my cock, knowing that it was me who did that to your body.”

He’s ruthless. A true monster disguised as a human as he ravages your body. With every push inside of you, is a groan of despair from you, your cunt leaking with your arousal, slipping to the inside of your thighs and down his length. You lay beneath him, crying and holding onto him, feeling a pressure against your stomach when he releases inside of you. It’s thick and warm, burning your inside and it's pushed inside of you. You cry his name, “Ghostface,” begging for mercy as he continues his rutting, burying his cock inside of you until he’s drained and you’re full of seed.

-

Danny finds you in the morning, curled up with dried tear stains. Your clothes stick to you uncomfortably, your underwear feeling as if it were stuck to you, drenched with his semen that had spilled out. Danny walks to you, crouching to a squat as he brushes your hair away from your face.

“Nightmares again?” He asks in a low whisper, and you nod, your lips trembling as you go to hug him, sobbing against his shoulder and clinging to him like a child. “It’s okay,” he says gently, running his hand down your back, “it’s okay. I’m here now. It was just a bad dream.” He crawls into bed with you, pulling you close to him, his chin resting on the top of your head while you curl up on his lap, resting your head on his chest. “They’re just nightmares, they aren’t real.”

“It felt real,” you mumble, your head curving around his belly, letting your thumb arc over him. “I wished you were here last night.” A sob interrupts you and you’re soothed once again by Danny. “I wanted you here,” you cry, pressing yourself closer to him.

“I’m sorry,” he says earnestly. “I wish I was here. I know how bad your nightmares can get.” His hand stills for a moment, clenching the back of your shirt into his fist. “But you were the one who didn’t want to move in with me, remember?” You nod slowly. “You can’t just guilt trip me into this. I’m sorry and I wish I were here but-”

“Danny?” You whisper, clenching his shirt loosely. He hums in response. “Can I move in with you? Please?” You can hear his heartbeat quicken, the hand on your back coming loose and returning to the soothing touch. “I don’t want-” you pause and look at him- “I miss you too much.”

“Of course you can.” His hand manages to find a way to hold yours, bringing your knuckles up to his lips and kissing each gently. “I would love nothing more than to have you at home with me.” His lips trace up a finger, kissing the tip of your thumb. “I’ll keep you safe there. Away from this place with all those gross memories- you’ll be safe with me.”

-

You lay on his bed. It’s not the first time, it’s nothing more than a bed you’ve both shared in the past and yet, now as you sit on it, it’s foregien to you. It’s nothing more than a bed, a bed that you share now because his home is now your home. The comforter has loose threads that you wrap around your finger until it pales and turns dark at the skin that protrudes from it. Your stuff is organized, fixed and moved into a space that he has made for you. You’ve come into his space and he’s made sure to welcome you.

The door clicks and you can hear him, his heavy footsteps and the jingle of his keys. “Honey, I’m home!” He sings, followed by a laugh and he’s searching for you throughout the house. Your heartbeat quickens and the comforter is gripped in your hands. “Want to go out to eat?” His voice sounds far away and you’ve realized you’ve forgotten to make a meal for him. For the both of you. “We can order take-out or something.” His voice is growing closer and you stare out the window expecting to see Ghostface but there’s no one there. “You know, since it’s a special night.” His voice is close, and when you turn, he’s at the doorway, loosening his ties and running a hand through his hair. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah,” you whisper out. “I’m just- I feel so out of place here, you know?” You give out a shaky laugh as tears threaten to form, a lump in your throat as you release your grip and hold out your arms.

He’s quick to hold you, his face pressed against your neck and arms wrapping tight around you. “You shouldn’t. This is your home now.” He pulls away and kisses your lips, his nose bumping against yours. “You’re allowed to be comfortable here.” He pulls away, his hands holding onto yours. “I didn’t want to ask yesterday because we were both tired and hungry, but do you want to go take a picture? Something to commemorate our living situation?”

You stare up at the man who has kept you safe and you pull him down, kissing his lip and gesturing for him to get on the bed with you. He must understand what you want, why you want him to get on the bed with you, because in the same moment, he unbuttons his shirt and teases at the hem of yours. His hands stop there, his knuckles brushing against your stomach and for a moment, he stops, he pulls away from the kiss and licks his lips. Your only response is to remove the shirt yourself, continuing until you’re naked in front of him.

His lips brush against yours, his breath warm and hands lingering on your bare sides. His eyes stay fixed on yours, his thumb arching on your body, a shiver running down your spine. Your heart is beating erratically, so loud that you think he might hear it. You hesitantly raise your hands to cup his face, licking your lips when you realize that your hands have started to become clammy. You pull away from him, enough to no longer fear that he might see how flushed that you’ve become.

“I- I wanna do something else to commemorate.” You roll your lips, nervously swallowing, your legs twitching and stomach churning. “If you don’t mind.”

He stares at you with blank eyes and a parted mouth for a second until his smile grows, pulling high on the corner of his lips. He nods, leaning towards you, your hands falling onto his chest when he kisses you. It’s a blur of the moment, feeling his fingers edge against your sex, brush so carefully against your clit, and you’re gasping for breath under him, hidden in the crook of his neck with tears in your eyes.

His fingers are coarse, touching your sensitive bud, rolling it under his fingertips and he tries to move you, to signal for you to show him your expressions as he touches you, but you can’t. You stay hidden, digging your nails into his back and shaking your head. With your eyes shut tight, with only darkness in your vision, you can picture someone other than your partner. You picture him. You swear that you can feel his hands on you, but instead of the roughness, it’s gentleness, it’s him being tender, focusing on your pleasure and making you gasp and whine under him. You’ve never taken a proper look at his hands, but they’re thick, spreading your cunt and massaging at your walls, while you buck against him, feeling the tip of his cock against your thigh.

You arch your back into his chest, hissing at the contact and clutching tighter to him, squeezing his fingers in your cunt. A hand slips between and palms at your breast. He’s eager and clumsy, grabbing at your roughly and you hold on tighter to him, whimpering under his touch and his only response to hold you tighter, to pinch at your skin and push himself knuckle deep inside of you, adding a third finger and then a fourth, your sex burning with the spread and you’re calling his name, pulling away with tearstained eyes only to be kissed roughly.

Tears catch on your lashes, your hands digging into him, wanting to draw blood and get him off but at the same time, wanting him to never stop, to continue until he’s the one who has touched your body to the full extent.

He pulls away, the hand on your breast going to wipe a tear away, his head tilting and smiling softly. He looks much younger and handsome with the gentleness on his features. “Condom?” He asks in a low whisper.

While maintaining eye contact, you shake your head. Your hands hold him, and you pull him for a kiss. When his lips are on yours, you leave him, your hand slipping between your bodies and going to grab at his erection. He moans against you, bucking his hips into your hand while his tongue slips into your mouth. It lasts for a moment, the intimacy of holding him, only to disappear when he’s inside of you, pushing past your already stretched hole and pushing himself deep inside of you. He pulls away, face above you while he grunts and holds your hand, calling you everything sugar and nice. He kisses you with a gentleness that you don’t remember ever feeling.

It isn’t long until you’re clenching around him, gasping his name out and arching your back. You plead to him- begging for him to not stop with tears in your eyes, to be a bit rougher and you allow for him to spill inside of you. He’s hot inside of you, spilling his seed deep into your womb and making you warm all over. He doesn’t stop pumping inside of you, the tenderness making you gasp out and hands clench into loose fists. He holds you close, his cock fully inside of you, not allowing a droplet of semen to be wasted and you hold him, crying and thanking him, kissing at his neck and holding him there with you.

-

You rest your hands in the sink, the small space of the bathroom putrid as the air reeks of acid. Your stomach swirls and your eyes are filled with tears. Your throat burns and the birds sing their morning song outside. You want to believe that you woke up sick; that whatever it is that made you throw up is nothing more than the stomach flu.

But you know better. You know that it isn’t the flu. It’s something worse, something much more than it could ever be. You wish it were the flu. The bathroom drawer scratches open, your hands reaching towards the back where you’ve hidden your box, and when you pull it out, the box rattles in your hand and your heart sinks.

It takes only a few minutes until your timer is beeping, and you’re quick to stop it. Your hands shake as you grab the pregnancy test. You pray and you aren’t sure for what, but when you look at the pregnancy test, two loans, a faint red, stare back at you and you let the plastic clatter against the sink as you sob.

[pedros-mustache]

the rising sun

summary: “be still, sad heart! and cease repining / behind the clouds the sun is still shining.” — henry wadsworth longfellow

word count: 2.8k

warnings: angst, discussion of depression/anxiety, general not-so-happy tone to the whole thing, some fluff thrown in there for good measure

a/n: to be honest, i almost didn’t post this. i’ve not been doing well the last week, and this fic is pretty indicative of my current mental state. i decided to upload it despite my reservations and embarrassment on the hope that this might give someone struggling just like a me a moment of peace. xoxo. ❤️

it’s raining when marcus comes home.

you sit on the living room’s padded window seat, plush blanket tangled around your legs, forehead pressed against the chill windowpane at your side. bloated raindrops slide down the glass, and you watch, halfheartedly willing one raindrop to reach the lip of the window before another. 

the narrow street below your window is empty. puddles gather on the red brick sidewalks, and the birch trees planted in small earthen squares along the road tremble with each sharp gust of rainy wind. it’s cold out. you can feel the chill through the window, but you don’t pull away.

you hear the front door shut and marcus toe his shoes off. his keys jingle as they drop to the catch-all bowl on the foyer table, and then he’s hurrying into the kitchen, shouting as he goes. you can’t see him from where you sit, but his voice carries through the small apartment. you blame the high ceilings and exposed brick walls. sound travels too easily in this space, and sometimes it's too much for you to bear. you sink lower on the window seat, shutting your eyes against the sound of his voice.

“hey! sorry i’m late. there was this—this thing at work, and then i had to get the groceries, but then i forgot about dinner—” he sighs heavily, places something on the kitchen island that crinkles. “whatever, it doesn’t matter. i’m home. d’you have a good day?”

you huff in response. the sound gets trapped in the blanket wrapped tight around your shoulders.

“i got chinese.” 

he’s close now, his voice dropped to an even timbre. you can feel him, feel the sudden shift of his mood when he enters the living room and sees you, curled up on the window seat like a pillbug caught in a storm. where he was unruffled before, on the verge of relaxing after a long day of work, he is now worried, concern rolling off him in crashing waves. 

you hate that you do this to him. 

“you okay, bug?”

opening your eyes, you tilt your head over your shoulder to look at him. you manage a weary smile, wavering around the edges, entirely unconvincing and pathetic. “mhm. just tired ‘s all. long day.”

marcus’s brow pinches. he puts his hands in his pockets, and the jacket around his shoulders tightens with the movement. “you’ve been tired a lot the last few days,” he says. his words are slow, calculated, like he’s dancing around the point.

you shrug, dancing around the point with him, a slow-footed, wary sort of dance. “i guess.” 

“are you sure you—” he stops talking, removes a hand from his pockets, drags his thumb over his lower lip as he stares at you. his brown eyes are warm, and his stare is intense. it’s as if he’s trying to peel back all of your layers with his eyes alone, each bat of his long eyelashes another layer closer to the most vulnerable places of your heart.

you sit up, suddenly nervous under his scrutinizing gaze. frowning, you brush a stray lock of hair away from your face, teeth tugging at your lower lip. “what? what are you staring at me for?” there’s more than a bite to your tone, and you wince at the harsh sound of your voice. 

he doesn’t deserve that.

turning your face away, you return your gaze to the puddle third from left of your front tire. it’s grown bigger, and your car’s reflection seems to flutter as wind pushes across the top of the pool of water.

“can i sit?”

you look from marcus to his outstretched hand to the empty space across from you on the seat. after your timid nod, he sits with another heavy sigh, his second of the night. you wonder how often you are the one to make him sigh like that.

he leans his head against the wall and watches as a bird swoops down from the roof ledge to a tree across the street. he sits in an awkward sort of fold, his legs too long to sit comfortably on the seat with you there as well. twisted at the waist, legs stretched to the side, he folds his hands in his lap and inhales deeply then exhales through his mouth.

your face softens as you wait for him to speak. you inhale too, mirroring the slow rise and fall of his chest with deep breathing of your own. the panic that’s gripped you all day begins to ebb. the blurry edges of your vision clears, and he comes into focus. for a moment, you allow yourself to study the lines of his neck, his sun-kissed skin, and strong jaw. he’s solid and firm in all the places you are not—physically, mentally, emotionally. 

your chest tightens again at the thought.

he shifts his gaze away from the cramped georgetown street. “you forget to breathe when you’re anxious.”

ducking your head, you nod. “i know.” with a sigh of your own, you meet his eyes through the tops of your lashes. “i’m sorry.”

“why are you apologizing?”

“well, i don’t… i mean—” you shake your head, caught off guard by his question and the earnest look on his face. why does he have to look at you like that? so open and honest and caring? he shouldn’t look at you like that, not when you’re like this. 

you study your knees, pushed tight against your chest. there’s a frayed thread on your pant leg. you pluck it off and drop it to the side. finally, you say, “i’ve been off the last few days, haven’t really been myself. i know i’m not fun when i’m like this…”

“not fun?” marcus scoffs as though offended, and your head snaps up to level him a glare. registering the look on your face, he lifts his hands in surrender. “wait a second—i wasn’t making fun. i just—” he tilts his head to the side. “baby, you don’t have to be fun all the time.”

your shoulders sag. you look away. you can’t look at him too long. he’s too good to you.

in the year and a half you’ve been with marcus, you’ve had your bad days. they come and go. you’ve taken to comparing your bad days to the ice-cream truck which wanders through your neighborhood from time to time. it’s never consistent, always appearing out of the blue after an extended absence, looking more and more worn down upon each new arrival. your bad days are like the neighborhood ice-cream truck.

marcus has seen you in your anxious moments: the afternoons where it hits you and suddenly you can’t breathe or think clearly and everything feels topsy-turvy. those moments you can handle yourself. you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

he’s seen you in your depressed moments too: the evenings where all you want to do is curl in bed and never leave, your thoughts a swirling mess of perceived rejection and bleakness and despair. those moments you prefer to work through on your own, though he makes it abundantly clear he’s only an arm’s reach away. still, you know what to do and how to bounce back without causing too much of a fuss.

you don’t like to cause a fuss.

this week, though—fuck, this week has been bad, and you both know it.

from the moment you wake, it starts: muscle-gripping fear, racing heart, dry mouth, and weary limbs. you stumble through your morning routine, pushing it all down, down, down because you have to go to work. you have to do your job. life doesn’t stop just because you’re anxious.  

when you come home in the afternoons, the bed is waiting, cold and unmade. you sleep—sleep the worry away and the fatigue away. it’s all you can do to be ready for marcus to return from the city. he doesn’t need to see you like this, a lump of trembling hands and bone-deep exhaustion. 

this isn’t what he signed up for. 

for a week you’ve been hanging on by a thread, shoving him and everyone else in your path away because it’s what’s easiest. you can take care of yourself. no one needs the added weight of caring for you, least of all marcus. if you opened the door, let him have a peek inside, he’d know, he’d see—it’s too much. it’s better if you keep this part of yourself to yourself.

“bug?”

you pull your face away from your elbow. “yeah?”

“come here.” he opens his arms, and it’s an invitation you cannot decline. 

the transition from your side of the window seat to his is awkward. it’s a tangle of arms and legs in the narrow space, an elbow against his stomach, a grunt of pain, and a hurried whisper of apology. when you settle your back against his chest, his warmth pushes through the chill clinging to your skin. you’ve been sitting by the window too long. you turn your face to press your cheek against his shoulder, winding both of your arms around his bicep. you squeeze tight, inhaling his cologne and the raindrops still clinging to his jacket. 

“there.” his chest rumbles beneath you when he speaks. “that’s better.” 

“marcus, i—” 

he shushes you with a gentle whisper. “hold on. just breathe with me, okay?”

you swallow past the lump in your throat and nod against his arm.

inhale, exhale—you follow his lead.

your eyes drift shut. he feels good, safe and steady. 

unbidden, tears prick your eyes, and you are powerless to stop them. you push your face further against his arm to stem the sudden flow of tears. the taste of salt floods your mouth, and you sniff hard, dragging the back of one hand across your cheeks. marcus doesn’t say anything. he just drags his hand over your hair, his own cheek pressed to the crown of your head. he holds you tight, and you surrender to the weight of his arms around you, his body pressed against yours.

when the tears stop, you sit up to wipe your face. marcus drops his hand from your head to your back. his touch is smooth and gentle, and you laugh against the ridiculousness of it all.

“i’m sorry,” you say, dragging your sleeve under your nose. “i know you didn’t come home anticipating this.”

marcus is quiet for a moment. his palm spreads across the width of your lower back. you can feel the warmth of his skin perimate the thin cotton of your sleep shirt. “baby?” you turn your face to him. “you gotta stop apologizing.”

you swallow hard with a nod. “yeah, i know. i’m so—” he quirks an eyebrow, and you laugh despite yourself. “you’re right.”

“come here,” he says again. “lean back.”

you do as you're told, your head nestled against his shoulder. he slides his hands down your arms, a slow drag, until he can fit his fingers between yours and squeeze. he kisses your temple, and the hair on his cheek tickles your skin.

“i love you,” he whispers.

you smile—a genuine smile, small as it is. 

inhaling deeply, you decide to lay it all on the table. you love marcus. if he ever asked, you’d marry him in a heartbeat. but you’re tired of running from him when all he’s ever done is proven himself to be a gentleman with a heart of solid gold. he deserves to know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but it. even if it drives him away in the end.

“when i was a freshman in college,” you start, shifting your back against his chest. “i dated this guy. we were together for only a few months, but he was a real asshole.” the way marcus stiffens behind you, his arms tightening reflexively around your middle, warms your cheeks. his subtle display of protectiveness emboldens your story, and you continue with a clearer voice.

“i was really anxious back then, like every day. it was a constant battle between myself and my anxiety, and he hated it. one night we were on the phone and i was telling him about my day and he got really quiet and then he told me, ‘i can’t deal with your anxiety. it’s too much.’ i’ve never forgotten that.”

when marcus says nothing in response, you twist to face him, laying your hand flat against his chest. you can feel his heartbeat beneath your palm. it beats fast, a hurried gallop in his chest. his eyes dart back and forth between yours, his lips parted in something akin to shock. you don’t give him a chance to speak before you continue.

“marcus? please—please tell me you can deal with it. i don’t know what i’d do if you couldn’t.”

marcus’s face crumbles. with tears welling in his eyes, he lifts his hands to cup your face. “oh my god, baby,” he breathes, rolling his forehead over yours. “i’m so sorry.”

he kisses you. it’s short and sweet and perhaps another thread in his apology. you grip his wrist, holding him tight, willing him to stay—stay with you now and forever, until the sun no longer shines and the earth vanishes to dust. 

when you break apart, he skims his thumbs over the apples of your cheeks. “what a fucking loser,” he says, and you laugh, tossing your head back at the sheer vitriol lacing his words. it’s not often marcus gets angry. to see a red flush on his cheeks and frustration in his brow, all over some guy you haven’t thought about in years, it makes your heart flutter in the best possible way. “no, i mean it! god, what an asshole.” 

he sucks in a breath and catches your eyes. his thumb and forefinger move to grip your chin, a gentle hold but one that leaves you powerless to ignore anything he’s about to say. you steel yourself, lungs tight with anticipation.

“it—this—you.” he shakes his head. “it’s not something i deal with. i don’t deal with it. do you hear me? say you do.”

eyes misty, you nod. “i do. i hear you, marcus.”

“i want to take care of you. that’s why we’re together. we’re a team. teammates rely on one another—”

“marcus, i don’t watch sports.”

he smirks. “just humor me.” releasing his hold on your chin, he smooths his hand down the side of your face. “i want to help you. you don’t need to carry this all by yourself.”

“i just thought that—”

“look, all guys are idiots. if you’re feeling some type of way, you gotta tell me. i can’t read minds. but all guys aren’t assholes. i want to help you.”

you cover the hand on your cheek with your fingers and nuzzle your nose against his palm. “i love you.” 

“i love you more. really, i do. more than the stars in the sky and all the—”

you pull your face away with a grimace, holding up your hand to stop him. “okay, please, that’s too much. too sweet, too schmaltzy. try and preserve some of your dignity.” 

marcus laughs, a deep, hearty sound that warms you to the center of your being. he winds an arm around the small of your back to draw you close, his lips descending to the curve of your neck. he peppers your skin with kisses—warm ones, wet ones, gentle ones—until you push at his shoulders. he drops back against the wall, chest heaving and eyes glistening with mirth.

you catch your lower lip in your teeth and shake your head. “you hopeless romantic you.”

“guilty as charged.” 

sliding out from between his legs, you drop to the floor. “you said you got chinese?”

“yeah, but it might be a little cold by now.”

you offer him your hand. “that’s okay. i’m hungry.”

marcus slides his fingers between yours. “i’ll warm it up then.”

as he leads you to the kitchen, your bare feet padding behind his socked ones, you catch a glimpse of the world outside. it’s no longer raining. the clouds have parted, revealing a bright sun. the sun’s rays drench the street in the warm glow of sunset, all orange and pale yellow and dusky red. you smile and lean against marcus’s arm as he sets about warming dinner in the microwave. he follows your eyeline to the window and throws an arm around your shoulders.

“do you want to go on a walk after dinner?”

looking up, you grin. “yeah, that would be nice.”

“the rain never stays forever.”

he’s not talking about the weather, and you both know it. you squeeze his hand.

“no, i guess it doesn’t.”

[healerrosier]

There was minimal hesitation when it came from sitting across from Theo - the only sign of it coming from his having given a greeting and receiving a blank look in return. There was a moment where his expression mimicked hers then Evan dug his teeth into his lower lip to keep from smirking, opting for brushing his leg against hers instead of giving an immediate answer.

“I am a little offended,” He admitted with a dramatic sigh, gaze shifting to Theo’s to ensure he actually had her attention this time around. Evan didn’t mind taking more drastic measures to gain her attention. It was simply the matter of having his work robes on that left him deciding on behaving. “But it may be short lived if you were willing to make it up to me.” There was a brief moment where he unabashedly looked her over. He wasn’t usually one for bothering Theo during her lunch break but having got out of work early (truthfully an opportunity he wouldn’t pass on since it seldom came about) left him all too happy to do so. “I’m off for the rest of the day. What does your afternoon look like?”

Where: Leaky Cauldron

When: Noon, June 12th 1984

Who: Theo and Open

Theo tended to eat out quite a lot, especially lunches. It was mostly because she really could not stand the goblins. She supposed she could have gotten a job that avoided goblins if she’d felt like it. But her other choice had been the ministry, and she hadn’t really wanted to run into her father. So, the goblins had kind of been the lesser of the two evils. That didn’t change that she didn’t like spending time there. That meant she spent a lot of time eating out. Today she was sat in the Leaky Cauldron. it meant she could escape for a few moments, and she enjoyed that.

“Oh. Were you speaking to me?” Clearly, she’d escaped a little too far, and hadn’t been paying attention to her surroundings. “Sorry I was a million miles away.”

[author-morgan]

I really love your Eivor stories! If you’re thank requests would you be able to do an arranged marriage story - where Eivor and a Anglo Saxon princess have to marry to unite their clans and at first their not happy about but when they meet they get along, especially on the wedding night 😉 - thank you! x

♥ Here you are! I hope you like it (sorry for the wait). 

m!Eivor x fem!Reader

EIVOR AND HIS brother, Sigurd, stand before Ceolmund —a powerful Saxon king crowned with the aid of the Norsemen standing before him. Now King Ceolmund of Lothian wishes to secure a lasting alliance with the Raven Clan, one that would not fade at the hands of time. It is marriage the new king speaks of. A marriage between his only beloved daughter and one of the men who laid a crown and kingdom at his feet.

Ceolmund looks to Sigurd to accept, but he shakes his head and dips his shoulders forward in a display of genuflection. “I cannot accept this gracious offer, lord, for I am bound to another already–” Sigurd’s gaze falls upon Eivor “–but my brother…”

He is cut off by Eivor, pulling harshly on the baldric securing his greatsword. “What are you doing?” Eivor hisses under his breath. He had come to secure an alliance and crown another Saxon king who’d look upon the Danes and Norse in favor —not to marry a stranger with no forewarning and on his brother’s whim.

Sigurd turns, his gaze sharp. A curt reminder that he is Jarl of the Raven Clan, not Eivor. “Calm yourself, brother,” he snaps. There’s a pause, heavy with silence, and Sigurd’s smile turns into that of a serpent’s. “It’s past time you wed anyway. Don’t you think?” Eivor glares at his brother, but Sigurd ignores the harsh look and turns back to King Ceolmund. “My brother,” he starts, motioning to the warrior standing to his right, “the honorable Eivor Wolf-kissed, will accept.”

Ceolmund rises from his throne, stepping onto the short dais —arms outstretched toward Eivor. “I should hear it from thine own lips,” he says, meeting Eivor’s uneasy gaze. What he is asking is no small task, but with Sigurd’s hasty acceptance, he has hope Eivor will follow his Jarl’s wishes. In truth, a piece of him is relieved it is Eivor Wolfsmal and not Sigurd. “Will you forge the bonds of an alliance and lasting friendship between our peoples through marriage to my daughter?”

“You honor me, lord,” Eivor tells Ceolmund with a knot forming in his throat, making it hard to speak. He bows his head. “I accept your offer of an alliance through marriage.”

MARRIAGE, THE WORD sits bitterly on your tongue after your father, King Ceolmund of Lothian, comes to visit your chambers in a decaying Roman fortress. “Mother would be ashamed!” You spit, fraught with the sudden news of your impending marriage to a heathen —a matter in which you had no say. “Using me as a bartering piece. A pawn in your games.” You’d trusted your father.

“He’s a good man,” your father refutes. Throughout three moons, he felt he had come to know the man who would marry his daughter —an honest man who wished to do right by his people and protect them even if it meant shedding blood and sweat for quarrels that were not his own. Ceolmund could not ask for a better man —Christian or pagan— to marry his daughter. 

You would rather be sworn to the likes of King Aelfred than one of the godless invaders crawling over England. “He’s a heathen!” You cry. “A barbarian!” 

Ceolmund pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long breath. There will be a feast tonight to celebrate his coronation, where he will make the announcement and begin wedding preparations. He will not ask you to feign happiness, only civility. “Please,” Ceolmund says, holding your shaking hands, “all I ask is that you do not insult our new position or friends tonight.” But even that seemed to be a hefty request now. 

“Princess,” Eivor greets, his clear blue gaze kind and voice softened by a cup of ale. “If I may have a word?” Across the table, your father nods, imploring you to take leave of the feast to speak with the man you’d be marrying in less than a fortnight. You lay your hand in Eivor’s as you rise and follow him from the keep, into the cool air of a spring night to a bench facing a northern vista with snowcapped hills far off in the distance. A frown purses his lips as he sees despair mingled with fear overtake your expression —like a newly caged bird who lost her song. “I know you are not happy with this arrangement,” he starts, gaining your attention. From his tone, you can tell he is not particularly happy either, “but know I will not harm you, and I will protect you until the Valkyries summon me home.” 

You trace the sharp features of his face, lingering on the deep scar across his cheek. In your contemplative silence, Eivor reaches for one of your hands —gently holding it within his own, a soft assurance that his words had been sincere. His fingers are rough from long years of work and fighting, and when he folds them around your hand, it makes you feel small —feeble, even. “You are not what I expected, Eivor,” you note, adverting your gaze. 

“What did you expect?” Eivor asks, curious to know if he and his people had been the monsters in the bedtime tales your mother used to tell. It seemed a common thing across England for Norse and Danes to be made out as devils, or worse. 

“I would spare you from my initial thoughts,” you note, quietly with the color of shame on your cheeks, “for now they feel foolish.” Indeed, you were told stories of the Northmen as a child —that they were bloodthirsty, godless barbarians who raped and pillaged across the countryside. While every story had a grain of truth, Eivor Wolfsmal only desires what is best for his people —strong alliances, good friends, fertile land, and a place to rest his head. You lay your hand atop his, offering a reserved smile. “Know you have eased my mind and heart this night.”

EIVOR STEALS YOU away in the afternoon from your loom and threads, leading you to the edge of the mark and a field of wildflowers. A quiet place compared to the bustling streets of Edinburgh —the seat of Lothian— amid celebrations and preparations. Eivor speaks of his childhood with Sigurd, laughing at the foolish things he’d done as a boy. Eivor’s laugh is charming —a low rumble from deep in his chest— and his smile contagious. 

You tell of the time you and a dear friend used boiled wine for an awful prank on your poor mother. Even on her deathbed, you wondered if she ever forgave you for using the wine as fake blood when you stumbled into her solar, holding the hilt of a broken sword against your stomach. 

He spins the stem of a yellow wildflower between his thumb and forefinger as he tells you of his gods. Curiosity had won over you after hearing brief stories from people in the markets about Thor, Loki, and Odin. Eivor leans forward, tucking the flower behind your ear, finishing the tale of Odin’s sacrifice for knowledge after consulting with the embalmed head of Mímir. “He gave his eye?” Eivor nods, and you cringe at the thought of having to pluck your own eye out. 

From above, a raven swoops down, landing on Eivor’s shoulder. His name is Sýnin, and he has been Eivor’s companion for many years. You reach to stroke his oil-slick feathers and are rewarded with a low, gurgling croak before he takes flight again in the light of the setting sun. 

Eivor reclines, arms folded behind his head —looking up at the sky. You lay back too and compelled by a moment of boldness you rest your head on his chest. The fading blue linen tunic he wears in lieu of his leather armor is soft against your cheek. Eivor stiffens at first, then relaxes though a part of him wonders if you can hear his heart beating faster. After a moment of passing silence, he drapes one of his arms across your middle. Above, the sky begins to shift from the soft orange and pinks of sunset to deep indigo. “What do your gods tell you of the stars?”

EIVOR TAKES THE piece of linen from your hands, shaking his head. “You should not have to tend my wounds, princess,” he notes, wiping away the blood running down his arm from a cut near his shoulder. He returned from a hunt with your father, hiding the bloody wound from a skirmish with bandits. It was not grievous, though it bled heavily. Still, even warriors need to have small injuries tended. Even a soured scratch could send the strongest of men to the grave. 

You’ve grown up in an age of continuous small wars between petty kingdoms and Danes alike and have seen the aftermath of missing limbs and burning flesh. Shying away from blood is not in your nature after aiding physicians in infirmaries after battle —especially when it is your future husband who bleeds. “We are to be wed, Eivor,” you remind him, taking the piece of linen back from him, “and so long as your wounds are not beyond my skill, I shall tend them.” He does not protest again. 

He watches a flush of warmth creep up your neck and into your cheeks as your eyes dart over his bare chest —he is broad of shoulders and chest with thick and strong arms to match. Clearing your throat, you dapple away the last drops of blood and move to mix a paste of yarrow powder and water in a small mortar. Eivor winces at the initial sting of the paste on the cut, but it stems any new blood from welling as quick as a hot iron. 

You sit next to him on the straw bed, reaching for one of his hands. Ceolmund had been right. Eivor is a good man. Yet for all the fondness that has grown in your heart, you remain unsure about marriage and what will happen when you must leave the only home you’ve known. The worries gnaw at your mind and heart. Even if you have started to believe you could love Eivor in time —that there is a chance of contentment in this union. His fingers curl around yours, squeezing gently, as though he can sense your trepidations. “Do you think we can be happy with this arrangement?” You ask, voice trembling and gaze focused on your entwined hands. 

Eivor cups your cheek, and you meet his clear blue gaze. At first, he’d been uncertain, upset even with his brother for forcing his hand, but now, after the long days you’ve spent with one another, Eivor has no doubts. “I do,” he replies —echoing the vows he will soon take. “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says with a fleeting smile. Preparations for the wedding had taken longer than anticipated, giving you and Eivor a full month to become acquainted with one another.

“As have I,” you admit. The days you’ve spent with him have been some of the best in recent memory. His thumb absently strokes your cheek, and you smile, leaning into his touch. “Eivor?” He raises his brow in question, letting his hand fall away from your face. A warmth blossoms in your chest, spurring the same type of boldness you felt that evening in the meadow. “May I kiss you?”

“We are to be wed,” he echoes, smiling —lifting both his hands to cup your cheeks. “You need not ask.” Eivor’s close-cropped golden beard tickles and scratches your cheek when you lean forward, closing what distance remains and placing your lips on his. He leads you, parting your lips with a soft sigh. It takes but a moment for you to fall in rhythm and meld against him. You can feel his lips twitch into a smile when one of your hands slides up his chest, the other resting over the mottled patch of skin on his neck.

THE DOORS SHUT, and you jump, suddenly feeling skittish. The wedding ceremony had come to pass, as had the feast and festivities though now you stand in the center of your bedchambers looking upon your blessed marital bed and knowing what is expected of you. Your husband stands before an open window, barefooted and stripped of the pale embroidered tunic from earlier. He complained during the feast about how scratchy it was. “Eivor?” He turns, stepping toward you —brows furrowed. “It is our wedding night,” you note, voice betraying a veneer of strength. 

Eivor grips onto your shoulders, then lets his hands glide up your neck to cup your cheeks, lifting your gaze to his. He does not wish to see fear and doubt in his wife’s eyes. “I promised I would not hurt you–” he kisses your forehead then returns his kindly gaze to you “–I meant that.” You let out a shaky breath, smiling as he runs his thumbs over your cheeks. “My gods can wait,” he tells you, “so can your God and priests.” Eivor moves one of his hands to your waist, resting his forehead on yours. “We are bound by oath, which should be enough.” Before gods and men alike, you took one another as husband and wife in sickness and health. 

You catch his wrist, sliding his hand up from your neck —peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Eivor did not think he gave his heart away so freely, but the knot in his throat as he catches your fleeting smile tells him he had. Loving you was not a difficult feat. 

Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and the streak of bravado returns. With a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts. “Eivor.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer, a soft plead to have you as a husband should have his wife. He pulls on the string at the neck of your shift, loosening it until he can push the thin material off your shoulders. It puddles around your ankles, and though bare, you still hold Eivor’s gaze. He draws in a sharp breath as his eyes dart over the length of your body —it does not escape him that he is the first to see you like this. His eyes darken, though, through the lust, there is a plethora of adoration. 

Calloused fingers caress your sides and stomach, tracing random patterns into your flesh, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He kisses a path along your jaw, a strong hand coming to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place when you shy away from the tickle of his beard. His other hand skims across your waist before settling on your hip, securing you in his hold. 

“Princess–” Eivor breathes, worried one more kiss will make it nigh impossible for him to stop, but you quieten him with your lips, chasing away any hesitance lingering between the two of you of what lies in store for the night.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer till he sweeps your feet out from under you —laughing at your surprised squeak as he carries you to bed. Eivor lays you on the soft pelts of fur, his weight hovering above you, braced on his forearms. Cupping his face in your hands, you ignore the prickly bite of his beard as you kiss him again, your knees bracketing his hips, brushing against the patched linen and leather of his britches. “You’re sweeter than Freyja, wife,” he muses, kissing the soft swell of your breast —the lingering scent of roses and raspberries tickling his nose. 

Kissing his way down your chest, he drags his teeth across one of your nipples, giving the other a quick tweak. Chills spread across your flesh as you arch into his mouth —hands slipping into his hair. Hands gripping your thighs, Eivor urges you to part your legs wider for him. Doing as instructed, you watch, breathlessly, as he moves across your stomach, leaving open mouth kisses in his wake. Eivor drags his beard against your hip, nipping at the skin there. The warmth in your belly turns to flames. 

Twitching in his hold, you clutch the pelts beneath your hands —heart pounding in anticipation. Eivor in no rush, for there are many hours until the crows sing. He kisses your inner thighs, hot breath fanning against you. The first brush of his tongue has you sighing his name, eyes sliding shut as he laps at your slick folds. Holding your legs open, he makes love to you with his mouth alone. Eivor relishes in the small, obscene noises you make while trembling above him —his cock twitches, but he ignores his desires a moment longer. He leaves no part of you left untouched, his mouth finding every nook and crevice, laving and suckling to his heart's content. 

You burn, the fire in your belly demanding more, cunt fluttering around his tongue, aching for relief. “Eivor,” you whimper, chest heaving as your tug at his golden hair, fingers clutching at his unbound strands. He grunts, huffing a ragged chuckle when your hips move of their own accord —thighs fighting his iron grip. Eivor nuzzles at you, spreading you open with his thumbs. You cry out at the first touch of his tongue to your clit, but then he wraps his lips around the swollen bundle, tongue flicking out. Your body bends to his will, as though you are but wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter. 

Enraptured, you barely notice when he eases one finger into your warmth and then a second —slowly thrusting and stroking. The flames in your belly flood your veins, and with a wordless moan, you give in to the hedonistic haze —it feels as though nothing matters beyond this with the waves and sparks fizzing through your blood. 

Eivor wheedles you down from the high, gradually, murmuring words of praise between your thighs —how beautiful you looked in the throes of passion, how sweet you tasted, finer than sweet honey mead. He eases his fingers from you and crawls back up your body, retracing a similar path with kisses and soft nips. When he kisses you, you can taste your essence of his lips and tongue and feel the hard length pressing against your inner thigh through his pants. It makes you ache with need and want.

Fumbling with the ties of his pants and underpants, Eivor hurriedly pushes them down his legs and tossing them to the side, wedging himself back between your thighs. You feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your folds, his hips rocking back-and-forth as he coats himself in your slick. Heart racing, your body cries out at his languid teasing. Eivor lowers his mouth to your shoulder, worrying the skin between his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. 

One of his hands moves slips between the bed and your back, moving further to cradle the back of your head as he guides himself with his free hand into your warmth. You grip onto his shoulder, nails digging into his back as he presses forward, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his girth until he is fully seated —hips flush against yours. With only a thin line dividing pleasure from pain, you understand why the act could be sacrilege in the eyes of God, nothing should make a man or woman feel so divine. 

He braces his weight on bent forearms, one of his hands cupping your cheek as he skims your expression for pain or discomfort. He finds none, only a soft smile and hazy, lust-darkened eyes. You guide him down, kissing him —draping one of your legs across the back of his thigh. “Eivor?” A low hum resounds his acknowledgment, though he busies himself leaving a soft line of kisses from the corner of your lips to your temple. “You can move now,” you tell him —pushing your hips up into his. 

Eivor kisses you, his tongue parting your lips as he rocks his hips back and presses forward —swallowing a soft gasp and then another as he draws back further. It’s a slow rhythm of long and deep strokes that lets you feel the slow drag of his cock with each thrust. He hovers above you, punctuating some thrusts with a kiss and others with a raspy curse to the gods. You draw your legs up his sides, spreading them wider —welcoming Eivor to claim you as he desires. 

Every push and pull of his hips brings him deeper inside you. Eivor pants at your ear, his breathing ragged and strained as his pace falters —thrusts growing quicker and rougher as he seeks his release. Beneath your palms, the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple, contracting with each thrust. 

The hand tangled in your hair disappears —rough fingers sliding between your breasts and across your stomach, down to where your body is joined with his. He presses his thumb against your clit, stroking and rubbing circles, and smiles against your neck at his reward —soft cries of his name mingled with breathy moans and the feel of your walls fluttering around his cock. 

A low hiss escapes him when your nails scrap over the skin of his back and shoulders, seeking purchase as you tremble and writhe —tilting your head back into a pillow, back arching from the bed. The flames from earlier return, taking hold of you and spreading through your veins in a hot wave. Eivor’s name topples from your lips like a prayer as you cling to him, body shaking and driving him closer to his end. 

You squeeze him with your thighs and grip onto his biceps, thrumming with pleasure as he ruts into you, grunting. With another thrust, his body shudders, and his hips still as his cock twitches deep inside your warmth. Eivor’s lips part as he lets out a string of curses and praises —moaning. You cup his face, smoothing the furrow in his brows and tracing the deep scar on his cheek. Shaking, he rolls his hips into yours thrice more and accepts your kiss when you guide him down to your lips again.

Spent, Eivor lays his head on your breast and memorizes the feel of your sweat slicken bodies flush against one another. You drape an arm around his shoulders, stroking back his golden hair. A good arrangement, he thinks to himself, kissing the soft skin next to his lips. “I am proud and happy to call you my wife,” he breathes, turning his clear blue gaze up to you. He hadn’t a true choice in this marriage, but given the chance, he would still choose you a hundred times over. 

His words make your heart swell with warmth and bring tears to your eyes. “I feel the same, husband,” you note —fingers combing through his beard. Only a short time has passed, but it seems as if the two of you were always meant to find one another —heresy be damned. It had not taken long, but you are certain you already love him. 

Lying there in each other’s arms, time slows to an eternity. You whine when he slides his softening cock out of you —leaving an empty feeling as his warm seed trickles down your thighs. He chuckles as he moves from the bed and gathers up a linen towel. He thinks you a sight to behold lying atop the furs with wild hair and a debauched smile. Eivor cleans the mess between your legs and soothes the few red marks on your hips and thighs with quick kisses before rejoining you beneath the covers. 

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Eivor presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair. “Rest, princess,” he breathes, knowing the gods had been good to lead him to a woman like you.

THE LONGSHIP COMES to dock before a bustling borough in the heart of Mercia. Eivor offers his hand, helping you onto the wharf. After spending the majority of a week on the river, it is good to feel solid ground beneath your feet for more than a hasty meal or uneasy rest on the riverbanks. “Princess-” Eivor smiles, motioning toward the people and the wooden storefronts and homes set before the longhouse rising from a hill “–Ravensthorpe.” Love and pride fill his heart, spilling over into a bright smile and voice. You glance the settlement and back to your husband, placing a quick kiss on his scarred cheek before taking the well-trodden path to the longhouse. 

A band of excited children races toward the docks with a white-and-grey wolf cub nipping at their heels, shouting with glee at Eivor’s return. It’s been months since Eivor last helped with their lessons or played with them by the waterfall. They take him by storm and force. At the bottom pile, you can make out his deep laughter among the excited cries. You cannot help but smile. Eivor Wolfsmal is loved, not just by you, but his people. 

He rises from the ground, smiling as he brushes off the dirt from his tunic, having whispered something to the rowdy group that sent them running for the longhouse. “Felled by children and a wolf pup. Are you sure you’re a drengr?” You ask, laughing as you pluck a small clot of grass from his hair and wipe away the streak of mud on his unmarred cheek. 

Eivor’s eyes narrow, lips kinking into a taunting smirk. “Are you mocking me, wife?” He challenges. 

You clutch your heart, feigning offense at his accusation. “The mighty Eivor?” He raises a brow at the moniker. Mighty, it is a title he could get used to, just as he had grown used to hearing you call him husband in a sweet, singsong voice. “Never,” you smile. 

Word of his return spreads quickly, and before the merchant’s tent, most of the settlement gathers, smiling as they welcome Eivor home and are equally as quick to embrace you as one of their own. All doubts are chased away when Eivor wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your temple, smiling. “Welcome home,” he breathes —it is good to be back in Ravensthorpe, but even better to have you at his side. 

[taglist:  @kvitravn​ @vanillabeanlattes  @nemo-my-name-forevermore​  @withered-poppies​ @ananriel​ @britishhotassassin @maximalblaze​ @khaoskrossed @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved​ @elizabethroestone​ @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling]

if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!  

[breakfaststuffs]

Fluctuations

Pairing: Bucky x Reader!Powers

Warnings: Language

A/N: I blame @angrythingstarlight for inspiring me to start this...thing. I don’t know what it is but I have done it. Lurker turned whatever.

Please, do not copy, translate, rewrite or post my work even if you credit me.

----------

“Fuck,” you hissed as you scrambled up the 6th flight of stairs in a desperate bid to outrun your pursuers. As soon as your eyes had landed on that tell-tale skull and tentacle laden logo, you just knew that things would go sideways.

Even as your calves burned and begged for a rest, you hauled yourself up the last set of stairs and spilled out onto the roof with a gasp of exhaustion and you made a wobbly dash over to the fire escape. Making one last adjustment to the straps of your backpack, you felt reassured that the weight of the stolen goods were still nestled between your shoulders and reached for the ladder.

“You should probably just hand it over, you know,” a voice stated simply from above and, in all of his winged-glory, Captain America landed softly on the rooftop a few feet behind you. Another half-second later, the person you had been hauling ass from silently appeared to the left of Sam Wilson and you felt frozen to the spot as his sharp blue eyes trained in on your face.

A bead of sweat trickled down your neck and you just knew that the wig you had worked so hard to affix on top of your hair was now very obvious and askew. You let out a breath you did not know you had been holding and let the reality of your situation settle over your shoulders.

Grasping the straps a little tighter to summon up your courage, you took a few unsteady steps to the side to be clear of the fire escape and then turned to dive off the roof. You heard a rush of raised voices behind you and a shuffle of movement before the world turned into a dark blur rushing up to meet you.

“Fuck!” you yelp as you dropped.

----------

Life has never been easy for you and, after coming back from the blip, it had gotten insurmountably worse.

Before the blip, you had managed to find security in your work and in your own personal life. The design firm you worked at was lobbing more work for high priority clients your way and there were signs that your boyfriend was close to proposing. You wished that you could share your accomplishments with your parents, but the fates had decided to remove them from the equation 3 years earlier in a sudden clash of metal and rubber that had permanently left a part of your heart hollow and numb.

The moment your life shattered for a second time was right after you had completed your usual circuit run around the neighborhood to help burn off some of the extra energy that had built up with the excitement of your sister finally visiting you in the city. Your sister was an hour out from touchdown and as you chatted over the phone with your boyfriend about dinner plans for the evening a sudden shock of cold settled low in your belly. Whatever words were on your tongue faded and drifted into nothingness.

The next thing you knew was you were standing in the same spot on the sidewalk with a gasp and were immediately bowled over by a jogger who seemed just as shocked as you were. From there, the disorientation only grew as the ripples of the repercussions of having the returned trying to find normalcy in a world that had moved on grew into tidal waves.

It was bad enough that your apartment and belongings were lost, your boyfriend had married someone else and the company you were working for had since dissolved. The true horror came when you realized that your sister had been flying 30,000 feet above the ground the moment of the blip. You had screamed until your throat was raw and the tears had gone dry as you realized your world had ended.

Thanks to government assistance, you had a roof over your head, but you were adrift in your loss and felt directionless for the first couple of months after your return. It wasn’t until you had saddled up at a bar that was one of your father’s favorite drinking spots did a sliver of hope crept back into your life. 

As you took another long pull from your glass, a gentle weight landed on your shoulder and the barstool next to you was quickly occupied by a sharp-dressed man with a disarmingly soft smile.

“Hey, [Y/N]. Did not expect to see you here,” the stranger said with a chuckle as he raised his hand to flag down the bartender. 

“Oh, didn’t really expect me to be here, either. But, sorry, do I know you…?”, you questioned with a thread of wariness stitched in your words. It also didn’t help matters that single touch on the shoulder was the first human contact you’d had in weeks. Deep down, you felt another layer of despair settle in the back of your mind.

“Ah, sorry about that. You see, I knew your old man and he was never shy about showing off how proud he was of his daughters. But, [Y/N], he really did go on about how special you were.”

You couldn’t keep the watery smile from your lips as you extended out your hand to his for a shake. “Well, glad to make your acquaintance…,” you left the word hanging as his hand grasped your hand firmly in his.

“Michael,” he said with a chuckle as he gave the bartender a quick nod as a glass of whiskey slid his way, “Nice to be finally meeting you.” He dropped your hand and snatched up the glass to raise it up into the air in front of him. “Here’s to your father,” he spoke as he took a gulp of the amber liquid.

“Yeah, to my dad...and all those we’ve lost,” you toast and raised your own glass to your lips.

“So, since you’re here drinking at 2 o’clock on a Tuesday, I am guessing that things aren’t going that well for you,” Michael pointed out with a sympathetic smile. Looking around the bar, it was clear that the majority of the current patrons were either in the middle of drinking their sorrows away or well-past an attempt at redeeming themselves. You had to wonder where you landed on that depressing spectrum.

“That obvious, huh?”, you sighed as you took another sip of your drink. “Everything that I worked for is gone and I don’t know how to even remotely get back on track. Just trying to get out of bed with a plan makes my head spin most days.”

“Well maybe I can help you start on a new path, [Y/N]. You see, your father sure could put away his drink and he had a hard time keeping his mouth shut when he got too two sheets to the wind. Now, he sometimes did a few odd jobs here and there for me and my associates over the years and it was bound to happen that he would start talking about you…” his eyes slid over to lock onto yours as he gulped down the content of his glass and, without breaking eye contact, threw the bartender another sign for a refill.

You had been in the middle of taking a sip of your beer when he dropped his insinuating remark and you suddenly found yourself wide-eyed and choking on your beverage. You heard him give a chuckle as you desperately tried to recover from the surprise and you shot a glare in his direction.

“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m offering you a job opportunity that will land you enough money to build whatever future you want. I just wanted to let you know that your special skills make you a very appealing candidate.”, he said as he leaned over and gave you a few encouraging pats on the back.

Of course, the one person in her life that had ever discovered her abilities and swore to secrecy would have spilled the beans. She had fought so hard to hide that she was different and it wasn’t until her father had burst back in exclaiming he’d left the keys on the kitchen counter and found her lifting the couch easily with one had to pick up the remote at 16 did the secret get out. Once he had stopped gaping like a fish at her, the onslaught of questions and a never-ending stream of curiosity continuously poured down for years.

“How much did he say?,” you murmured bitterly.

“Enough to know that you can get the job done. Now, you weren’t the only one to take a few losses after coming back. Turns out a few of our properties fell out of our control while most of the family was gone. Word is that one of our old buildings downtown was hiding a bit of a secret in the basement that had managed to stay undiscovered until someone else started renovating our property.” Michael’s voice took on a bit of a hard edge as he wrapped up the last sentence.

“Seems like they are having a hard time getting inside, but we want to know what’s inside and for you to get anything valuable out for us. And that, my dear, is where you would come in.”

“Wait, why exactly do you need me? What is it that is stopping you from just walking in and taking it?”, you ask with words laced with suspicion.

“Your father always said you were clever.”, he smirked as he gave you a small toast in acknowledgement. “For whatever reason, we think the government might be interested in what is rightfully ours. Just in case they send in a more specialized cavalry, we figure it would be safest to send in one of our own.”

“Less collateral damage, yeah?”, you scoff as you finished off your pint.

“Exactly, [Y/N]. I knew you’d be smart enough to catch on. So, want to know how much you stand to make?”, he said with a knowing grin.

You took in a deep breath, set your empty glass on the bar and swiped a hand across your face in resignation. “Sure. What do I have to lose?”

“Nothing at all, kid. Nothing at all.”

----------

You let yourself free fall for a split second before you let your body’s density shift. You suddenly dropped down to the ground and, right before you would leave a crater in the pavement below, you made yourself as light as a feather. You almost landed daintily on one toe before you bolted towards an alley to your right. You were well aware that Captain America would almost immediately be airborne, but you were so close to a very noisy, pedestrian choked city thoroughfare two blocks over. 

Making sure you were light enough on your feet to gain a substantial amount of speed, you didn’t bother looking up or back as you booked it into the busy city street. Once in the throngs of people, you jerked off the wig you were wearing and shook out your hair with a grateful sigh. You unzipped your jacket to wrap it around your waist and then shifted the backpack to sit on the front of your chest. You hoped that it would be enough as you did your damnedest to nonchalantly make your way to the drop-off spot.

You kept waiting for the hammer (well, more like shield) to drop as you walked, but as time wore on nothing happened. By the time that you stepped in though the heavy double doors of a rather upscale restaurant and were led off to a separate dining room, you were almost in shock at how you had managed to get away with it. 

“Ah, [Y/N], our hero returns!” Michael proclaimed proudly as he stood up when you entered the room. He offered to take the backpack from you and wrapped his arm around you as he corralled you over to a table near the back window. Two more men were seated at the table and their auras were far-less boisterous than the man who gave your shoulders a warm squeeze before setting you down at the head of the table.

As he opened up your backpack and spread out the haul across the table, Michael gave a sharp whistle and the dour mood shared between the other men quickly dissipated. “Now these look rather impressive. Who would have known we were sitting on top of a secret stash of Hydra weapons all these years? I know this can’t be all of it. How much did you leave behind?”

You shrugged and you gave a gentle shake of your head at the question. “There wasn’t too much left, but there were at least two boxes I didn’t get a chance to go through before I heard someone coming. I was able to start running before they had a chance to realize I had broken the door down in the first place…” 

“Well, job well done. My associates and I are pleased with your work.” He flashed you a smile before reaching down into a briefcase to grab a couple of stacks of hundred dollar bills that he stuffed into your backpack. He walked over and dropped the backpack into your lap before placing his hands on your shoulders. “Let’s have a drink to [Y/N]’s success tonight and to our continued relationship.”

He gave your shoulders a tighter squeeze that was borderline painful as he spoke. You knew that you might be way in over your head, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. This was something different and it felt better than drowning in failure.

----------

The next day you found yourself actually happy to get out of bed. You damn near whistled as you brewed up a cup of coffee for yourself and you bothered to even clean yourself up for a change. When your eyes fell upon the backpack that sat upon your plywood table and you couldn’t help the wide grin that spread across your lips. Things were finally looking up.

Taking stock at your lack of food in your apartment, you decided to grab a few of the bills out of the backpack and to head down to the local corner store that always had some amazing fresh produce out on display. With your stomach growling at the thought of food, you tucked the money into your back jean pocket and sauntered out the door.

You gave a quick wave to the owner as you grabbed a basket and started to peruse over in the direction of the fresh fruit. Spotting some jazz apples that were catching the morning light and your attention, you slid over to reach out and grab a few when your hand ended up grabbing at leather instead of an apple.

You blinked owlishly before jerking your head up to see who had blocked you from your potential breakfast. Any words you had died in your throat as your heart felt like it was seizing in your chest. A pair of steely blue eyes met yours and the expression in those orbs went from surprise then quickly morphed into something far more accusatory.

With your brain suddenly working overdrive and any rational thought flying out the window, you let out the breath you had been holding shakingly and brilliantly said the first thing that came to you.

“So, uh, come here often?”

Those eyes narrowed just a fraction more and you knew you were doomed.

----------

So, should I continue this or nah? This is my first...so please be gentle.

[healer-rosier]

cigarette butts; saving everyone but yourself; stargazer; deep breaths; black coffee; the scent of a forest after it rains; rose petals; bloodied knuckles; talking to plants to help them grow; conflicted thoughts; there to offer a helping hand; breakfast in bed; uncertain paths; holding hands beneath the table; kill them with kindness.

Biography. Pinterest. Spotify.

NAME: Evan Rosier NICKNAMES: Currently under the impression his name is short enough to not need one. FACECLAIM: Manny Jacinto GENDER/PRONOUNS/SEXUALITY: Cis-Male, He/Him, Bisexual, claims he’s straight when asked AGE & BIRTHDATE: 29, September 28 BIRTH PLACE: France - A rather unexpected delivery while his parents were vacationing on the coast CURRENTLY LIVING IN: A rather large two bedroom flat in London shared with Theodosia and a puppy POSITIVE TRAITS: Compliant, intelligent, determined, quick-witted, even-tempered, resourceful, kind NEGATIVE TRAITS: Cunning, anxious, deceptive, charming, empathetic, kind

~ APPEARANCE ~

HAIR: Shoulder length, black HEIGHT: 6′2″ WEIGHT: Average COMPLEXION: Fair TATTOOS: CAN BE FOUND HERE - Snake along the left side of his torso, dragon along the right side of his torso, tree around the upper half of his left arm, pagoda around the upper half of his right arm, couple embracing at the top of his right hip, and flowers along his left calf to cover his scars SCARS: Three thin lines that run parallel along his calf, gained from misbehaving as a child ANY OTHER IDENTIFYING MARK(S): Begrudgingly has a Dark Mark - the begrudging part of that mainly stemming from believing something more creative/better looking/less in your face could have been used. NOTABLE ACCESSORIES: Evan has a tactical first aid kit shrunken down to fit into one of the pockets of his robes - constantly on him for the sake of preferring being safe over being sorry.

~ INTERESTS ~

FAVORITE FOOD: Beluga’s Almas caviar (What can I say, he has has expensive taste) FAVORITE MUSIC: Classical/anything that involves string instruments FAVORITE COLOR: Sapphire CLOTHING STYLE / PREFERENCES: CAN BE FOUND HERE. HOBBIES: He’s pretty good at Wizard’s Chess. Plays piano and cello. Can sing but does not do so in public. Evan can also cook and prefers doing so over having a house elf prep meals. ROLE MODEL: He looked up to his father while growing up and has outgrown that. LIKES: Cigars, dancing, tending to his plants, reading, going on runs DISLIKES: People that talk too much, getting interrupted, large crowds

~ HEADCANONS ~

Evan cooks when stressed. He’s skilled at cooking full meals and desserts, preferring to use the family’s house elf as a means of getting ingredients instead of doing the cooking.

Herbology is a passion of his. Evan has a full blown greenhouse on the Rosier property, growing healing ingredients and vegetables for dinner.

He’s accepted he’s a girl dad at this point in his life and will happily admit his kids have him wrapped around their fingers.

[healerrosier]

Much like Emma, Evan was finding the spy role exhausting. 

He had managed to keep his mark a secret over the years and was reaching the point where keeping the secret felt just as damaging as saying nothing about it. The role he had once happily taken was growing more and more damning as the weeks went by. How was he to know that keeping the role a secret would prove exhausting once he let his guard down enough to allow Order members in enough to make it past the vapid looks of disinterest he usually wore?

There had been no preparing for appreciating the people that were supposedly the enemy. No preparation past his knowing his thoughts would need to be guarded once it came down to reporting back to the cause he was supposed to be serving. The information he was providing had been vague as of recent — enough detail to not seem suspicious yet not enough information to form a proper idea. Still just enough info to avoid risk the Dark Lord or Theo accusing him of deliberately not giving enough information over.

He had been about to go into Borgin and Burkes to request an appraisal of an heirloom that was at the Rosier estate when he nearly walked into Emma. His right arm flew up to offer a steadying hand and he looked her over a moment before speaking.

“Alright there, Emma?” Evan arched a brow at her. “I usually pay better attention,” He paused to glance at the door of the shop in question, grimacing at the closed sign on it. “But it seems just my luck that they would be shut for lunch the only time my schedule allowed me to drop by for a visit.”

Where: Knockturn Alley

When: 20th of June, 1984

Who: @healerrosier​

Being a spy was exhausting for a multitude of reasons. 

First and foremost, it was like having two jobs at once. It was as though the Order was her day job. Whatever tasks they had for her to do, she’d hop around, seeing to them. Or else, she’d go to the same teas, luncheons, or parties she otherwise would have, all under the guise of ‘obtaining information’ for the Order. And then, she had her secondary, after hours job. The job that didn’t always call, but when it did, she was expected to come. Quickly. And provide what information she’d managed to gather. 

And now Emma found herself working harder to try and avoid having anything of actual value to report back. She tried to play into the role she’d perfected in school. The beautiful little fool. The carefully crafted image of little Emma Vanity, without so much as a single thought of value in her head. When the reality was her mind was working a mile a minute to keep herself (and more importantly, her family) out of trouble. 

All this to say, Emma was tired. And as such, she wasn’t paying terribly close attention as her feet moved on their own accord. She didn’t realize she’d taken a turn that would take her further away from her cozy flat until she passed Borgin and Burkes. Emma sighed, turning around to walk back out of Knockturn Alley, when she very nearly crashed into Evan Rosier. 

“Oh! Oh, I’m sorry- hello Evan.” It seemed work was following her as she attempted to flee for a few hours rest. Both lines of work. 

[healerrosier]

Evan & @franklylongsuffered​ 26 June, 1984, Leaky Cauldron

Diving right back into work hadn’t been a good call. Evan wouldn’t complain about it but there was no denying he should have taken an additional day off instead of going in. It made him feel old. Even with his pushing thirty, his energy levels hadn’t been anything to worry about. He had been handling everything on his plate in a way that hadn’t left him feeling nearly as drained as the days after the mission had left him. He was at a point of being ready to go home and curl up with Theo but seeking out Frank was a must. With a limited amount of people he could trust and knowing he didn’t want to dump everything on Theo, there was no other choice but to open up a little more than he typically would allow with Frank.

A tired smile creased over Evan’s lips when Frank approached, having claimed a booth and not ordered anything due to not being certain he wanted to drink in the first place. Alcohol wasn’t a favorite of his, often saving the indulging on it for social experiences unless he was up to brewing something at home. “Evening, Longbottom,” He greeted then tilted his head toward the open spot across from him. “I’m grateful you agreed to join me. I don’t think Theo would have taken kindly to my pacing the length of our flat again if I’d gone straight home.”