#the groves and clearings are my favorite

[a-thirst-for-dunmer]

thinking about all the little locations in skyrim that don’t get that much reputation but could be GREAT for worldbuilding. Kjenstag Ruins, probably named for a long-forgotten Nord hero. Clearspring Tarn, where hunters come to make coin off the thirsty deer. Evergreen Grove, a tiny little pond ripe with nirnroot that many an alchemist has perished at due to the Spriggans it holds.

Just all the little natural glades and places that aren’t chock full of treasure or enemies but still hold beauty in their own right a decade or so later

[artuurle]

traditional and digital doodles i made in a fervor without a runnin theme + bonus doodles related lol:

[asteropewpew]

dearest shooting star 🌠

loving anaxagoras felt similar to the momentary awe whenever you spot a shooting star. that quick, brilliant flash of light streaking across the midnight sky, so vivid and arrogantly defiant against the moon.

i shine brighter than you, it would say to the soft glow of the moonlight illuminating the late night. this shooting star was so bright that it seemingly cut a large swathe across like very definite sword strike, all the while burning up the rest of itself during the end of their cosmic journey. so look only at me.

"Your students looked quite... apoplectic." You look observed, tone filled with knowing amusement as you watched his students amble their way out of his classroom with varying expressions of frustration. Or in some cases, with a look of absolute vengeance. "A lively morning earlier then, yes?"

Anaxagoras doesn't quite chuckle, but the small, involuntary huff as his lips curved slightly in smug glee gives away his current sentiment regarding his students. His form tilted slightly forward as he turned to face you, a pair of vivid seafoam eyes gleaming brightly with all the knowledge and intellect that captivated your attention like a treacherous lure.

It's both fortunate and unfortunate (for your heart), that your own class ends at just around the time that his class ends—with the bell tolling overhead to signal the students to do a self-study session (or exchange shared moments of misery) at numerous amphitheaters or at the central library of the Grove.

"As always, our class ended with another debate."

"About the gods, Professor?"

"Naturally." Given his rather vocal stance as a blasphemer, it was no surprise that his students had seen fit to challenge him to yet another debate. More likely in hopes to humble him rather than commit to any intellectual exchange, you mused. "And as always, they are infuriated whenever I poke out the holes in their arguments."

"Their collective spite would end up with you getting killed one day, you know?" A lie. For as notorious as Anaxagoras had been in criticizing the actions of the Flame-Chase Journey right alongside, his students had somehow decided that he was deserving of their gifts and...other knick knacks that you were most definitely sure were priceless antiques.

Poor Hyacine who's been given more work by the rising mess around his office, no doubt. Although Anaxagoras' new student named Phainon had been mentioned as some sort of precious antique collector and appraiser, which made organizing things much easier, if any.

"If they commit as much dedication to verbally eviscerate me on court trials and debates, they should focus it on their thesis proposals." The sneer in his face made your lips quirk into a smile.

"You should really stop goading your cute little students, Professor Anaxagoras."

He opened his mouth, likely retorting his favorite correction before realization caught his would-be misstep. The small "tch" made your smile widen even as he shot you a warning glare, not missing your clear attempt at throwing him off despite following his numerous insistence regarding the matter with his name. "Telling me how to handle my students now, Professor?"

It should feel criminal how your name comes out of his mouth in a slow, lilting drawl. Almost indulging, if you were to entertain your own fanciful whispers.

"Just a word of advice as a fellow lecturer." But his unimpressed look told you as much about just how convincing your excuse is.

loving anaxagoras felt like loving a shooting star. there is joy in catching that moment of fleeting beauty across the sky, knowing that it would forever be different from any other shooting stars in the world. but like all things, even shooting stars are unforgiving towards their admirers.

they were utterly beautiful in their destruction, the broken fragments carrying with it such a devastating power that perhaps a part of you would break in return; echoing the shatter of a brilliant celestial body with your own hapless heart.

"What did you do?" You rushed to ask, voice trembling ever so slightly as you looked at the ragged exhaustion across Anaxagoras' face.

"Merely created something that puts us in equal standing with the gods." He sounded victorious, as if the price of his triumph wasn't riddled with blood and pain. Anaxagoras looked inappropriately disheveled, clothes rumpled and singed at some of the hems—pale blue hair clinging to his face that was full of grime and sweat and a few cuts here and there. "And I have succeeded in finally making it useable."

There are tremors in his hands, visible ones and you couldn't take your eyes away from the inflamed skin where the bright red of the Philosopher's stone adorned his right hand. Instantly, you feel the impossibly heavy weight of his trust in allowing you inside his personal alchemical laboratory.

There's a myriad of things that you could say to him, and yet all of it would make you nothing more than a hypocrite who allowed the one that you cherished most to completely ruin himself in pursuit of knowledge. All those years that had you faithfully shadowing him in his unquenchable thirst for answers, barely managing to reel him back just in time before he truly hurtled towards the deep end.

All those years of endless exasperation and countless debates as you hurried to catch up to him, all of it cultivated into biting back down a few choices of words directed at his dangerous recklessness. "Really? Treating yourself so poorly while you're in an experimental binge doesn't quite count as a logical course of action."

You hurriedly knelt down beside him as you brought out a roll of fresh bandages from your satchel, and he was mindful enough to not give you much grief as he obediently placed his trembling hands in your hands.

"Am I ever in danger with my own experiments?" His retort made you purse your lips as you carefully started tending to his wounds, a deep frown crossing your face for all that your hands remained gentle in treating his injuries.

The silence that followed, was a little stifled. Even with you, as immersed in your irritation and worries, didn't fail to notice the tension lining over his shoulders.

"This won't be the last." In the end, it was Anaxagoras who broke the silence, sounding a little gruff as he ducked his head to avoid your gaze. "I still need to find the answers to my new questions... far too many thing—"

"Be that as it may," you interrupted his halfhearted reasons with a pointed glare, "you are still expected to teach your own students instead of passing all them off to me every time you get possessed in doing your experiments!"

He tilted his head in consideration, as if only belatedly recalling that he had spent longer in his laboratory than he had expected.

"The brats should know better than compare you with me." The stupid, foolish, heretic scholar with one of the sharpest minds of today, missed your very non-subtle show of concern. Amazing. Truly a mind of the ages indeed. "And besides, you're the only one that wouldn't revise my lesson plan without consulting me first. Or make those impressionable students learn something that they shouldn't waste their time."

"No, I just want to get them off me because I'm tired of grading forty students every week on two different subjects."

"..." The foolish professor didn't even try to object, knowing better than to test your limits.

You also refrained from pointing out that his students have this weird tendency to debate with any professors that even dared to make them stray off his meticulous curriculum, for all that they are keen to put him through the wringer for at least once before they could graduate. "No personal laboratory time for at least a while."

"You can't possibly demand that of me."

The smile on your face dared him to argue any further than this. "I believe Hyacine would appreciate being notified of your... occupational injuries."

There's another beat of silence, but it was a little easier this time. Familiar.

Although your worries still made your chest grow tight, his disgruntled look soothed something within you as he obediently tilted his head up for you to dab at the small cuts and abrasions across his face.

Even more, the victory was sweeter when Anaxagoras eventually grumbled in defeat.

loving anaxagoras felt a little like condemning yourself to watching the fleeting destruction of a shooting star. you, a criminal who was sentenced to chase and watch the one that you loved the most, meet his own end with the most joyous laugh that you've heard from him.

anaxagoras who would completely burn up himself upon reaching the zenith of his journey, content in defying the tranquility of the evening night in a blaze of brilliant light. the false sky, as he had claimed, with eyes sparkling like the simulated constellations in the astronomy laboratory where alchemy fabricates a sky without the threat of aquila's temperamental gaze.

how you wanted, to valiantly preserve that shine without losing the brilliance that belonged to anaxagoras and his endless curiosity. except he was the kind of person who was never meant to be caged, confined and conforming to conventional ideas.

because he was always and foremost, meant to be free.

(and you could only hope that he can come back to you from time to time, if his time permits it; which was a factor that was slowly getting dwindling with each passing day.)

...Perhaps you'd have known it then, that he wouldn't simply just stop at embedding a Philosopher's stone in his right hand. That nothing could truly ever satiate his thirst in finding out the intricacies wrapped around Amphoreus and the ever-enduring Flame-Chase journey.

That he would embody your most favorite celestial body in all its vivid, and gut-wrenching beauty like this.

"Anaxa—are you crazy?!"

You saw him, slumped over the pillars of the central table while the contents in his personal laboratory which looked as if a veritable storm had swept upon it. Potions and vials lay shattered all over the ground, his alchemical gun lying innocuously beside him while numerous papers full of almost unrecognizable scrawls were scattered on the floor.

For a brief, frightening moment, you feared the worst.

"My name...is Anaxa...goras," he rasped after a moment, lone eye a little dull and unfocused as he struggled to recollect his thoughts when you rushed over to him. "Do not...call me Anaxa."

"And very soon, those words will be your last words if you don't get to the Courtyard as fast you can!" Panic was laced in your voice as you tried to check whether he had any debilitating injuries that require a mad dash to the Courtyard.

(Thin. He's thinner again.)

"This is a...culmination of my life's research and a milestone...regarding my capabilities," he argued, wheezing as he bared his teeth in an attempt to hide his pain when he tried to shift his position as you carefully prodded at his form.

"Which would be utterly useless if you don't make a patent of it while you're still alive," you snapped, finally letting out a breath when your preliminary search yielded nothing but a couple of bruises and symptoms of dehydration alongside exhaustion. "Have you truly decided to throw your life away like the foolish blasphemer that you are?"

Ever since he came back from that one conversation with Empedocles after he'd lost his eye, you know that he was a little different.

Sharper perhaps, much more intense as he had been before. Yet he looked perpetually weary, for all that his back stood tall and unwavering while handing out criticisms and advice for his students and fellow scholars.

As if he was always desperately running towards something that remained just out of reach.

"Why...do you care anyway? You're always so...meddlesome." The question made your heart grow still. It felt like being in the middle of Aidonia's harshest snowstorm, the wind howling at your foolishness for daring to even hope. "Don't you understand...why I must...do this?"

He is so thoughtlessly cruel at times, your dearest shooting star.

"I can't accept that what you're doing is so important that you would throw away your entire life for it." You didn't beg, but all of your emotions saturated each and every word. "Please, just take a break, Anaxagoras. There is time. You have time."

"Nothing is more important than seeing the Truth...of the false sky." His voice was hoarse, yet unwavering with the weight of his own conviction and obsessive desire. "And proving that...the Flame-Chase journey is not so linear in its approach. Everything else...was just an afterthought."

"Perhaps I had thought too highly of our time spent together." It hurt, when you could sense nothing but the genuine truth laced in his words. He's definitely suffered some sort of altered mental status right now, but it did little to lessen the sting. "And that my effort towards a dear colleague and companion, was nothing more than a show of charity in your eyes."

Anaxagoras didn't speak, nor did he even need to, as he had finally passed out in abject exhaustion and pain-filled sleep.

(Perhaps it was the best, that he couldn't hear the bitter disappointment in your voice.)

You allowed yourself a look, a last glance, feeling like you've swallowed knives with each indication of self-neglect over his form. His clothes were bigger than it should be on him, not to the point of fright but enough just to indicate how much he's foregone sustenance at least multiple times. Likewise, there's a clear expression of exhaustion in his face. His clothes were disheveled, likely from his latest stunt more than an unconscious habit—but he looked utterly... small in that moment.

It would be easy to hate him. To rage and hate his foolishness, the ease in how he discarded his own present in favor of crafting a future that he had decided that was not his to see. The sheer hypocrisy by how passionate he was in insisting the sanctity of life and autonomy over "misguided notions" of honor and obligation, when each of his choices had contributed to his eventual ruin.

But you couldn't.

Despite all your frustrations and concerns, you never would be able to hate him for as much as you cherish him.

You know you were not so important as to be able to anchor his feet, but you can't help but wish you were.

loving anaxa meant suffering from daring to attempt that you could handle the intensity of a shooting star. it's like being a moth drawn to his vibrant flame, helplessly oblivious to the eventual agony of being burned alive.

you loved still loved your shooting star who had captivated your attention so tightly, before he spirited your heart away from your hands without any intention of returning it. nor even trying to take care of it.

anaxagoras was a great many things, but he was also utterly oblivious at the best of times. you should have created a boundary with him early on, to rein in your feelings as soon as your traitorous heart thundered at the sight of his bright, satisfied smile.

(but you didn't. and equally hurt and filled you with humility for every time you could see a part of anaxa that perhaps few or rather, none had ever been privy to see it.)

your blasphemer was always meant for great things, regardless if he would be scorned or admired for his actions.

and you could only watch and try to help him when he has burned himself too early in his journey towards searching for the truth of this world.

the astronomy laboratory was one of your favorite ventures, and you keep to your silence even as the door opened to welcome the familiar clack of footsteps coming towards the center of the laboratory.

"...I didn't know that there's someone using the astronomy laboratory."

"It's occupied." your voice was clipped, sparing only the barest words as you didn't bother to turn around and acknowledge the illustrious anaxagoras. there was a brief pause, before you heard a rustling sound as he carefully sat down beside you.

ever since that day, when you had rushed anaxagoras into the courtyard after he had collapsed, you decided to keep your distance. a futile attempt at drawing a boundary when you've already reached a point in no return, but you held strong even when hyacine had cautiously asked if you would like to visit him even just once.

it was more for your sake than his, and you were confident that he wouldn't even notice—for all that he's dedicated his focus and attention to his dogged pursuit of the truth.

"You weren't present to the general meeting with all the Professors." it took everything in you not to flinch when you felt the weight of his gaze on the side of your face.

"I was busy." you were very much grateful that the darkness hid much of your expression as you drew your knees close to yourself.

"Busy with what?" he probed, because he never did have a sense of self-restraint when it comes to satiating his curiosity. "Hyacine told me that you asked to be relieved of another class to handle. And that you also applied for a...sabbatical leave."

the latter sentence echoed his mystified confusion, the notion of a vacation apparently being a foreign one to the foolish scholar.

"I'm accompanying Hyacine and Phainon on their usual visit back to Okhema." there, that should be enough to get him off your back and leave.

except it doesn't.

"You've never shown any interest in leaving the Grove for that holy city." it was evident how poorly he had regarded the capital with the eternal light, and you've heard his sentiments regarding a certain chrysos heir residing in the city often enough to understand his position.

but you didn't care much for that.

what pricked at your still smarting heart was—

"I don't need to report to you nor justify any of my actions to you for anything, Professor Anaxagoras." you replied, voice chillingly cold and void of your hurt as much as you can. "As you have made yourself quite clear on my interference to your pursuit of knowledge."

There was another pause, the fabric of his coat rustling as he abruptly moved closer to you.

"That day when you rushed me into the courtyard," his voice was faintly urgent, promptly you to finally give a glance at his pinched expression with a carefully distant look. except the faint unease within his piercing eyes made your traitorous heart flutter once again. "Did I say anything?"

this close, you could see that hyacine's work had lessened the exhaustion and overall gauntness of the scholar's face. despite you still childishly holding on to your anger, you felt a tension within you finally relax.

"Nothing but the truth, Professor." it was maddening, how your anger was quietly doused by seeing just how much he had recovered (even if you could still sense an air of weariness around him).

"That's not—" anaxagoras tsked, ever astute in deducing a hint from your response. "I said something."

you kept silent, because you refuse to be considered a puzzle where he would look for clues to satisfy his own questions. no, it would hurt you far too much if he treated what had happened as nothing more than a logical problem to be straightened out.

(it would be like holding out your still mending heart for him to destroy.)

"Whatever it was, it was enough for you to refuse a visit to me at the ward." the intensity in his gaze proved too much, and you ducked your head to look away from him. you saw his hand make an aborted move towards you, before it stopped and curled into a tight fist. "It happened when you caught me in my personal laboratory, and I was cognizant enough to respond but not enough to retain the memories of our brief interaction before you brought me to the Courtyard. You're angry. And I hurt you."

your foolish scholar had known nothing but the thorny path that would lead to his goals, and it was your own foolish decision to chase after him like a persistent shadow. in the end, everything can be traced back to your own decision to accompany him for so long—like that hapless moth who was drawn to the raging inferno that was anaxagoras the blasphemer.

you knew that he would change the world, at any and at all costs. even if the damning price was to ruin himself in the process.

"What did I say?" he asked again and... abruptly, you felt very tired.

forget it.

"It's alright," you murmured, finally looking up to give him a lopsided smile. don't worry, went unheard. "It was...my fault more than yours."

there was another pause again, before he spoke again.

"I am in need of a...companion for Hyacine to finally relinquish her watch on me." he said, stumbling over a particular word while you gave an inquiring hum.

you like to think that you know the undertone of his statement. don't go.

but you never truly left him, even in the height of your anger and hurt. hyacine would never fail to give you updates regarding his wellbeing and any additional expenses quietly paid for by you (under the guise of an anonymous benefactor), and combined with her stubbornness and the threat of making ika sit on his chest was enough for him to veer off from going back to his laboratory far too soon.

"...I can do that." it would be another story if you saw his main table and be reminded of how you initially saw him, but that was a thing for the future.

his shoulders slumping over slightly made a smile finally crack across your face, and he swiftly closed the remaining distance to rest his weight against yours.

"Good." and he sounded like he meant it.

you know that anaxagoras doesn't apologize for his actions, not because of pride but because he would not regret any of the actions that he had made. that each of his actions were driven with a purpose that would ultimately bring him closer to his goals.

when his hand carefully rested above yours after a while, the warmth spoke more than his clumsy attempts at making it for his apparent misstep. you gazed back upon the twinkling constellations, with the weight of anaxagoras' presence sitting close to your side.

your shooting star, if only for a moment, paused in his relentless pursuit to accompany you for the night.

it wasn't quite an apology, but it was more than enough.

(p.s. first time trying to do this so please tell me your thoughts? would you also want an anaxa pov to compliment this hehe)

[razrbladekiss]

MAPLE HAZEL | Joel Miller — Part Three

SUMMARY: joel’s misery is palpable. you’re oblivious to it. until you’re not.

PAIRING: no outbreak!joel miller x afab!reader

WORD COUNT: 5.9k, you are welcum.

WARNINGS: angst. reader is an eagles fan (do NOT come for me, they are my boys. go birds 🦅). F L U F F. mentions of reader’s dad. tommy and joel are jerks, but joel redeems himself. tommy can suck a fat one. i kidddd <3 this is probably the angst-iest this story’ll get because im addicted to the fluff so. enjoy. 🤞🏼 not proof read or edited, i cannot be fucked for that.

TAGS: if you would like to be added for future installments, then let me know besties!! if i’ve forgotten anyone that’s asked to get added, then please slap me. @millersleee @goodvibesonly421 @j0elmlllers @scorpio-echo

SERIES MASTERLIST

Joel’s hands seize the steering wheel of his truck—the same one that’s presently stationed on your driveway—knuckles turning sheet white for the hold that he has is completely unforgiving. And sore.

He’s irascible. Livid. His anger is sheathed by shame and hatred for himself as the way that he conducted himself this morning was unseemly. Even for Joel, it was appalling. And though you didn’t appear to have any reservations, he knew that he bothered you. Your face didn’t allude to irritation, nor did your tone or mannerisms, but Joel was more than conscious of your internal hurt.

He just knows you that well.

But now he’s sitting—legs numb and cheeks charring red—striving to conjure up an apology that’ll help to shirk any ill-feeling that you may have toward him. Because he was a fucking jerk this morning.

And it was all because of an Eagles sweater, believe it or not.

9.42 AM

Birch Grove is bustling. It's considerably brighter, this morning. The doom and gloom that enveloped your small town yesterday has now dissipated, leaving nothing but small puddles of rainwater and grit in its wake, and it’s beautiful. A sight to behold when you’re leaving your house today.

You avoid the wetness on the road—hoping not to muddy your shoes—and bounce onto the sidewalk, admiring the oil slick that blankets damp gravel on your way over to Joel’s. You swear that there’s a divot in the concrete that holds semblance to a heart, but you’re not sure if that’s just a delusion from lack of sleep or some sort of sign from the universe telling you that perhaps it’s time to find a significant other.

Nonetheless, you take in the scene. How yesterday—in the midst of a storm—not a single body littered the crosswalk, therefore leaving Joel’s little coffee shop completely empty. But today—now that the air has cleared and rain almost dried up—it’s like nothing had even happened, and the entire town is out in force. Like they always should be.

Joel watches in awe as you make tracks across the street toward the cafe—wondering how he ever deserved such a buoyant presence like you in his life despite the fact that he’s a perpetually miserable middle-aged man—and busies himself so you don’t think he’s been ogling you this entire time.

But then the bell rings, Joel’s eyes flick up—against his own will—and you bound over the threshold with the biggest smile. He swallows extremely thickly.

“Good morning.” You say, as happy as ever—clearly on a high from your not-date—and pad through the room toward him. “Can I please have a—“

“You’re late.” 

One of your perfectly tweezed brows raises. 

“For work.” He elaborates. Joel clears his throat. “You’re late for work.”

“I got the day off.” You remind him. He vaguely remembers you saying something about this elusive break on Monday, but was honestly too distracted by his brother attempting to use the coffee machine. 

Joel nods, taking your favorite mug off of the shelf. You smile at the sentiment. 

“Ah, you’re going shopping. Right?”

You nod. Your stomach gurgles when your eyes satisfy the gaze of a perfectly plump cinnamon roll. Not too thick, not too over-done, and the right bun to icing ratio. It’s sitting—alone—in one of the little cake cases.

“I am.” You reply, taking the glass dome off of the top. Like last time, you swipe the sweet treat right from underneath Joel’s nose. Only, today, you slide two dollars across so he can’t complain. 

But he wouldn’t anyway. Not today. Because he admires the fact that you’re ungovernable, while simultaneously respecting him. To an extent, anyway. 

“I can get you some fall decor.”

“No—“

“He needs to spruce this place up.”

His eyes roll when he’s pouring the frothed milk atop your latte, hardly going unnoticed by his larger-than-life, sometimes a bit too overbearing brother. 

Tommy acknowledges you by saying your name, and you grin back at him. It’s nice to see one of the Miller’s with anything but a stoic expression slapped against those rough, rugged features. Though there’s something about Joel’s that seems rather superficial. 

Despite being perennial at times, you feel as though you’ve cracked through his tough exterior and. You’re certainly able to decipher between his real and mock revulsion. Last night was the first time that Joel’s guard had truly been down, and it was wonderful. 

“Get him some pumpkins. A wreath—“

“I don’t need no pumpkins. And what the hell is a wreath?”

The youngest brother pulls a stool out next to you, and bumps your shoulder as he sits. He looks at you as if to say get a load of this guy, and you laugh. Joel passes you your latte, and you think that you see a hint of a smile tugging at those plush lips. But you won’t swear to it. 

“A wreath is what Mrs. McKlaren has on her front door for each season.”

“Yeah.” Tommy chimes in. He pulls one of the Birch Grove Gazettes from the pile beside the cake case, and opens it up. “But you knew that. You’re just playin’ dumb in front of—“

You elbow him. “Quit teasin’.” Further defending your friend, you say; “it’s not his fault if he’s not too polished up on the names of things. He’s not pussy-whipped like you are, Tom.”

Joel chuckles at that comment, thanking you with a nod. A man of few words, though you get him. Down to a fine art. 

“True.” He flicks through a few pages, before he’s turning to you with a grimace when you take off your jacket to reveal one of your dad’s old Eagles sweaters. “Oh, God no.”

You frown, putting it to sit on the seat next to you. 

It’s common knowledge around these parts that there are two teams, and two teams only that it’s acceptable to support. Unless you’re flaunting the badge of the Texans or Dallas Cowboys, then you’re basically committing a federal crime.  And the men of Birch Grove take this very, very seriously. 

“Joel. I know you’re friends with this broad—“

“Watch your mouth.” He grumbles, appearing from the kitchen. He has his head down, hands full of cutlery. 

“Sorry.” Tommy says oh so quietly. “But—but look. She’s wearing the mark of the devil.”

Your eyes are rolling so hard you fear that they’ll roll straight from their sockets and into your coffee. You just know that beneath the green flannel, Joel is donning an Aikman jersey.

“That’s so dramatic.” Arms are being folded over as you speak, and he still hasn’t looked in your direction. “It’s just a football team—“

“Woah.” The two Millers harmonize. Joel eyes you directly and turns his nose up as soon as he heeds the shade of green that should be classed as blasphemy, not midnight.  

He didn’t know that you liked them. Tess liked them, too. But you know that. You’re not fucking stupid. 

And perhaps she might’ve aided the disgust that percolates through Joel whenever he hears someone utter the name Brian Dawkins, but he can’t help associating them with her. That same way he thinks of her whenever Fall rolls around, or whenever you step into his little cafe. 

He has such strong feelings for you, but needs to put them aside. He needs to bury them deep for fear of the past repeating itself because he isn’t sure if he can go through that again. His guard goes up, and eyes go down. He busies himself with cleaning. 

“Sacrilege.” Tommy spits. “It’s not just a football team, woman. It’s Irreverent. To come in here and wear that is absolutely ridiculous.”

Your jaw rolls and you look down at the faded logo. 

“I respect that you root for the birds, I do. It must be hard to support such a shit team—“

“Language.” Joel scolds, a little heated. “But, I agree. Can’t go wearin’ that ‘round these parts. It’s almost as bad as you comin’ in here wearing a Steelers jersey.”

Tommy grimaces. It’s not quite as bad, but it certainly sucks. 

But, to you, what sucks is the fact that these men—grown fucking men—are chewing you out over a sweater. It’s child’s play. 

“They’re not a shitty team. They’re great.” You defend your guys, watching Joel try to control the bitterness threatening to bust right out of his lips. “I’ve always loved them. My dad is from Philly—“

“Explains why you have such crappy taste.”

You blink at Tommy. 

“Anyway.” You clear your throat. “I’ll always root for the birds, because they’re my favorites. I also, believe it or not, enjoy the Cowboys when they play at home, or against the Giants. It’s patriotic. But they are a pretty shitty team—“

“No, they ain’t.”

“They are.” You uphold, making direct eye contact with the youngest sibling. “Remind me, when was the last time they went to the Superbowl?”

Tommy’s jaw rolls, and Joel can feel himself slipping. 

“Ninety-five.” Begrudgingly, he says. “But that don’t mean shit—“

“Kinda does.” 

“No it don’t.” He growls. “When was the last time those damn birds won the big game, huh?”

Without missing a beat, you say; “twenty-eighteen. They beat the Patriots by eight points, Brady sucked and Foles was the MVP. I tailgated at the stadium with my dad and uncle—“

“In Minnesota?”

“Yessir.” You tell Tommy before taking the last sip of your—now lukewarm—coffee. “I’ll also be heading to Philly to see the Eagles v Steelers game.”

Joel scoffs. 

“Got somethin’ to say, old timer?”

He grinds his lips together before saying; “just baffles me s’all. Don’t get how someone—Dallas born ‘n raised—can root for a team from Philadelphia.”

“Just the way it goes. But I did say that I enjoy them from time to time.”

“Shouldn’t be that way.” Tommy interjects. “Texans are meant to support Texan-made teams all the time. Not fuckin’—“

“Tommy.” Joel gestures to the customers, scolding him again for his crudeness. 

You pull cash from your purse while the two of them bicker, putting atop the counter before Joel can even refuse. You shrug on your jacket, too, promptly doing up the buttons so the tension can dissipate a little. But it doesn’t. 

“I’m not arguing with you two morons over football any longer.” A little meaner than intended, you tell the two of them. You turn to Joel, brows furrowing. “And I know why you despise the Eagles; I’m not an idiot. I saw her walking ‘round the place with her scarves in the winter, ‘n the occasional jersey on football Sundays.”

Tommy looks between the two of you, sensing some friction. 

“Don’t project Tess’s shit onto me, Joel.” Blunt, you say. “I’m sorry that I was the reason for her leaving, but it ain’t my fault we have the same interests. You can’t pussyfoot around forever, and I don’t appreciate gettin’ admonished for a fucking football sweatshirt.”

“Don’t.” He warns, wrenching a dish rag between calloused fingertips. He knew that last night’s conversation was deep-rooted in something more than just you being curious. “I’m not pussyfootin’ ‘round. I just don’t wanna talk about her.”

“I know.” You say—realizing that you were a little too hot off the mark—but you don’t feel sorry. “But there’ll always be people who like the same things that she did, or say the same things, or remind you of her.”

He looks at you. He knows what you mean. He knows that you know that—in some kind of way—you make Joel think of her. You’re so strong, like Tess. So outspoken, exactly like her. But you’re caring and kind, and don’t get jealous over the slightest little things, and you let him speak. 

You let him tell you about his troubles, not that he shares too much. And you’re not pushy. But now, it feels like you’re being exactly that. 

“I’m sorry that my mere presence as a Goddamn Eagles fan pisses you off, Joel, but I’m not going to be able to change that. You’ll just have to try and detach those memories—“

The dishrag is being hurled onto the bar along with his fists. “I’m not gonna detach those memories! I ain’t gonna forget her just ‘cus you think you know me and my relationship with that woman so well! You don’t know shit. All you do is come in here ‘n drink coffee, rant about crap that nobody cares about, make me listen to your stupid fuckin’ problems—and I’m sick of it!”

You blink back tears as you stare at him, for the volume is intimidating and completely unwavering. You’ve never been yelled at before—in front of customers, by Joel—and you want to be sick. Everyone is staring. Some people are even leaving. 

Has he always felt this way? You wonder. Has Joel always thought that your ramblings are pointless, and that your issues are facetious? You’re sure that he’s just spewing nonsense at this point, but it still stings. 

“Joel—“

“Get out.” He looks down, hands gripping tightly the wooden countertop. He refuses eye contact. 

Tommy gives you a weak smile, immediately regretting setting foot into Joel’s this morning. Quite like you, really. 

“I’m really sorry for bringing her up, Joel, I know how—“

“Go.” His eyes lift to satisfy your gaze, hurt written over his features. “Please…Just leave.”

“Okay.” You nod, lifting your purse from the stool. It’s a quick bye to Tommy that has those damn tears spilling as you walk to your car, not even looking back to wave or smile at your friend like you usually do. 

You fear that this’ll change the trajectory of your relationship with Joel. And his brother knows that. 

He knows that if he doesn’t say something—at this point, anything—then Joel will just let this sit and fester, and become something that it has absolutely no business being. 

His brother knows that you’re the only constant in his life—aside from family—and if he lets you go, then he’ll be considerably more bleak. He’ll have his patrons to keep him company, but he won’t have you. The girl that has—unbeknownst to her—given Joel something to look forward to every day. 

The girl that Joel can’t help thinking of, or talking about, whenever he gets the chance. And despite not always showing his admiration, he’s besotted with you. Infatuated, perhaps. His fondness so clear that everyone can see it. Everyone, aside from you. 

Especially after that.  

“You’re a fucking jerk.” Tommy chastises. “She shouldn’t have mentioned Tess, but that was horrible—“

“I don’t care.” Through gritted teeth, he tells him. “She took it too far—“

“No, we did.” He admits. “She probably wouldn’t have brought the bitch up if we didn’t tease her for wearing her dad’s fuckin’ sweater.”

Joel swallows the lump in his throat, refusing to admit that Tommy could be right about this. 

“You need’a get a hold of your emotions, brother. Can’t be sendin’ her away like that when we both know you’ve got feelings for her—“

Joel grumbles as he rounds the counter, polishing a few tables in hopes that his sibling will go and leave him to it. But he doesn’t. 

“Can’t let Tess be the reason you two ain’t talkin’. ‘Specially ‘cus she ain’t even in the state anymore.”

Fuck. Off. 

Tommy watches him feign emotion, knowing deep down that his brother wants to beat himself to a pulp because you didn’t deserve any of that. 

“She’s right, y’know?”

“What?” 

Tommy says your name. “She’s right. If you don’t cut ties with the things that remind you of Tess, then you’ll never be happy. Always be comparin’ shit to her, and makin’ yourself miserable. Or miserable-r.”

“That ain’t even a word, dipshit.”

“True, though.” He says. “Joel, you’re so in love with this girl, you can’t let her go over a Goddamn football team—“

“Not in love.”

“Bullshit.” The youngest spits. “You get literal heart eyes whenever you look at her, and don’t even try ‘n deny it ‘cus Maria notices too.”

Joel blinks at him, wondering how he’d been so openly vulnerable. He‘a confused at how he’d unintentionally let his guard down enough to display his feelings. The ones that he wasn’t even certain about. 

“It mightn’t be love, Joel, but you’re mad about this girl.” He says a bit softer. Quieter. “And you can try to put these feelings aside, but what’re you gonna do if she walks in here with another man? Or she goes on more dates and finds the one? You just gonna live with it? Just gonna be jealous and miserable for the rest of your life?”

Joel walks to the café window and just stares for a few moments, secretly hoping to see you stomp across the street to give him a piece of your mind. But you don’t. 

“Think you’ve done enough wallowin’ in the past, don’t you?”

He supposes that he’s right. Joel knows that there’s some truth to what is being said to him, and so he turns the Open sign to Closed, and gestures for Tommy to get the remaining customers to leave. 

“What’re you gonna do?” 

“Make things right.” Joel grabs his jacket from the coat stand beside the door, and throws the shop keys to his brother. “Close up for me, will ‘ya?”

Tommy shakes his head. He gets off of his stool and goes behind the counter, grabbing one of the aprons from the hook beside the kitchen door. 

“Turn the sign back ‘round. You might’ve just lost your most loyal customer, you can’t afford to fuckin’ lose no more.”

Joel just nods. He has no fight left inside of him. He does as told, and storms across the sidewalk to his truck. 

He’s been stationary for the last fuck knows how long, just mentally preparing himself for whatever bullshit will spill from his lips the second he sees you. If you even want to open your door to him. He wouldn’t blame you, if you didn’t. He gave you shit, and kicked you out when you spoke your mind. And the truth. Because, that’s what it was, wasn’t it? As harsh as it might’ve been, it was the truth and it was what he needed to hear. 

It’s been two hours since getting a verbal beat-down and, strangely, he really misses the sound of your voice. The oddly dulcet tone. The sweet, honeyed rhythm that slips from between two of the plushest, softest looking lips he’s ever bared witness to in his entire life. And even though some of the words that fell from them were harsh, he no longer cares. 

If he doesn’t apologize, then he might not get to hear you speak again. And he’ll take several scoldings if it means that he can listen to your beautiful tone. 

Fuck. 

“C’mon, dickhead.” He tells his reflection in the mirror. He eyes himself, wondering whether the hat should stay on or off. Because if he takes it off, then his hair might look bad, but if he keeps it on then you mightn’t be able to take him seriously. 

He’s overthinking it. 

It stays on when he’s lugging his body—warm and palpitating—from the cabin, and onto the gravel of your driveway. He minds the flower beds when his boots hit ground, knowing that he’ll have hell to pay if he crushes your blooms or kicks up any mud.

His breath is hot and heavy. It’s like he’s just ran the Boston fucking marathon, not sit in his truck for the better part of twenty minutes being too much of a pussy to knock at your front door. 

But now he’s strolling to your porch, and can’t put it off any longer. He doesn’t even know if you’re home, but he guesses that you are. The wreath that you got today—golden leaves adorned with acorns and berries—is hanging proudly against the wood that you’ve painted sage. 

He laughs to himself when his hand comes up to knock, number eight. It’s almost comical how the number of your house coalesces with the number of his favorite ex-Cowboys player. But he’s not going to bring that up. Maybe another time. 

Joel takes a few deep breaths, heart only stuttering when he hears your footsteps approaching over the suspended wood flooring. The one that he actually had to help you sand down just eight months ago because you always felt that they looked too dark. Depressing. 

He smiles weakly. It doesn’t last long. When you swing the door open and your face falls, then so does Joel’s. 

“Hi.” He whispers, internally kicking himself for being such a wimp. He clears his throat. “Nice wreath.”

You fight a grin. Your disappointment outweighs any semblance of softness at this very juncture. 

After a few hours of mulling it over—and rage shopping—you’ve come to the conclusion that you were at fault. But Joel certainly didn’t make it any better when he kicked you off the premises after his hurtful monologue. 

“Thanks.” Your cardigan is pulled tightly around your body. Cream always looks so good on you. “Is—uh—is there something that I can help you with?”

Joel looks down for a split second. It feels like forever before he’s looking directly at you again. The thumping inside of his chest hasn’t once subsided since appearing at your street, he’s never felt like this before. At least, he can’t ever remember feeling like this. 

And it’s because of this—feeling—that he’s struggling to extrapolate his inward thoughts. You heed it. You know him like the back of your hand, apparently. His face is sullen—almost remorseful—and eyes hazy. 

Has he been crying? No. He’s probably just really annoyed. He looks like that sometimes when Tommy’s pissed him off, and he needs to vent. 

You shift aside, gesturing for Joel to come in. He hesitates for a moment, before he’s stepping over the threshold and into your beautiful home. The home that presently smells like a mixture of Sandalwood and Lavender, but Neroli and Bergamot in the summer months. 

What the fuck is Bergamot? Why do I know what that smells like?

He takes it in. The subtle scent, the fall decorations that make your cozy home look even more appeasing. It’s cute. It’s put together, clean, and inviting. It’s so you. 

You shut the door behind him when he takes a few paces into the entryway, just watching him. His broad shoulders swathed in soft, green flannel are tipped slightly forward. He’s not holding himself the way that he usually does. 

“Is everything okay, Joel?” You break the silence, shuffling past him through the hallway and to the kitchen. You hear him follow behind. Those heavyset footsteps make your heart ache, for some reason. 

Even by the way he walks—slow, long strides—he seems down. Remorseful, perhaps. And though he doesn’t wear his heart on his sleeve, it’s always easy to tell how he feels. 

“Tea?” You offer without turning around, taking the kettle that’s just come to a boil on the stove. “I have chamomile, green, or English.”

“No coffee?” Your head shakes, pulling two mugs from the small shelf above the counter. Joel sits at your kitchen island. “How come?”

Two English teabags are being lifted from the carton—he didn’t specify, you just guess—and plopped into ceramic. 

“I don’t make my own coffee. Don’t taste the same when I do.”

His heart aches. After skipping a beat, of course. He takes a seat at your kitchen island, watching you potter around, clearly not prepared for a guest. 

“Tea is a little more warming, anyway.” You gesture for the sugar and he shakes his head. “Don’t enjoy coffee when I’m on my own. Only when I’m with someone.”

“That why you always come to see me in the mornin’?”

Faintly, you smile. Your head bobs a little bit, hanging low. 

He says your name. You look at him. “Y’know, if you ever want a coffee outta hours, I’m usually at home. You can come ‘round, if you wanna.”

That strange gnawing sensation returns beside a debilitating thumping. He feels the same, but you don’t know that. 

“Same here.” A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips and you bring Joel his tea. The white ceramic is festooned with acorns and leaves, and he swears that you’ve just given him one of your best mugs. 

You sip quietly your warm beverage, standing opposite to where he sits in an uncomfortable silence. A lull that neither of you realize lasts an entire minute before you’re clearing your throat, and Joel is still trying to find his words. 

“Listen.” He sets down the tea—the best he’s ever had—and shifts a little bit. Joel tries to avoid eye contact with you, but understands that this is one of the times that he needs to show you just how important this is. It’s not just a casual conversation at the coffee house, anymore. 

You’re facing him fully, now. Eyes wide, lips parted a little bit. 

“I’m really sorry about earlier.” His tone is honest, wreathed with a hint of genuine sadness. “I had no business being such a jerkoff to you, kid. I said some hurtful shit, and I let my mouth get away from me.”

“You were a total dick, Joel.” 

He nods. “I know.”

“And I know that I never shoulda brought her up, but I didn’t think you’d yell at me. In front of everyone.”

He starts to cringe as he remembers what he said. How he said those horrible things. You’re such a sweet girl, he can’t believe he flipped out on you that way. 

“Do you really think that what comes outta my mouth is crap?”

“No, of course not—“

“Is everything I say fucking pointless?”

“Hon—no—no, of course not.” Joel fumbles his words a bit, just glad that he didn’t refer to you as any other embarrassing fucking pet name. He's not even sure that you caught it, what with being blinded by such a haze of anger. 

You do, though. You just don’t acknowledge it. 

Your thumb loops through the glossy handle, and you look into your mug. 

“I choose to start each morning the same way; at your café. I don’t do it because I want to come in and ruin your day by ranting, or spillin’ my guts about shitty dates and bad friends.” You refuse eye contact, still watching the tea slosh around as you move the cup ever so slightly. “I do it because I like you, Joel. You’re a great guy, and make my days a little bit easier. I’d even go so far as to consider you one of my friends. But, if you don’t feel that way—“

“Hey.” He reaches out for your hand. He’s surprised that you don’t pull away when his tan flesh meets yours so suddenly. Joel asks you to look at him, and you oblige. 

It’s so sad. Your eyes—so full of hurt—now locked on his. Soft, warm fingers wound between his thick digits. He frowns. 

“Listen to me.” Stern, though soft, he tells you. “Of course I feel that way. I tell you shit that I ain’t even told my own brother, ‘course I see you as a friend. Probably the only person I’d even wanna spend time with, if I’m honest.”

“You’re just sayin’ that, ‘cus you hurt my feelings—“

“No, I ain’t.” Joel shakes his head, trying to ignore the fact that he hurt your feelings. “I’m serious.”

“As a heart attack?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, kiddo, as a heart attack.”

Eyes roll at the sentiment, wondering whether there’ll ever be a time where Joel doesn’t refer to you as kid or kiddo. He tells you that it’s because he’s a lot older than you, but you both know there’s not even a ten year gap between the pair of you. He’s just dramatic and wishing his life away. 

“I’m—uh—I’m no good at this shit.” He looks down, a little curl poking through the back strap of his cap catches your eye. “Feelings, ‘n all.”

Instinctively, your thumb traces over the skin of his hand. You nod. You know. 

He's not the most sentimental person—nor does he cogitate  with his heart—but Joel is one of the most thoughtful men you’ve ever met, and these last few days have you feeling a different way about him. You can’t say that it’s a crush—crushes are for kids, is what your mother often tells you—but it’s certainly something. 

You’re just worried about the fact that he can’t let go of Tess. 

“Don’t gotta explain feelings, sweetie.” You tell him with a smile, reaching for your mug. The tea is cool, now. A little bit easier to drink than when it was piping hot and burning the roof of your mouth. “Just gotta feel ‘em, that’s all. Explain once you understand.”

You take a sip of the drink you made a short while ago, hands detaching. Joel almost feels weak without your touch, now. But he supposes that had it lasted any longer, he’d crumble. 

“Always know what to say, dontcha?”

“I do.” Conceited—though completely satirical—you say. He smiles, and so do you. “But in all seriousness, Joel, I know that you appreciate me. And I know that today was a complete one-off, but I just gotta know one thing.”

“Go for it.”

You suck in a breath, hating where you’re about to lead the conversation. “Did last night make you think differently of me? Y’know, when I asked those questions and pried a little?”

Joel’s heart thumps. Again. He doesn’t know how to say yeah, last night changed everything. But not ‘cus of what you asked me. 

He supposes that he can’t lie to you. He’s as transparent as a pane of fucking glass, at this point. 

“No. Definitely not.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Really. You had the right to know. Nothin’ has changed.”

Liar. 

He’s looking at you with those big fucking heart eyes that his brother teased him about earlier, and he knows it. He knows that he’s smitten. Truly, Joel is more than conscious of the fact that he’s falling—or more appropriately, fallen—for you, but he’s not at liberty to say. 

“You can tell me, y’know?”

He nods. “I know. There’s nothin’ to tell.”

“Okay.” Your tone is skeptical. He’s lying. 

He’s also been sitting here for far too long and is in desperate need of a long, cold shower to wash away the day and shirk any feelings before they come to bite him on his perfectly round ass. So he gets up—pushing the seat back beneath the island—and smiles at you. 

“Left Tommy behind the counter?”

Joel nods. “Yeah. He’s probably cussin’ me out right ‘bout now.”

Your laugh is genuine. Hearty. “Best get back then, hon.”

Joel’s mouth goes dry when his lips part to speak. Nothing materializes. Not even when he’s walking to the front door—you’re hot on his heels—can he figure out what to say. 

He’s opening it before he’s even certain of what he’s doing. 

“Miller.” You say and he turns around. He can’t help looking directly at your lips. “I’ll see ‘ya tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” He coughs. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He’s about to walk away—and you’re about to shut the door—before he’s leaning over the threshold and letting all rationality dissipate. Joel’s left hand meets the doorframe—mere inches from your own—and his breathing grows sporadic. 

Well, now or never, I ‘spose. 

Your fingers tingle, legs weaken. It’s only a split second, but it feels like an eternity that Joel is just standing there; staring at you. He’s waiting to make a move, you’re almost certain of it. 

“You gonna do somethin’?” You taunt, tilting your head a little. It almost snaps him out of his anxiety-induced haze. It eggs him on, if anything. 

“Fuck—shit—yeah.” Joel steps forward so that he’s no longer leaning, and the tips of his boots meet your toes. He’s careful not to stand on them. It’s sweet. 

He’s sweet. 

“C’mere.” He’s telling you when one of his calloused hands meets the nape of your neck, and both of yours are instinctively pawing at his chest. The soft, white  jersey beneath that customary flannel is like satin against your fingertips. He draws you in closer. “I lied.”

“‘Bout what?” You whisper, letting Joel’s hand shift to your cheek. It’s hard not to melt into his touch. 

His thumb brushes over your skin. You wilt beneath it. 

“Last night.” Your eyes are locked. “Everythin’ has changed.”

You nod. You feel the same way.

“And I dunno how to go ‘bout this, ‘cus I can’t do this whole lovey-dovey crap, but I do know that I wanna kiss you.”

He pulls you forward so that your faces are almost touching, and your hands have no choice but to rest atop the peaks of his glorious shoulders. This is something you only could’ve dreamed of. You and Joel in this position—on your doorstep—like something out of a fucking romcom, or Gilmore Girls. 

C’mon, man. Kiss her. 

The man’s heart juts in his throat. Two noses graze one another—when Joel angles his face so that he’s not pushing too firmly against yours—and you can’t help smiling wide at the prospect of Joel Miller, grumpiest man in Birch Grove, taking a liking to you. 

It’s almost as if your entire time with Joel flashes before your eyes—all of the early mornings and late nights spent at his coffee house, the stories shared and secrets told—and everything comes to a head in this particular moment. 

Your smile doesn’t falter. Not even when his lips meet yours, and he pushes the most dulcet kiss against your mouth. It’s so gentle. Nothing more than a delicate peck, but so passionate in the sense that; the two of you need this. The tenderness of the other’s touch—the sweet, cloying taste of sugar on your tongue meshed with malt from the tea—is welcomed almost immediately, accommodated by an unexpected desire and thirst for intimacy. 

And though it is but a peck, the two of you know that this is the start of something. Something completely unexplainable and somewhat unexpected, but something nonetheless. 

You’re the first to pull away. He’s too enamored with you. 

“Joel.” You breathe against his lips. Cheeks are flushed red, eyes hooded and completely blown with lust. “Thanks for comin’ here, and apologizing.”

“Thanks for acceptin’ my apology.” He tells you. Joel takes a step back—not before running his thumb over your skin one last time—for fear of initiating something else. “Wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t wanna.”

“Don’t go sayin’ that. ‘Course I’ll always accept your apologies.”

Joel’s heart rate must be through the roof at this point. 

“Even if I run outta maple hazel syrup?”

A gasp falls from your lips and you feign anguish. You soon smile. He looks at his wristwatch, and sighs. 

“I better get goin’. Left Tommy alone a while, now. Not sure if I’ll have a cafe to get back to, if I keep him any longer.”

You laugh. “Go on. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If it hasn’t been burned to the ground, you mean?”

“Yeah, if it hasn’t been burned to the ground.”

Joel nods. He’s fishing about the pocket of his flannel for the key. 

“Enjoy the rest of your day, hon.”

His cheeks heat up. “Yeah, you too, kid.”

You can’t help letting out a little ha ha when he’s getting into his truck, and you’re watching from your post against the doorframe. When he gives you a little wave, he pulls away and you’re ambling back into your hallway. Satisfied. Though somewhat confused. 

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the trajectory of this day, and you suppose that nothing will ever come close. You just need to figure out what happens next. 

[desigal-26]

Hiii! I have a request if you're alright with the themes of it and if you're not too overwhelmed! I saw that you're accepting requests so I just would love to read something from one of my favorite writers! I saw that you write for Loki and seeing how you portray him would make me do flips! Total freedom to change things as you want, I want an Alfheim!Reader (so she's an light elf princess) maybe visiting Asgard to try and get a upper hand in the war in Alfheim (dark elves vs light elves) by gaining support of the Norse Gods? And the princess being offered to Loki to marry for support? So kinda of an arranged marriage with a reader who kinda follow Loki around to try and befriend him?

This was such a good request! I enjoyed a lot while writing it. Sorry for late response because I just changed my phone and everything got deleted 😅

That’s The Plan

Loki Laufeyson x Alfheim!Reader

He thought of her as a pawn; or a spy. But she was his equal—in fate and in status.

She was a Princess cast aside for her gender and given to a Prince she knew nothing of. He was a Prince forced to be a leash on her and her kingdom.

Warnings: Misogynistic hierarchy of Alfheim mentioned, heavy tension between Loki and Reader, kind of Enemies to Reluctant Allies.

Word Count: 1.4K (I know it’s not much)

The gardens of Asgard were not the gentle, cultivated glades of Alfheim. They were sprawling, majestic, and wild with divine intention—an expression of power rather than peace. Ancient trees, their trunks wide as temple columns, stretched toward skies that burned gold at dusk. The leaves shimmered in hues of emerald and bronze, whispering in a language older than Alfheim’s oldest runes.

Crystalline streams cut through the groves like veins of light, their waters impossibly clear, fed from celestial springs atop the mountains beyond the Bifrost. Strange flowers bloomed along the banks—some glowing softly, others shifting colours with the wind.

Golden statues lined the pathways—immortalised warriors and beasts from realms both remembered and forgotten. Vines climbed them shamelessly, as if mocking their eternal stillness. Above, birds with silver feathers sang eerie songs that seemed to echo from the edge of prophecy.

And yet, for all its grandeur, there was a stillness here—a quiet unease. The kind of quiet that hummed with magic barely restrained. This was no sanctuary. It was a display. A reminder. Even the gardens in Asgard were meant to impress, to awe, and perhaps… to intimidate.

But the Princess of Alfheim was not easily intimidated—not when she grew up witnessing war crimes against her kind. Threats, massacres, violence and things she could not confess to anyone else, for they were all too glory for the women of the courts of Asgard. All they wanted to do was fawn over the God of Thunder and whisper about the prowess of the God of Mischief behind the closed doors of his chambers—where seldom any court lady was allowed in.

But the Light Elf had no mind in the worthless gossips of women who thought of themselves as superior to the Princess. If only they knew what she was capable of.

Her blood was purer than any other elf of her kind—blue blood, whose powers were stronger than anyone else’s. Connection to the nature that surpassed even her frail old father’s ability to communicate to the plants and the animals that inhabited their lush lands. They worshipped them—the nature, for it gave them all the means to live a content and comfortable life and build a prosperous community.

It was the reason why the conflict between the Light Elves and their dark counterparts existed in the first place. The dark elves had, for many years, respected their solemn treaty of not harming the living world of flora and fauna. But that had changed when years ago—maybe before her father’s father was born—the Dark Elves had attacked their lands and took captives for the purpose of trafficking them to people like the Collector.

The crunch of a leaf beneath the heavy foot of Loki made the princess blink and sigh as she looked down at the crushed leaf while the prince strode ahead, tall and brisk. She deliberately avoided stepping on the yellowed leaf, flicking her wrist and letting a gentle breeze sweep it away into the trimmed bush where no one else would hurt it.

“You walk faster when you’re trying to avoid speaking,” she hummed, smiling softly aş she noticed his strides quickening slightly and his shoulders tensing before he forced them to relax. He did not look back, but replied nonetheless, “and yet you still speak.” A flicker of dry humour in his voice, at least something.

She offered him a gentle smile even though he would not be able to see it. “It’s either that or let the silence win,” she said, tilting her head to a side, watching him with a quiet curiosity. “And you seem to hate losing,” she added after a while.

That made him stop.

The Light Elf caught up slowly, letting the soft whispers of her skills fill the quiet he left behind. To anyone else’s gaze, she was partially floating instead of walking—grace and elegance wrapped in an otherworldly glow of moonlight that even Frigga didn’t possess, and she was the Queen of Asgard.

Loki turned around, his emerald eyes narrowed—not in anger or frustration, not exactly. But assessing her like a predator assesses another. Calculating and studying her for her strengths and weaknesses and anything else that could reveal what brewed beneath her polite smile.

“You’re not what I expected from Alfheim,” he started, his voice soft but sharp-edged like the daggers he held close to his heart. “Too clever to be a pawn.” He took confident steps, circling around her like a predator cornering his prey. But she was no prey—and he knew it as much as she did. “Too calm to be a spy.” He stopped in front of her, tilting his head to a side.

She mimicked his tilt, the sunshine hitting her skin, a faint glow of her kind subtly illuminating her skin—moonlight in mortal flesh but not really mortal. “And you are not what I expected from Asgard.”

The second prince raised an eyebrow, quietly asking her to elaborate. And she complied, with a smile that was anything but naïve.

“Too angry to be trusted. Too lonely to be dangerous.”

The air stilled between them, as if waiting for one of them to draw a breath, or a dagger. Tension pulsing between them, thick enough to be cut by one of the fancy, gold knives the Asgardian Gods use to cut their meals with.

And then, the corner’s of Loki’s lips twitched. Against his will, he laughed—low and sardonic. His eyes darkened a bit, a dangerous gleam in them. “Careful, princess. You might almost charm me.” His words were mocking, daring her to say something witty or to remain quiet. A challenge; a quiet, unspoken battle for power over one another.

“That’s the plan.” Her reply had his breath hitching, eyes flicking away from hers and at the scenery that surrounded them, at the horizon where silver-feathered birds circled above the distant gold towers of the fortress that housed Odin’s family.

She could see the gears in his mind churning, his thoughts rushing hastily while conflict flashed beneath his mask of cold indifference. The practiced charm of the Prince of Asgard had been thrown off by her statement, and in its place was a boy that maybe, she could relate with. A royal forced into a marriage he didn’t want, with a girl he didn’t know.

“You do know what they expect of us, don’t you?” His voice was quieter, more sincere than it had been since she arrived almost a fortnight ago. “This alliance. This marriage.” There was a spite in his voice, not directed at her, but at their situation.

“You’re a tool in their war.”

As if she didn’t know. She was a means to gaining support of their overlords—a means to get military aid that was needed by the Light Elves to crush the Dark Elves that threatened to crush them. A sacrifice her father and brothers saw fit for winning a war that had been waging for centuries.

“And I am a leash on your kingdom.”

Her smile had faltered once he had started speaking, but in the manner he had said that, so casually like her people weren’t just getting leashed like a mere pet dog, made her churn her stomach. “I know,” her voice was a mere whisper, devoid of any feeling.

“But tools can shape fate just as blades,” she added after a while, repeating the words her mother had whispered into her pointed ears when she had pinned the lace green veil in her hair and bid her farewell a fortnight ago, when she had reminded what she really was and told her to never forget.

She was the Princess of Alfheim, the strongest of their kind—stronger than her brothers but not given the throne for she was born a girl.

He hummed almost thoughtfully. Something flickering behind his intense gaze. Not trust, not yet. But curiosity. A dangerous curiosity—the kind that once opened could not easily be closed. Like a dam whose channels were open and could not be closed anymore.

“Then perhaps,” he murmured, leaning down. His breath caressed her skin, warmth flooding her cheeks but she won’t step back—she couldn’t. “This game won’t bore me after all.”

All she gave him was a small smile, “that’s the plan too.”

He watched her quietly, before he turned around and started walking, this time slower—allowing her to catch up easily.

They walked on, in silence, but this time—side by side.

[mage-ical-character-person]

Wonderfulful! Thank you beloved mutual can I also interest you in

It goes La-de-da-de-dum

La-de-da de-dum!

something, something birds

La-de-da-de-dum

La-de-da-dee

I wish I remembered the words!

whole town knows the song except they forgot it. Very Milldreadcore.

Cobigail Playlist

Feel free to take a look and the songs and reconstruct the playlist elsewhere if you don’t use Spotify. Or just take the songs you like and use that as a starting point for your own playlist. Do whatever have fun.

[autistichalsin]

Halsin headcanon

So Halsin's writer has said on Twitter that Halsin's family's deaths were natural, a combination of misfortune and disease. BUT also that Halsin lost them fairly young. It doesn't sound like childhood per se since he said "comparatively" young, but also young enough that he was "turned over to the Druids" as opposed to finding/joining the Druids himself ("turned over to the Druids" was the specific verbatim wording used.)

Which implies the Druids were given custody of him by his parents, so my guess is he lost his parents as a teenager.

Which brings me to my headcanon:

Teenage Halsin arriving at the Grove, starting to get lessons on Druidic magic. He excels, mastering his wildshape faster than initiates decades or even centuries older than him.

But there is something else going on, and the Archdruid, Halsin's mentor, thinks something is off. Halsin's bear wildshape, his clear favorite, is that of a cub. Small and fluffy and delicate (and enough to get him mocked by the peers immature enough for bullying). And the combination of trauma and just general age leads to Halsin being resentful and acting out, fighting with the initiates his age, and blatantly defying the rules any chance he gets.

The Archdruid then realizes he made a huge mistake. He talks to Halsin softly, telling him that Halsin needed a chance to heal, not the weight of responsibility. That he needs time to just exist. He tells Halsin that they'll know when he's ready to resume his instruction in Druidic magic and culture, and lets Halsin wander about more or less as he pleases, with some lessons here and there for learning Druidspeak or the history of Druids. Low pressure things a teenager could reasonably do.

Meanwhile, Halsin wanders off, spending more of his time in cub form than out of it, and finds a mama bear who takes him in. She just had a cub leave and misses them, even though it's only natural, and sees Halsin and pretty much instantly goes "mine. My cub." And Halsin very much appreciates it, cuddling up to her for warmth, letting out little cub noises, and letting her totally baby him. After all, no one else is around to judge him, and he needs the mothering.

Months or years pass, and he starts to grow and heal. He puts on a bit of weight (having been very skinny before from stress) and his bear form starts to finally grow. When it's finally in adult form and Halsin starts seeking out the company of the other Druids instead of refusing to see anyone but the Archdruid, the Archdruid know he's ready to try again at last. He starts his lessons again, and this time he is able to focus- and more importantly, to enjoy it, to enjoy learning about nature and magic. It's only a few years later before he becomes a novice Druid, to the Archdruid's immense pride.

[amethystarachnid]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

���Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[the-californicationist]

Picking Flowers

@pricesugarwife left this amazing comment on one of my posts and i couldn't get it out of my head...

pricesugarwife: Nos complaces con un smut Hades!Price x Persefone!Reader??? *se arrodilla*

te amo griss!! espero que te guste esta historia que escribí para ti, nena. 🩷🩷

TW: rape/non-con/cnc elements, loss of virginity, corruption, very bad greek mythology knowledge (sorry, it's just make believe okay jeez)

In a grove in Hellas, long, long ago… 

Before you opened your eyes, you already knew what you would see. Slowly, as sleep fell away from you, like the warmth of a blanket being pulled away from your body, a heavy darkness giving way to light, you could see a warm, egg yolk glow behind your eyelids. The sun had cut a path through your windowpane, and now it cast itself like a spell, masking its burn over your face. When you opened your eyes, you would squint through your lashes, looking up through the green mottled leaves, neon, blinding, of the twisted yew outside of your window. You could smell your mother’s bread baking in her old dutch oven, hints of oregano and pepper wafting through your room, bringing the warmth of the hearth with them. You could almost taste the crispy crust, roasted to perfection, protecting the soft, textured middle. 

Finally, you peeked between your lashes, and before you, your self-made dream came true. The sun filtered in through your glass a little less bright than what you had imagined, but the greens were there, and they reminded you that today was your favorite day: the arrival of Spring. 

“Sephie! Are you awake?”

Your mother’s sing-song voice fluttered down the hall and tucked itself through the crack of your bedroom door. She always knew when you woke up, and although you’d never questioned it, you had to admit it was uncanny. You chalked it up to the wonders of motherhood. She seemed to know every other thing about you, so why question it?

“Yes, Mom. Coming!” You called back, your own voice a little stronger, a little less like a delicate lark, a little more like a robin. 

You were very much a late bloomer, still living with your mother at almost twenty years of age, especially when most of the girls in your village had suitors or proposals by sixteen. But, you didn’t let it bother you. As your mother was ready to remind you, the thread of your life was your own, and you would follow its path until the end, whether you wanted to or not. If Lachesis had measured your life out to be this way, then that was that. Why question it?

You pulled on your robes, woven on your family loom of the finest silk threads. You had begged your mom to add a tight spiral of cyclamen along the hem, the flowers so familiar, their pink heads watching you as you followed your daily path to the river. So, she had insisted that you try. You were well enough a woman now, and more than skilled enough to craft your own clothes. And you had; it had been easier than you thought, and you added a few glass beads in that same heart-shaped petal to the tips of the cord of your belt. 

You owned no looking glass, but you never noticed its absence. There was so much more to do than to stare at something you couldn’t change. Focus on what you can do, your mother’s voice haunted your mind, not on what is already done. Besides, your mother insisted that you were beautiful, so why question it?

“Here, my darling,” your mom tapped you under your chin, handing you a cloth satchel full of bread, fruit, seeds, and dried meats, “Before you go to the river, please check on the well. It should have clear water for you to fill this skin. Fill it again on your way home. Don’t forget.”

“I won’t, Momma. I promise.”

“That’s my good girl.”

You were out of the door and heading down the hill to the well before you knew it, the feel of the soft grass comforting your heels, cold and damp from the morning dew. The village below you was coming alive, its people tending to their new lambs, planting seeds in the black, fertile soil, carrying buckets of water to and from the olive groves, pruning the dead branches away from the new growth on each branch. Their bustle and laughter as they worked together made you long to live in town. But, your mother had insisted that the town and its people would just be a distraction, and you’d never experienced such a thing; why question it?

When you approached the well, you were alone. You let your hands trace their way along the rough, grey stones, feeling the familiar edge, reaching for the thick rope to pull up the bucket. The worn hemp gave way, and the echo of the old wooden bucket hitting the sides of the well rang out like shrouded bells. You reached for the handle of the bucket, pulling it up to the rim, carefully filling your waterskin, making sure not to waste a drop. You used the rest to wash your face and hands, letting the cool water soak into your cheeks, adding moisture back to your body after a long sleep. 

Suddenly, your eyes darted up to the treeline just beyond the well’s clearing. You thought you saw a shadow that stretched just a little too long, shaped just a little too wrong… but when you studied the dark spaces between the trunks, there was nothing but lush overgrowth. You packed your waterskin and tossed the bucket back into the water; you were eager to get down to the river. The light always played tricks on you in this glade, so why question it?

You walked quite a ways through the valley, using your fingers and the softness of your touch to coax the flowers to bloom and grow as you let your hand fondle its way through the tall grass. When you reached your river, you savored the sight. The way that it curved into a deep ox bow was your favorite thing. It was as if the river had carved out a small, circular stage just for you. In it, you worked on your crafts, practicing growing buds from seeds, trees from roots, ivy from the palm of your hand. Then, you sent it out, down the river towards town, making sure the village was well-shaded, well-fed, and well-protected from the elements. 

It was hard work, and you always slept after a long afternoon of using your magic, but your mother always said that no one else would be able to do a better job than you, so you kept at it, and it was the one thing you never questioned. 

This time, when you woke up from your nap, you knew you weren’t alone. As you sat up, you looked around, thinking that a striped kri-kri or a golden jackal would be nibbling at the food in your pack. But, sitting with his legs crossed, was a man dressed only in a dark blue chilton, the shoulder of which hung loosely around his waist as if he were a farmer who had been toiling in the field. He was no farmer. Not with those inhuman eyes of ice fire, pale and bright, glowing although the sun was at his back. His body was that of a giant, muscle-bound and heavy, full of power just rippling beneath the surface. He reminded you of the well. How deep did his strength flow? His beard and chest were furry but well-groomed, just like that of a nobleman. 

You greeted him, apologizing for your slumber,

“Good day, sir. Forgive my sleeping. I was just tending to my flowers, and I must have dozed off.”

“No trouble,” his smile came to him easily, and you enjoyed it, basking in it, “I enjoy watching you work. It is a gift to see it up close.”

He reached out his hand and plucked one of your most vibrant hyacinths from its stem, cradling your art in his huge hands. 

“Beautiful,” he purred, speaking of the flower but looking at you. 

“Thank you, sir. Can I offer you some bread or fruit from my pack? I carried clean water from the well this morning.”

“How generous you are,” his smile showed his straight, large teeth this time, and he tucked your own flower behind your ear, letting the delicate petals tickle your sensitive flesh.

You prepared a small piece of bread for him, decorating it with nuts and juicy lobes of fruit that you had carefully peeled with your hands, tearing off a piece of dried meat for him to try as well. You ate with him in companionable silence, watching him as he chewed. Whereas the kri-kri would have greedily gobbled up the bread from your palm, this man seemed unsurprised by it. What was a delicacy for some of Gaia’s creatures was a mere appetizer for others. But, it may be that he had much finer fare at home, so why question it?

“Do you live near to this glade, sir?” You asked, hoping to learn more about your handsome stranger. 

His hands peeled the delicate pith from the citrus lobe you had given him, expertly trimming it as if he had done it for a thousand mornings, knowing exactly how hard or easy he needed to pull the flesh for it to yield, feeding it into his mouth in a wet, juicy bite, letting the sweet nectar soak into his beard and become sticky. 

He chewed slowly, eyeing you carefully as he did, seemingly in no rush to answer your question. So, you tacked on another one, impatiently, 

“What should I call you?”

“I have been called many names,” he spoke, looking down at his hands, staring at his open palms as if to divine some sort of future before his eyes shot back to yours, pinning you where you sat.

“Hm,” you smiled, inching closer, pretending to get a better look at him, studying him like a statue at a temple, “You do not look like an Akakios, nor an Eirenaios…”

“No,” he chuckled, his laugh rolling like a volcanic crag inside of his throat, “I should think not.”

“I cannot imagine naming you Melanthios, though it fits your face,” you giggled.

“I’m not sure I appreciate that, little petal.”

His laugh was still jovial, so you pushed him further, 

“Perhaps Kleisthenes. Your strength is apparent, as is your status. Surely, that must fit you.”

You leaned back, biting off another chunk of bread, saving the crust for last, satisfied with your naming ritual.

He shook his head, 

“I’ll give you a hint. It’s very brief, or at least much less trouble than Kleisthenes.”

“Bion, then.”

“Mm,” he frowned a bit at the edges of his smile, “Quite the opposite in essence, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps you are a foreigner. One of Troy, or Rome, even? Something brief, like John.”

“I am foreign enough to this land, so I suppose John is close enough,” he sighed, allowing you to finally take your win. 

You hadn’t realized how close you had drawn yourself into him. You were now near enough to smell the oils on his skin: laurel, salt, and something akin to tarnished silver. His hand reached out to touch the curls of your hair, carefully braided by your mother, entwined with small flowers and ivy stems to keep it off of your neck. But, after your nap, one lock had escaped and was now being delicately twirled in this man’s immense fingers. 

“And what should I call you, little flower? Marjoram is too serious for you. Iris, not serious enough.”

“Persephone,” you offered, unwilling to force him to endure the same naming torture you had just gone through. 

“Ah!” He gasped, leaning toward your face as if seeing you for the first time, “Persephone.”

Then, before you could even know what was happening to you, your lips were tasting his. He was cradling you in his arms, holding your limp body against his bare chest, the gold of his necklaces and armbands warm from his body heat as they pressed into your skin. He was kissing you, moving his mouth against yours, forcing your jaw to yield to him, to take his tongue into the hollow of your cheeks, to suck the citrus juice from it, the memory of his food still fresh on the muscle. 

You had never been kissed before, even though you had practiced on two of your fingers held tightly together, watching lovers sneak up to the well on hot days of work to do to each other what you longed for someone to do to you. It was so much more satisfying to feel another’s lips move against your own, nothing like the static, chaste practice you’d tried to mimic. 

Only now, after you were left gasping, feeling his hands wander along the edges of your chilton, his fingers beginning to dig into the loose gaps in the fabric, did you question whether you should be kissing this man or not. But, it felt too good to stop. 

John, or whoever he was, pulled away for a moment, and his eyes seemed to study your mouth, inspecting your plump, swollen lips as if something was wrong. You wrapped your hands around his neck to steady yourself, and he lay you back, letting your head be supported by the plush grasses beneath you. He spoke to you in a hushed whisper, even though no one was around for miles, 

“I have been watching you, Persephone. I see you growing your lush gardens, creating a world full of life, all for me to take. And I come back every autumn, when the sun is shy and the sky is dark, just to inspect all of the gifts you have given me,” he kissed you again, his hand finally snaking its way under the shoulder of your robes, peeling it down slowly to reveal your full breasts to the open air, “And I eat them up. All of them, and I take them home. I’ve been keeping them for you. All of your treasures from years past. They’re still there for you to see.”

Then, before you could ask him what he meant, his mouth latched onto the dark nipple of your breast, suckling at it like a babe. And then, very much not like a babe. Like something else. Like a wolf digging the marrow from a bone. Like an otter clawing at a clam, slurping up the tender meat inside. 

And then, he stopped. He sat up, holding you by the shoulders and helping you sit up with him, fixing your top so that you were covered again, dizzy and reeling from his attention, the wet skin of your aching nipples sticking to the silk fabric of your gown. 

“Sir, I…”

“Come with me, love,” he held out his hand, “Don’t you want to meet your old friends?”

You didn’t know what to say, but he seemed so friendly. There was a dark, twisted piece of wort inside of you, growing and twining itself around your belly that made you want to see if he might put his mouth on you again. It had been so lovely… Besides, you very much missed your old creations. You remembered hundreds and hundreds of seasons of creations you had made, trees and plants, fruits and flowers. It would be wonderful to be reminded of all of the things you had brought into the world. If he had kept them for you, it may even be rude to refuse his hospitality. He seemed so sure, so why question it?

So, you took his hand, and he led you through the earth, ripping at the dirt like a heavy veil, marching down into the darkness, leading you step after step down a winding, rocky staircase. Above your head, you saw the last bit of a ruby-colored sun, setting in the distance, illuminating the ceiling of roots and fungus that hung above you as you delved further into his depths. 

Then, your heart skipped a beat. You saw your river again, her wine-dark waters now black, curling in that same ox bow pattern, cutting the land in half. On one bank, the souls of the living waited to be ferried across, and on the other, fields and fields of your own flowers, frozen in time, neither growing nor dead, shrouded in darkness in the grey soil of the Underworld. 

He led you onward, towards his blue, gleaming castle, all of its walls made of shining glass, distorting the world outside, and concealing the one within. You marveled at the wide door, its ebon gate the only iron you could see, and all of the castle guards were the dead. Their lifeless eyes gray and cloudy, set inside of gaunt, bony faces, unseeing, unfeeling. You did not fear them, even though you were sure you were meant to. You knew them. You had made the food that fed them while they were alive. You had grown the trees and bushes that had sheltered them when they lay beneath your boughs, exhausted from their labor or their warfare. Who was afraid of an old friend?

Then, you watched your companion climb the long stair up to the throne of Hades, for that is who he was after all, and he sat on its plush seat, motioning for you to sit in an equally-crafted chair beside him. There was no difference between the two thrones. His was not higher, nor was it more elaborate. So, you sat, waiting to see what Hades wanted to show you. 

A delightful processional began, and you spotted some of your first flowers being brought to you on pedestals and pillows, you ooh’d and ahh’d at them, sharing stories and listening to Hades tell you all of his tales of how he brought them here to keep. How he’d waited so long for you to come and join him here, to rule in the Underworld beside him as its queen. 

“What do you think, love? My people are desperate for more of your creations. You are the only one who reminds them of home. They see your trees and your flowers, your fish and your fruits, and their souls finally know peace. Be my queen, rule beside me, help me put these souls to rest here in Elysium.”

“I am still a maid, sir,” you told him, “My mother is the one who would make that choice for me.”

He looked at you confused,

“You are a goddess most powerful. There is no one who can make choices for you. Even I am no match for your magic. I cannot bloom these fields.”

“When I return home, I will consult her wisdom, and she will help us marry.”

“Very well,” he sighed, “Perhaps you will at least allow me to show you the same hospitality as you have shown me. There is a feast that awaits you in my chambers. Will you join me, petal?”

You had no excuse. How could you refuse him the same thing you had provided. After dinner, you would return home and tell your mother about this handsome suitor.

You followed him from the throne room and entered his chambers, sitting on a wide lounge where platters of meat and fruit and honey in wide bowls waited for you to dig into them. You did not shy away now that you were in the comfort of his rooms, letting Hades sit beside you, as close as he could, feeding you berries and sweetmeats from his hands, dipping his fingers into your lips and letting you suck them clean, laughing and joking with you. 

He had done a poor job of tying your robe back onto your shoulder, and it kept falling down. Finally, when you were about to adjust it again, he stopped you, pulling it down even further to hang with the cord of your belt, letting your breasts hang free upon your ribs, heavy and full, sensitive from his earlier ministrations. 

“C’mere, love. Lay back and let me feed you. You must be so tired from your work today,” he murmured in your ear, allowing you to lay your back across his chest, his legs spread wide to allow you to sit between them.

You did as he bade, letting him feed you grapes dipped in honey, delicious fish and mussels, crab and octopus still cold and fresh. He ate, too, feeding you sometimes from his own mouth, bending to kiss you with sweet bites between his teeth. 

Then, when you had both had your fill, he used his hands to rub your sore muscles, easing the tension in your neck, down your shoulders, and then finally, he stopped,

“Alright, love. We should bring you back to Demeter. I’m sure she is waiting.”

“No,” you protested, ignoring the fact that he knew your mother’s name, “I mean… I thought we could stay a bit longer. I’m so full; a journey would be too arduous right now.”

“Oh?” He returned to petting you, letting his hands trace just outside of your breasts, fingers skating through your underarms and then up along the thin skin of your neck, “How should we occupy our time, my love?”

“Just… like this,” you let your hands wander to his strong thighs, massaging down his knees and calves, admiring the muscles there. 

“If that’s what you want, my love, then you shall have it. All that you want shall be yours,” his tone was dark in a way you had never heard from another person, but you felt so good, so why question it?

His hands were callused and warm as they covered your sensitive breasts, plucking at your nipples like the petals of one of your flowers, and you mewled from the pleasure, asking him for more and more and more.

Then, you felt his mouth on your neck, sucking and licking you, reminding you of how it felt when his mouth was on your tits, making your flesh tingle like the crackle of lighting, like the cold of the first swim of the season. 

So, you turned towards him, spreading your legs on either side of his hips, sitting proudly in his lap, hoping he would return his mouth to where it was needed. And he did. It was as if he read your mind, knowing you wanted him to suck and suck and suck against the softness of your skin, to use his tongue to press into the nub of your nipple, over and over until you felt your legs begin to shake as if you were shivering from the cold. 

“My pretty flower, it feels like you need something else, hm? What would you like? I will give you Olympus if you ask me for it.”

You weren’t sure what to ask for. When a flower asks to be picked, growing symmetrical and soft as it does, what does it know about the plucking? Only picked flowers know what they’re really asking for, don’t they?

“I don’t know… I just… I need…” You tried to make sense of your body’s wishes, and why you were rocking your hips back and forth, why you needed to feel something between your thighs. 

Hades’ smile widened, that dark beard pressed out of the way of his full mouth as it turned up into a grin, 

“How about this, hm?” 

He fumbled with your robes and his, and then you felt yourself sigh with relief when he placed some part of him between your legs, giving you something to rub against through your softest petals, wet with excitement and desire. You both sighed, and you could feel the heat of him as you rocked back and forth. It felt like his wrist, but then again, it didn’t. It was wide enough, but at the end, instead of a hand, it was the fleshy edge of another tongue, perhaps. Something that was licking your hole every time you passed over it. 

Eventually, everything was wet beneath you. His robes, your robes, his body, your body… it was a sticky, dripping mess. You had lost your breath, your heart beating out of your chest, your mind sparkling like a fire and then going blank like you had drank too much wine. Over and over, you felt everything and then nothing. It may have been hours, but you couldn’t tell. He didn’t seem like he was in a rush to be finished with your game, so you didn’t question it. 

“More, still?” He finally asked, kissing you on the mouth sweetly, sucking on the tip of your lolling tongue, “My greedy little flower…”

You weren’t sure what more there was. But, he showed you. This time, when you rocked back, he used his hand to notch himself at your hole, and if you pushed forward, you would have to press yourself onto him, to take him inside of yourself somehow. It was the same way you had used your fingers inside yourself to play in your bed or in your glade by the river, just touching yourself for the comfort of it. 

But, this was different. This was not comfort, it was magic. It felt like old magic, something from the world as it was before. And yet, he had promised you whatever you wanted, so you didn’t question it. 

As you slipped yourself over his fleshy knob, you experimented with your movements, rolling your hips back and forth, seeing how it felt to push him deeper and deeper inside of you, stopping when you felt like you were being stretched open. Then, you tried circles, turning your hips around and around as you sat in his lap, feeling him slipping deeper and deeper inside of you as you found your rhythm. 

He was busying himself with kissing you, or suckling from your nipples, but you could tell he was enjoying himself as much as you were. His grunting was that of a rutting deer, hoarse and loud. Finally, he reached some sort of limit, and he grabbed you, changing places, pressing you beneath him on the lounge, nearly ripping off your robes and his own, making you naked in front of him. 

Then, you saw what you had been using for your pleasure. His phallus stood tall and strong against his belly, ruddy and throbbing, shining with your wet nectar. You had never seen one up close, and when you cradled it in your hands, it felt alive, like it was separate from him even though its thick root was buried deep inside his body. 

Hades’ eyes glowed bright blue, his own magicks coursing within him, and he told you,

“Open your legs.”

So, you obeyed, entranced by his power and the feeling you were experiencing, weightless and floating in your own mind. He fed himself into you, as deep as you had gone and then deeper, not stopping when you hissed in a breath from the feeling of your muscles stretching beyond the point of comfort, delving far enough to cause pain. 

“Ahh!” You cried out, but he shushed you with his mouth, kissing you again and again, distracting you from the discomfort of his invasion. 

“That’s my good girl…” He praised you, just as your mother always did, for a job well-done or a chore checked off the list. 

But, you didn’t feel like you were doing a chore. In fact, you felt like you were watching him do one for you. His thrusting was violent and repetitive, his huge rod pounding into you with every snap of his hips, grinding his tip inside of you deeper and deeper. As you moved past the pain and back into a throbbing sort of pleasure, he looked as if he was taking your pain away from you in this ritual. His face was set in a grimace, his eyes ferocious and snarling, his voice growling and letting out only deep, throaty whines. 

So, you did what he had done for you. You kissed his furry chest and latched onto his soft nipple, listening to him cry out with a sudden shout. 

“Love, I can’t… ”

You didn’t know how to help him, so you kept sucking and sucking, hoping you would bring him the pleasure that you felt, that you might ease his pain. 

But, he grabbed your face in his huge hands, pulling you away from his chest, squeezing your cheeks to make your lips press into a helpless sort of pout. 

He growled down at you like a wounded animal,

“So beautiful. My queen. My perfect little flower.”

Then, you felt your body tumble into another one of your hypnotic phases; your muscles clenching, your toes curling, your breath neither coming in nor rushing out, helpless to your own reaction. 

“Unghff-fuck… that’s it. Persephone…” He looked at you with those eyes, the eyes of some unearthly being, the bright icy glow keeping you in that cyclone of pleasure, thrashing you with it over and over, making you feel a wet gush between your legs, warm and slick. 

He released your face and leaned backwards, peering down at your body from his kneeling position, letting you watch how he was pistoning inside of you, pressing himself through you and filling you up. He watched himself for a moment, staring down at where you were joined, and then he sank himself all the way in and tossed back his head with a bellowing shout.

You felt his prick writhing inside of you, pulsing and throbbing. You waited, panting with him, watching him wipe the sweat from his brow. He pulled himself out slowly, and lay it on your belly, letting you see the last of his seed drooled from his tip. There was blood on your skin when he pulled away, and as much as you tried to wipe it away, it stained.

Hades carried you to his bed, wrapping you in his dark blue silk sheets, cradling you in his arms until you both drifted off to sleep. 

You awoke to the sound of a woman crying. A voice calling your name. But, you were so tired, you must have been dreaming, so you didn’t question it. 

AO3 Link -- Thank you for the bookmarks and kudos! <3

[mysterylover123]

Watching G1 Transformers "The Golden Lagoon"

we won...

This episode was depressing..

Ah what beautiful nature and lakes and animals. Careful you don't step on one of those deer Beachcomber (skybound has traumatized me)

So anyway golden pond makes Cybertronians invincible when they jump in it. Which means this ep is about to become very confusing as you try and keep track of the characters.

Which means Megsy finds another excuse to be a shit to Screamer and make him jump in. And he does this adorable little foot test and jumps out all gold. It looks pretty on him.

Poor deer the Cons are gonna blow up their whole habitat aren't they. Well hopefully the autobots will stop them.

"Show no mercy" "did we ever" haha Starscream is so savage i love him.

He randomly makes two autobots fight and for some reason Soundwave doesn't like this? Did Soundwave get a conscience in the last two minutes?

And Beachcomber finds the whole place blown up and doesn't tell the Autobots what's happening!? Geez dude that's a terrible idea.

Oh shit. The Autobots just. Jump in and do the exact same thing as the cons. And fuck up the grove even more. Like they don't give a shit.

"If we can't have it nobody can" I knew Megs was a Yandere deep down.

The whole thing is destroyed and none of the bots except Beachcomber care. Not even OP. Holy crap that was dark?!

OP really has a dark side in this show. OI mean I know they're at war but the OP I know from other shows would be worried about those deer.

To quote my favorite songwriter, "I fear my dear that it's eminently clear/that you can't see the trees for the forest". Definitely this "we're looking at the big picture and not bothering with the small prices"

[hikentomori]

about

hi, i'm salem! nice to meet ya! :3

i'm nonbinary, bisexual, in my mid twenties, living in europe. i work as an icu nurse, i'm an infp and a november scorpio >:3 i speak three languages, i love to journal, collect stickers and trinkets, read and expand my knowledge!

kento's mcr reunion tour companion, robin's favorite librarian, katakuri's donut glazer, toji's and zoro's sparring partner, kishibe's lighter stealer!

GAMES: omori, stardew valley, animal crossing, cozy grove, potion permit, fnaf, hitman, tekken, god of war, black myth: wu-kong, harvest moon, spiritfarer, coffee talk, mario kart, strange horticulture, undertale, night in the woods, hello kitty island adventure

MUSIC: fall out boy, my chemical romance, paramore, bad omens, motionless in white, architects, spiritbox, jinjer, the hu, linkin park, korn, limp bizkit, oingo boingo, wham!, bring me the horizon, michael jackson, of mice & men, pierce the veil, megan thee stallion, jinjer, poppy, glorilla, system of a down, gigi perez, jalen ngonda, ichiko aoba, nemahsis, mitski, chappell roan, cigarettes after sex, sade, mgmt and many many more!

MEDIA: one piece, jujutsu kaisen, the fall of the house of usher, sakamoto days, my happy marriage, record of ragnarok, dungeon meshi, physical 100, the haunting of hill house, culinary class wars, the conjuring, scream, the terrifier, american horror story, haikyuu, assassination classroom, detective conan, the grimm variations, midnight mass, avatar: the last airbender, the haunting of bly manor, any studio ghibli movie

i am open to talk about pretty much anything and everything, just send me an ask or a message! :3

if we are mutuals, i don't consider us friends by default. it is nothing personal, but i need to make that distinction for my mental health. however, i'm always open to deepening that connection and building an actual friendship through regular interactions and dms, so please feel free to come talk to me about whatever and we can go from there. if that's not something you want and you just want to keep it on a superficial level, please let me know for both of our sakes. i am very shy, can't read cues very well and am terrible at conversation so i need very clear and honest communication. we're all adults here, after all. :3

in light of recent events: i am an adult and do not need anyone to speak on my behalf. if you think it's a good idea to reach out to people in my name, it is not. there are reasons as to why people don't speak and if i wanted to, i would reach out myself, i don't need anyone to do it for me. it's a breach of autonomy on either side, would save everyone (or at least me) a lot of heartache and quite frankly, it's childish and not appreciated. i know you might mean well but it's not as nice as you think it is.

if there's anything i do / say that upsets or hurts you, please let me know as that is never my intention and i can't learn from my mistakes if you don't talk to me because you think i can read your mind. if you feel the need to break the mutual, i'd prefer if you talked to me so we can clear up possible misunderstandings. if that's not for you, please either just unfollow me or hard block me so i don't follow you again and make you uncomfortable.

thank you for being here and let's take ibuprofen together :3

picrew!

[ysaefinn]

👹 gets it. I was thinking of reader watching the relationship between dilf stsg and getting insecure. Like do they baby me because they don't respect me? Why do they treat me different then they treat eschother. So like ome time reader ask just to watch them have sex (for research purposes unfortunately not sexy ones). And they do its a little awkward at first because they keep trying reader in but eventually they get into grove and yeah its different then when you have sex together.

This leads to reader pulling away and the dilfs being soggy panicked sad boys.

-🌌

JEGSJVSJDVDKDHR I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW GALAXYNON I KNOOOOOWWWWW TAT ik it comes off that way but can you blame them??? They're just so giddy about you and eager to make you happy they lose themselves and often are too lost in the sauce to realize how it looks like from a 3rd person perspective:<<< you REALLY have to put in a lot of effort with the dilfs to keep your head above water (milf getohime are the only coddlers that give them a run for their money TvT) like wdym i have to keep my guard up otherwise I'm swaddled in a blanket burrito being spoon fed and cooed at WHAT????? Fuck NO give me a break TAT (<- Lalmb who desperately needs saving)

Ok but setting aside the different dynamics at play, if i haven't made that clear from all the asks and the most recent smut drabble about them...YOU ARE CLEARLY THE FAVORITE TAT you always will be as well like..please...PLEASE they love each other SO SO much, they literally operate as a unit, you are a part of them 1000000% but not merging you in just makes it easier to gang up on you (affectionately ofc) and this is exactly the problem, the difference in treatment.

Ok so hats off,, the absolute DICK on you to straight up ask them if you could watch is just TATATATATAT YOU ARE ADMIRABLE, and they typically wouldn't cave in either, you're in the room and not GETTING THE ATTENTION???? Unheard of. Telling them about your intentions straight up will also not end up in borderline voyeurism either since they think this should be a conversation lol.

And yes, it doesn't go the same way a threesome would, (and that would upset me too ngl TvT) THIS IS SO FUCKING TOUGH!!!!!!! They can't help but treat you that way, you CLEARLY don't like it, and are very prone to just disengaging from them, and they really really don't want you to spiral to the point of ghosting them completely, a conversation needs to be had STAT

Bullet points:

You are an equal

They respect you

The age difference doesn't mean anything

You're heard

We love and care about you and will change for you (try at least)

[kaermorhenatnight]

Light in the shadows

Rolan smut, NSFW, minors don't interact, please 

Huge thanks to @commander-krios for proofreading and for all of the comments, suggestions and corrections! You’re amazing!

Rolan x fem!reader smut, Reader is one of the tiefling refugees from Elturel, afab, she/her. No y/n used. She's been friends with our favorite tiefling bachelor and decides to make her move during the tiefling party that they should have after act II. Tav appears and is gn (they/them)

CW | spoilers for acts I and II with mentions of violence, cursing, p in v, oral (m and f receiving), fingering, spells used for sex (including detect thoughts – consensually), Rolan's POV for a moment, biting and hickeys, tail play, Rolan is insecure about his body at first, dom Rolan, dirty talk, edging, Karlach x Shadowheart makes an appearance because I love them

Word count | 5,5k

Note: I tried to keep the spells as correct as possible (including components, duration and spell slots) because I am fun like that. If I messed something up about that please let me know! English is my second language so any tips and corrections about my writing are more than welcome! 

Read on Ao3 here

Enjoy!

It was a nightmare. All of it. If not for blood pouring down your temple, sharp pain in your side and pounding in your head, you could pretend it was all a bad dream, that you would soon wake up from. Saying the shadow-cursed land was unwelcoming would be an understatement, but the attack... The screams. Zevlor, the calm, brave, strong Zevlor, just froze. Cal, Lia, and many others were dragged away. Others were bleeding out in the dirt. Some of you tried to fight, Rolan yelled to fall back, protecting the kids with everything he had. If not for his well-aimed spells, and the fight Cal and Lia put up keeping the cultists busy, none of you would have made it to the unexpected sanctuary of Last Light Inn. 

Rolan took care of your wounds as best as he could. Despite your protests, he convinced the lovely cleric, Isobel, the woman responsible for the safety of the Inn, to come downstairs and lend some of her magic to help with your head injury. 

Even though he went to great lengths to ensure your comfort, you could see all of his thoughts were preoccupied with his siblings' kidnapping and his perceived guilt in their capture. He was drinking himself numb, screaming at the kids who were just trying their best to show gratitude for all he'd done. He even lashed out at Tav when they offered help. Luckily for all of you, Tav not only brought Cal and Lia back safe and sound, but they also found, saved, and sent back to the Inn a slightly tipsy Rolan, who had disappeared to rescue his family on his own without accepting any help.

He did apologize to Tav afterward and thanked them for saving his ass, but gods, you and his family had to force it out of him with threats of violence.

You weren't that close before. You were good friends with Lia back in Elturel. It’s how you met him the first time. You liked him. He was fun to be around, although you would never feed his ego by telling him that, or risk being mercilessly made fun of by Lia, by sharing it with her. He was smart and funny, even if a little snarky and grumpy. You thought it was only natural that the difficulty and stress of your current situation brought you closer together. It didn't mean anything. Although you couldn’t help noticing him not being that attentive towards anyone else after all of you got to safety and could tend to your wounds. But you didn't want to give yourself hope. You couldn't. Life was difficult enough without getting your heart broken if you let yourself believe he might feel about you how you feel about him.

Right?

After what you heard was a terrifying and exhausting battle, the curse devouring this land was finally lifted. The sky started clearing up. A small party sounded like a pleasant idea, not unlike the gathering you held at Tav's camp after they helped you back at the grove.

And now you sit here, wine bottle in hand, watching with glee as everyone laughs and dances, celebrating the victory and honoring the fallen. Tav told you the truth about Zevlor. You can't find it in you to be angry at him. Honestly, you are just happy he survived and escaped. 

Cal and Lia are on the other side of the room laughing, bothering Rolan about something. He lets out a frustrated groan, but the music of Alfira’s lute and the noise of conversation around them drown out what they are saying. You just look at them, smiling, happy to see them safe, happy to see Rolan relaxing in his own way, with his family by his side.

───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

“Come on, she's been pining for you for so long. And she's not subtle about it either. How can you not see it?” Lia is a little too loud for Rolan's comfort but everyone around them doesn't seem to notice anyway, in the haze of celebration. “I mean, I know I'm pretty great, but she wasn't coming to visit so often just to see me.”

“That’s a lovely tale, but I would appreciate it if you stopped spinning it. You are seeing things that are not there.” 

“Gods, you are the dumbest smart person I know.” 

“Are you also gonna pretend,” Cal chimes in, “your tail doesn't sweep the floor like you're a godsdamned kitten when she's talking to you?”

Rolan groans, hiding his face in his hands, trying to feign annoyance, while his cheeks and ears burn.

The truth is he couldn't believe you'd ever even look at him. In his eyes, you were a strong warrior, someone who he had once seen kill two people with one swing of a sword. Powerful, strong, courageous. And he's just a scrawny wizard who keeps getting his ass kicked. While he appreciates his siblings' attempts to support him, the amount of faith they are putting in his chances is ridiculously unrealistic. 

He's going to try, one day, when he might have a chance. But he's not going to delude himself that he has it now.

───  ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅  ───

“Unless you are casting a sending spell, I don't think he's gonna be able to read your mind.” Tav sits next to you and nudges your shoulder, pointing at Rolan with a quick nod. “I’m sure Cal and Lia, as happy as they are to be reunited with him, won't mind if you steal your boyfriend for an hour or two for some… relaxation… upstairs.”

What?

“What?”

“Hey, I know there's not much privacy on the road and this might be your last night under a solid roof for some time. I imagine it must be hard for couples to spend quality time together in such circumstances.” They don't sound like they're teasing. In fact, Tav sounds painfully sincere and supportive.

‘Couples’. 

‘Boyfriend’?

“I— I'm not… I mean… We…” You trip over your own words, not sure what to say. “We are not a couple.”

“Oh.” The surprise on their face is confusing you. Why would they think you are a couple? Were you that obvious with your crush that they just assumed this level of openly shown adoration must mean an established relationship? That would mean Rolan must see it too. What if he starts pushing you away, displeased with your feelings for him? “Well, apologies for assuming.” They rub the back of their neck, clearly embarrassed. “I just saw how attentive he was… and the way Cal and Lia were talking about you… Sorry, didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“It's alright, no apology needed.”

You sit in silence for a moment but it keeps bugging you.

“What did Cal and Lia say?”

“Well, how happy they are that Rolan and you ‘found each other’ and how ‘less unbearable’ he is when you're around… Like I said, I didn't know they meant friendship and it was rude of me to assume.”

Oh. 

“I see,” you say and turn to look around the room. No matter how hard you try you can't not think about it. You would think the two of you were a couple if you heard them speak like that. It spreads warmth in your chest knowing Rolan's siblings see your influence on him that way. Your thoughts might be too obvious in your expression because Tav nudges you again.

“You wouldn't mind that though, huh?”

Your skin is naturally red. Usually, it’s hard to see blush on your face, but now you are convinced a blind person would notice.

“Don't be embarrassed. There’s enough darkness in the world to be negative about, some love here and there is what truly makes everything worth it.” They smile at you with encouragement. “And… he has been staring at you throughout our entire conversation.”

You look up and the moment Rolan's eyes meet yours he looks away, his face slightly darker.

“I know it's not my business and far be it from me to mingle in your love life… but it's rare to have a moment of peace like this. Go talk to him, enjoy the celebrations.” They get up and wander off to talk to other people. After all, they're the hero of the hour everyone wants a piece of. Again.

And…they're right. You probably won't try to make a move, but you can't let your confused heart stop you from spending time with your friends. Especially after all you've been through. As soon as you walk up, Lia puts her arm around you and hugs you.

“I thought you were gonna sulk there alone forever! Is your head acting up again?” she points at the almost-healed wound on your temple. 

“Oh no, I can barely feel it.” 

You smile. It's nice. Cal is leaning against the wall, wine bottle in hand. Lia is holding you with her arm around your shoulders. 

You start with small talk, but in your current situation, weather and gossip don't really hold up. But as soon as Lia mentions the upcoming threat of the Absolute army, Cal steps in.

“We can discuss it tomorrow. And the day after that. Today, let's talk about nice things. Like Rolan finally getting that big boy job in Baldur's Gate.”

Up until now, you tried not to pay too much attention to Rolan, being very self-aware of your gestures, but now you can do it unsuspiciously. There is something in the way he is leaning against the table, in his relaxed posture, in the lazy smile, that is making you melt a little.  

“Oh yes, it almost makes me want to treat you with more respect,” Lia laughs, poking Rolan in the ribs with her finger. “The Great Wizard Rolan of Elturel!”

“Ha… ha… love the respect.” Rolan rolls his eyes and straightens his robe where she wrinkled it slightly. You can't help but follow his hands’ movement with your eyes, wishing to feel them on your skin. 

What is wrong with you? You are trying to have a conversation and your mind just wanders off into territories you would prefer not to explore in a room full of people.

“I did say ‘almost’.”

Your eyes meet Rolan's again. He smiles, almost shyly, and his cheeks darken. You fight the urge to look away. Maybe thanks to Tav's encouragement, maybe because of the wine, you hold his gaze and return the smile. 

“Well, look at that,” Cal says loudly and hurriedly finishes the wine in his bottle. It takes him a few chugs, too many to be fully comfortable. “My wine is finished. Lia, wanna go get some more?” He gives his sister a look that you cannot fully decipher before they both walk away, leaving you and Rolan alone. You move to stand next to him, taking Cal’s place by the wall.

“It's good to see you feeling better,” he says, shifting ever so slightly like he's trying to stand closer to you. 

“I could say the same thing about you.” You catch yourself moving closer. “You were a wreck without these two.” 

“They're… they're family.” He looks down, his fingers clench on the edge of the table, and his brow furrows. Even after everything, he still blames himself.

“I know.” You give his hand a sympathetic squeeze and his entire body tenses. Oh shit. Did you overstep a boundary? “Sorry,” you mumble, panic taking over your body as you move your hand away, trying to take a step back, but Rolan reaches out to you quickly and takes your hand in his. 

“No! No, it's… thank you.”

He doesn't let go. You are only holding hands but it feels more intimate than anything you've ever done with anyone. Gods, you want him. You want to be close, to hug him, kiss him. You want to let him know how much you care, how dear he is to you. And if not now, then when? If he doesn't reciprocate, so be it. You are adults. Your friendship can survive a moment of embarrassment.

You take a step towards him, put your free hand on his chest, and press a kiss against his lips. You brace yourself for rejection as you start to pull away, but he doesn't let you. He puts his hand on your cheek and pulls you back in. 

Kissing him feels right. Like his lips were made to be on yours. Like his hands belonged on the curves of your waist.

You are careful at first. Just relishing in the softness of the gesture. But when he parts his lips and you feel the warm flash of his tongue on your bottom lip, you are gone. Your hands find the front of his robes to pull him even closer. For a moment, you forget where you are but a heavy arm falling on your shoulder painfully reminds you.

“You two should get a room.”

You turn, letting go of Rolan in panic, but when you see the smiling, heavily intoxicated face of Karlach, you relax. “Get it? Cause we're in an Inn!” She laughs joyfully, swaying on her feet, and then wanders off, not even trying to walk in a straight line. 

“Ugh, they are going to be so obnoxious about being right.” Rolan rubs the bridge of his nose.

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, Cal and Lia were trying to convince me… uh— that you…” he pauses and all of his confidence leaves him. But you are starting to understand and it makes your hearts flutter.

“I like you, if that's what you're getting at.” You spare him the embarrassment. “I really like you, Rolan.”

“Well, I gathered that.” He smirks and touches his mouth. “Do you… want to go upstairs?” He glances at Karlach who is now wrapping her arms around Shadowheart. “To ‘get a room’?”

You laugh and grab his hand. 

“Sure, I'd love to.”

He pulls you behind him towards the stairs. “Have fun!” Lia says to you as you pass her by, and Rolan cringes, avoiding her gaze. 

As soon as you leave everyone's line of sight, Rolan turns and takes your face in his hands.

“If I had known…” He is so gentle, fingers barely grazing your skin. His eyes wander around your face, drinking you in. “I wanted to wait until we got to Baldur's Gate and I became a wizard's apprentice and… when I'd finally be somebody… I would ask if you'd allow me to court you.” 

“Rolan, what are you talking about?” You place your hands on his. “You don't need validation from some stuck-up jerk in his stupid tower to be somebody.”

“Actually, the Ramazith Tower is quite impress—”

“I adore you,” you interrupt. “You. Not what you can do or what you can become.” 

You feel dizzy. He's so close. 

He kisses you again. Slowly. Purposefully. His tail wraps around your leg and pulls you even closer. You whimper as the tip, you're not sure if it's accidental or not, strokes the inside of your thigh. Rolan pauses for a split second before repeating the motion, this time definitely on purpose.

“Fuck— Rolan… I'm sure there's an empty room here somewhere,” you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. “I— Someone will hear us.”

“Well, if you can't stay quiet…” You can almost hear his smug smile before you feel his tail loosening its grip, getting more freedom of movement to climb up your leg and grind against your cunt.

You press your face into his chest in a desperate attempt to muffle a moan that is forced from your throat. He steadies you with a firm grip on your waist but doesn't stop.

You can't talk, you can't think, you can barely breathe. He has you wrapped around his finger and he hasn't even taken your clothes off yet. Every stroke brings you closer to release and makes it harder not to cry out in pleasure. You muster all of your self-control to grab his tail and move it away from you. 

“Let’s find a room,” you say, voice hoarse. “So I can get you out of these robes and make you see stars.”

He swallows hard and tugs on your arm to lead you to a door in the corner. The door seems stuck at first, but one strong push gets it open. The room is not in the best state, most of the furniture is broken and scattered across the floor. The bed, except for dust and a few broken pieces of wood on top, is holding together pretty well though. A quick spell and a flick of his wrist from Rolan cleans the sheets enough for them to be almost presentable and even smell like lavender and vanilla. Flames appear on the candles that are still left on the walls.

“There are some advantages to bedding a wizard,” he says with a confident smile. 

“I can't wait to learn what the others are.” 

He places one hand on your cheek, pulling you into another kiss, and the other hand travels down until it stops between your legs. Him palming you through your leggings is enough to make you whimper. When he starts moving, his fingers circling your clit, your knees buckle underneath you and if Rolan didn't catch you, wrapping his arm around your waist and anchoring you against his chest, you might have fallen.

Even through the fabric, with movement restricted by both of your bodies pressing against each other, he brings you achingly close to release.

“Rolan… I— Gods…” Your breath is reduced to huffs and whimpers. He eagerly muffles them with a kiss so hungry and sloppy, it's all tongue and teeth clashing. 

“Let go,” he whispers, breaking the kiss and letting you come up for air. “I've waited so long to see you come undone in my arms.”

 As aroused as you are, the dry friction of the fabric becomes a little uncomfortable. You can't think of anything other than how much you want to get rid of all the clothing that separates you from Rolan right now.

“Take off your clothes then,” you say, shifting a little to move away from his touch. “And fuck me into tomorrow.”

You think you see his jaw tense up a little, but can't be certain in the dim light. 

He leads you towards the bed and sits next to you, helping you get rid of your clothes, but when you gently tug on the hem of his robe he nudges your hand away.

“What's wrong?” This time you are sure something is bothering him.

“It's nothing,” he assures you, but his posture and tone of voice betray him.

“If you don't want to do this, you don't have to… I mean, obviously, you don't have to, but… I mean— I don't want you to feel pressured.” 

“It's not that. I… really want this with you. I promise I will make you feel good.” He looks down and whispers to himself. “I just don't want you to see me.”

You know there's a lot of insecurities under Rolan's confident facade. He acts arrogant to hide how unsure of his abilities he is. He worries that Cal and Lia not being his blood means they don't see him as real family. He doesn't believe he is worth something in your eyes, or anyone else’s, until he proves himself in the city. 

Despite all of that, you would never assume he felt insecure about his body. You always thought he would consider any focus on the physical appearance beneath him.

“Rolan... why?”

“I'm not exactly the… physical-prowess type. I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed with what you see.”

“I could never be disappointed with you. With anything about you.” You tangle your fingers with his and place a kiss on the back of his hand. “You can read me.”

“What?”

“Detect my thoughts. At any point, you can look into my mind. No need to warn me or even ask. Just look.”

You are scared. Scared that your feelings are going to overwhelm him, that they would be more than he is in for. But he needs to see for himself the way you feel about him.

“Are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

Rolan stares at you for a moment, wrestling with his thoughts, before leading your hand toward the clasp at the front of his robe. 

With shaking fingers, you help him out of his robes and then the shirt underneath. You want to memorize every inch of his skin you uncover. You want to kiss every part of him. Feel every part of him. You slide off the bed and settle between his legs. He watches you wide-eyed as you unbutton his pants and pull his cock out. 

You start slowly, licking the tip  before moving up and down the shaft. Rolan lets out a ragged breath, clutching at the sheets. When you suck the tip into your mouth, he whimpers softly. But it's not enough. For you anyway. You want to feel him hit the back of your throat. Choke on him until tears stream down your cheeks. You want him to completely ruin you. 

Your hands wander, stroking his thighs and then his stomach. Tracing the infernal ridges, you relish in the softness of his flesh as you dip your head down until your nose brushes his navel. Your throat contracts around his cock and gods, you love the sounds that he makes. 

When you pull away briefly, only to dive right back onto his cock, Rolan shifts slightly and you hear shuffling of fabric where his discarded robe lies next to him, as he pulls a piece of copper from a pocket. Then he whispers words of a spell and you feel tingling in your head. You look up. Rolan's eyes are set on yours. 

You allow him in your mind. Let him see everything. All the lust and yearning. How you try so hard to burn the view in front of you into your memory forever. The view of his chest raising with heavy breaths as you continue to suck his cock; Muscles in his forearms flexing under prominent veins; His soft stomach you want to lick and kiss and leave bite marks on. He was scared of undressing because his body is not built like a brick house but gods, and now also Rolan, know it's not what you want, not what you need. Every single part of his body sends shivers of lust through you. You want him, need him, in every way possible.

You drag your tongue against the side of his cock. You can feel his presence in your head fading as his focus falters and then completely disappears when you suck in your cheeks and take his whole length again. Tears form in the corners of your eyes in reaction to the gag.

Rolan caresses your cheek, pulling you away and wiping your tears with his thumb. 

“I— Wow.” He helps you up and pulls onto his lap. He's holding you close, one hand gently scratching your back and the other gripping your thigh, his face awestruck as he stares into your eyes.

You hoped hearing your thoughts would put Rolan's mind at ease, but it did so much more than that. You can see a sudden surge of confidence that you didn't expect, even in him. He roughly grabs you and pushes you down on the bed, caging you with his arms. 

“I am going to make you beg for me.” His voice is almost a growl in his throat. He lowers himself and without any further hesitation, dives down your body, his tongue pressing flat against your clit.

It's so much better than anything you imagined, and you imagined a lot. Every lick, every flick of his tongue sends a burning hot jolt of pleasure from your cunt through your entire body to the tips of your fingers and toes. You dig your nails into the sheets, trying to ground yourself. You buck your hips, begging for more friction, more pleasure, more.

You feel the tingling in your mind again and let him in immediately. 

The coil in your stomach is getting tighter and tighter and you can feel that if he keeps going like that it will soon snap. That's when he stops. Raises his head and looks at you, smug and a little mischievous. He knows what he did. 

“Rolan, what the fuck?”

“You need to be patient. I will take care of you, I promise. But I want to take my time.” Before you respond, his head is back between your legs. The spell connecting you fades, but he doesn't need it anymore to know when you are close. He listened to the change in the pitch of your moans. The slight difference in the way your body tenses. And he's always been a quick learner. 

The buildup is even faster this time, and again, he brings you painfully close to release before stopping. 

“You're mean,” you whimper, tears now streaming down your face.

“A little.” He chuckles but goes back to work immediately after he sees your muscles relax a bit. His grip on your thighs is unyielding, holding you in place so he can devour you. 

You can feel your orgasm approaching again and you don't think you can take the teasing anymore. You reach down and grab Rolan's horn, holding to it like a lifeline. “Rolan, please… I can't— Let me finish… Please…” Your legs are shaking, your body burns. You feel like you're going to die if he pulls away now.

He doesn't. When he can see how close you are, this time he just looks up to watch as you cum on his tongue, keeping the pressure and tempo going as you ride out your orgasm. He only stops when you push him away, high in the afterglow. 

“Hells, Rolan…”

“Told you I was gonna make you beg.”

“You fucking asshole,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and urging him to lie next to you. He complies, clumsily kicking his shoes and trousers off, cleaning his face that's still dripping with your slick with a quick spell. His cock is now digging into your thigh and he's littering your neck and shoulders with kisses. Gentle at first, then harder, with more teeth, leaving marks. You expected this possessiveness from him yet it still surprises you a little. He pulls your leg to rest around his hip. His tongue is soothing the bites and bruises he has left on your skin.

“Do you want to continue?” He raises his head and bucks his hips involuntarily, grinding against you.

“Fuck yes.” 

You turn to him fully, wrapping your arm around him and pulling him closer. His lips, kiss bruised, are back on yours. You flip him on his back, straddling him, his cock between your folds, the tip hitting your clit as you start rocking your hips.

His grip on your thighs is strong, desperate. He guides your movement, pressing his head back into the pillow. 

“Ride me,” he pleads, his nails digging deeper into the flesh of your legs. And how can you refuse, when he's asking so nicely?

You shift to press the tip of his cock against your entrance and then sit down taking him in one swift motion. He thoroughly prepared you with his mouth but the stretch still steals the breath from your lungs. 

“Hells,” you sigh, stilling for a moment to adjust to him. 

He whispers your name with a reverence usually reserved only for the gods. Then he whispers something else. A spell. And you feel a gentle pressure of the mage hand at your clit. You start rocking your hips and his cock starts pressing deliciously against all the right spots inside of you. He has to recast the mage hand every other minute but he does it without any delay, the moment it would disappear, it appears again, as if he's counting the seconds to make sure your pleasure never falters.

“Rolan, you fill me so well.” You don't even think about it, the words just spill from your mouth. But they don't go unnoticed. You can see Rolan's eyes darken as something changes in him. He grabs you roughly again and rolls over to be on top of you. The slow rolling of your hips is replaced by his thrusts. The first two are restrained, but then he picks up the pace. He steadies himself on his elbows, chest pressed against yours, breathing heavily in the crook of your neck.

“Say it again,” he groans into your ear. His voice is low, lustful. A demanding hunger, that mirrors your own.

“You make me feel so good— Gods…” Your sentence is cut short by a moan Rolan pulls from you, his mage hand steadily circling your clit. “I never want to stop doing this. You fuck me so well, Rolan.”

The sounds he is making are animalistic. His movement becomes erratic and soon you can feel him twitching, spilling into you. The warmth of his seed fills you and the sweet honey of his incomprehensible praises tickles your neck. The mage hand seems to flicker for a moment as Rolan's climax overwhelms him, but he quickly gets his bearings and the steady pressure on your clit is back. His cock is slowly softening as he pulls out, shifting to kneel between your thighs. You can feel his seed spilling out of you as your muscles contract and relax, grieving the loss of his cock. Rolan looks between your legs like he's hypnotized for a moment. Droplets of sweat are glistening on his chest, his hair is in disarray. He is so fucking handsome.

When you feel Rolan's fingers circle your entrance and then, carefully minding his claws, sink into you, the tension inside comes close to snapping again. Your back arches as you're inching closer and closer to release and then when it overflows you, your vision blurs, your whole body tenses and soon you are gently pushing Rolan's hand away, overstimulated.

As he pulls his fingers out, he casts a spell and you feel his seed disappear and your thighs and his fingers are clean and dry again. It puts your mind at ease, not having to worry about any surprises in a few months.

“I don't think I could ever get tired of that view.” Rolan cocks his head slightly, his gaze caressing your body. His tail wraps around your calf.

“Well, I could never get tired of presenting it to you.” You let out a breathless laugh, collecting yourself. You sit up and place a quick kiss on his lips. It feels almost out of place, the gentleness of it, after what you just did. Slowly both of you start putting your clothes on between the kisses and you want to ask if he would like to stay here or go back downstairs, but you don't get that chance.

The door opens with a thump as it hits the wall and two people stumble inside not even noticing you at first, their limbs tangled, their lips joined. You wouldn't even recognize them if not for blue flames engulfing the tall figure of Karlach accompanied by Shadowheart. Good for her. You see a flash when Dancing Lights is cast. 

“Oh shit, sorry.” Karlach laughs, when she finally notices you, one arm around Shadowheart, the other rubbing the back of her neck. You can hear Rolan behind you struggling to put his robe over his shirt and trousers faster. 

“Don't worry, we were just checking out.” You can't help but laugh. Normally the situation would be mortifyingly embarrassing but right now your heart feels so light you can't find it in yourself to be anything other than joyful. You grab Rolan's hand as he finishes tightening the last clasp on his robe, and pull him towards the door, grabbing your jacket from the floor on your way out. “Have fun!” You manage to say before the door shuts behind you. The muffled noises you hear from inside the room tell you they definitely were planning on having fun even without your encouragement.

“Well,” Rolan clears his throat, trying to regain the scraps of his dignity. “That's a less-than-ideal ending to our evening. But I'm sure there are many more evenings to come.” It's not a statement, not really. It's a question. And even though he's smiling, you can see a hint of panic and insecurity in his eyes. You grab his hand. It feels so nice to be able to do that.

“Of course. You are not getting rid of me that easily.” 

His smile of relief could melt even the coldest heart of stone.

[giuseppe-yuki]

blooming flowers (and love)

demigod!logan sargeant x dryad!reader

right away, you sense another boy has stepped foot inside your grove.

from your view from your tree, you can only see the back of his head, but you are sure he’s one of the many sons of apollo- it’s obvious from the way the sun’s beams cradle him oh-so-gently, encasing him in a subtle glow, and from the fact that he has silky blonde strands of hair that shines like gold- something that could only be inherited from the sun god himself.

the boy steps cautiously through your grassy clearing, one hand perched on the celestial bronze sword strapped to his hip.

when a leaf from one of your trees flutter lightly against his shoulder, he jolts, midstep.

you roll your eyes. demigods were so paranoid and jumpy these days.

as he makes his way through your grove, you toy with him a little bit, making a trail of your favorite flower, the tiny mazus flower, sprout and bloom behind his heels.

he doesn’t notice until a second later, head immediately whipping around side to side in a pathetic attempt to locate the being who summoned the flowers.

“alright,” he shouts, loud enough to scare away a small group of warblers resting in a tree nearby. “i know i’m being followed now.”

your giggle echoes through the rustling of the leaves and the branches.

“are you?” you ask, as you materialize out of the shadows behind him.

the first thing you notice when he whips around is stormy blue-grey eyes that could have fooled anyone into thinking he was a descendant of athena’s.

the second thing you notice is how fast his reflexes are.

before you can blink, he already has his deadly sword unsheathed from his scabbard and swinging at you.

immediately, you will vines from one of your trees to wind around the demigod’s body and arms. the green stems whip across the air and wrench the sword from the boy’s grip, causing it to drop harmlessly onto the padded earth in front of you.

you can feel the thrumming want from the woods that begs to rip the boy apart for even attempting to harm you, but you settle them down by mentally reasoning to them that you probably just scared him, that’s all.

the vines unwind tentatively, but does as you will them to and rescinds their grip gently.

the boy stares at you in shock.

“i- i- i’m sorry,” he stammers, wringing his hands. “i thought you were a mons-”

“do you usually greet other dryads like this?” you interrupt, tilting your head sideways.

his cheeks bloom pink.

“do you usually greet other demigods like this?” he shoots back, seemingly having gathered some confidence.

the vines swirl around one of his feet.

you give him a light smile.

“only the cute ones,” you reply back.

one of his eyebrows twitches upwards.

a parallel smile on his face now, he waves his hands towards the mazus flowers that you have sprouted before.

in front of your eyes, you watch in amusement as select mazus flowers reach towards the warmth of the sun’s rays while others face a different way, creating a lop-sided heart in the grassy clearing with the difference in color.

the boy must have inherited a few things from his father, then.

“my name’s logan,” he says, reaching next to the flower heart to pick up his sword again and sheathing it into his scabbard. “and for the record, i think you’re cute too.”

[reverieblondie]

Cal x Lae'zel

Reuniting at Last Light.

Part 1 Part 2

A/N: I'm back on my self indulgence and geeking about my favorite crack ship again. I will never stop putting these two together. Thank you to @drizztdohurtin for letting me ramble about them in your ask box (that seems like forever ago now) And thank you @dark-and-kawaii for the pictures she took for me of them together, they are all so perfect! Please check out part one of when they met at the grove.

Cal can't help but sigh as he thinks about Lae'zel, her lovely neck, darling ears, and beautiful skin as pretty as a fresh field of spring grass. He misses it, his little escape he had with her. Though it was hard training with her, he missed it, his lungs screaming in exhaustion, and the sight of her rare small smile when he did a good job... Cal's feet continue to drag on as he thinks of her, and he silently prays that she is okay.

Rolan watches Cal's dragging figure, curious. He leans over towards Lia, "Is Cal alright? He seems sick. Do I need to tell Zevlor that we should stop and rest?"

Lia shakes her head. "I think he is missing someone. Maybe he had a crush on someone in the grove? He's been sighing all morning…" 

Rolan's face contorts to one of worry before he leans in again, "You... you don't think it was Tav, do you?" 

Lia just gives Rolan a small laugh before patting his shoulder.

As the Caravan moves further into the shadowlands, things become darker and darker. Then, the screams.

It's an odd feeling to have your whole life change instantly. Her life, her loyalty... Was it all a waste? Lae'zel, of course, keeps all this inner turmoil packed down, hidden under her stone wall demeanor... She had felt so sure of everything in her life, but now everything she had ever known had been ripped apart. She truly, for the first time, feels lost.

Tav her... friend? (still a foreign concept to her) has been helping her get through everything, including the creche, and the Underdark, and now is trying to talk to her about what has happened, but it's just not a clear thing to explain, the storming feelings that boil in her belly… How can she share that weakness with anyone? 

Last night, when Voss appeared at their camp and revealed more truths, Tav sat with Lae'zel in silence all night, just there in case she wanted to vent. It was odd... Lae'zel appreciated Tav's act of comradery. It was a gesture of kindness that reminded her of someone... Cal...

Lae'zel would never admit that she missed Cal, but she did find that her mind would wander back to him and their last moments together. Those words of him thanking her and his foolish hope to see her again... She wanted to chastise herself for thinking such soft thoughts like some doe-eyed maiden... but the sight of his strong face lit up in the dark from the campfire, the orange glow of his eyes... and the conviction in his voice... She deep down knew that she wanted to see him again too... and she wanted him to hear her whispered admission of that...

Lae'zel scoffs to herself... What has become of her life? Getting to Last Light was a struggle, but everyone was relieved to get away from the shadows for even a semblance of sanctuary. And it turns out they were not alone. 

When Lae'zel saw the tiefling refugees, she was surprised to see that some of them had even made it through the cursed lands alive. Then, she started to keep her eyes peeled for one in particular. Lae'zel had been the first to point out Rolan to Tav from his drunken ranting at the bar; Lae'zel didn't know much of the wizard besides that he was Cal's brother. Tav made a beeline towards Rolan, and Lae'zel followed, hoping to figure out what had become of Cal; she had trained him, so he had to be okay... he just had to be.....

Lae'zel Could hardly contain her rage. Rolan had explained how he had tried to save them, but they just had to play hero. He had blamed Tav, but when he described how Cal had refused to back down until he was knocked out and dragged off, she knew that was her influence upon him—never back down, never accept defeat. That fool... and now he has been taken to Moonrise Towers. He had better still be alive, or she would kill him…

Of course, Tav had vowed to Rolan to return his family, something he snappingly rejected, saying she had done enough. Lae'zel had the mind to cut his tongue off from his disrespect to her friend, but he was Cal's brother, so she decided to show leniency this once.

"I feel terrible..." Tav shuddered through tears. Everyone else had gone to camp or the forgue, leaving Lae'zel alone with the sobbing Tav in the back of the Inn. 

"Poor Rolan." She kept trembling, and her tears seemed to never stop. Lae'zel rolled her eyes, still not fully understanding Tav's fascination and heartache for the rude spell caster. Lae'zel wouldn't criticize taste, however. 

Taking a page from what she had observed with others, Lae'zel reached her hand out and patted Tav's back (albeit a bit harshly), but it was a gesture of consoling. Tav lifted her head, turning her puffy red, wet face to Lae'zel. The gith fought every urge not to scoff at the pathetic sight. What would Cal say?

"Do not be so pathetic. We will save the wizard's family and others. He will be forced to shamefully bite his tongue when we retrieve them."

Tav and the rest of their party had decided that it would be best to split up and cover more ground. This meant, however, that Tav, Astarion, and Shadowheart went to save the captured while Lae'zel, Karlach, Wyll, and Gale ran interference. And though on the inside, Lae'zel wanted to go down to the dungeons, she didn't dare confess to this weak desire. Her pride wouldn't allow it... or maybe she just didn't know how she would respond if she didn't see Cal.

Lae'zel rolls her eyes at herself. She has a mission; she can't be thinking this now. They need to focus on getting back to Last Light.

Everything since Tav came down to rescue them has happened so fast. From breaking out to running for their lives to climbing into the boats, it all has been a blur. But now that everyone is safe, at last, Cal feels like he can finally breathe again.

After a tearful and somewhat loud reunion with Rolan, Cal was on a mission to see someone else. He hoped to find her if she was still with the band of misfits. Cal pushed through the people reuniting with one another, keeping his head on a swivel when a little tsk-like hiss caught his attention. 

There she stood, her skin perfect, her hair soft and intricately braided, and clad in her heavy silver armor. "Laezel," he can't help himself from whispering, and when he sees her delicate ears twitch and those harvest gold eyes meet his, he can't help how his heart races.

Before he can think, his feet move on their own as he runs to her; his heart is about to leap from his chest. Cal had thought of their days when they were becoming closer. He had spent restless nights dreaming of seeing her once again shining in the sun, praying to see her and get the chance to hold her in his arms. 

"Lae'zel!" he cheers, holding out his arms to her as he runs closer. "I had hoped to."

But before he could hold her... Lae'zel delivered a swift punch to his thick skull.

Lia and Rolan were not the only ones to gap at the reaction, seeing Cal quickly sink to his knees and wincing in pain. Everyone paused from running over when they saw Cal chuckle with a bright smile. Lae'zel looks down at Cal with a scowl.

"You dare get caught by the likes of those scum... I should cut you down myself." 

Cal keeps smiling as he looks up at her, "I knew you weren't going to be happy about that, but I also couldn't just stand and do nothing."

Lae’zel gives a short nod, "You're right. I would have been even more pissed. Now stand."

 Cal, knowing better, stands abruptly to his full height. Lea'zel eyes him carefully, and with her so close, he's having to fight the urge for his tail not to sway. All at once, those feelings he's held back come boiling over, and he can't stop himself from grabbing Lae'zel and squeezing her in a tight embrace. Lae'zel's first instinct is to pull away, but she also has the urge to meet his embrace. She's unsure if it's the feel of his arms around her or the smell of his musk, but she doesn't ever want to be let go.

So, with slow, careful hands, she reaches up and returns the embrace. Though she can't help that after a minute, she's patting his back impatiently with others, maybe seeing her in a vulnerable moment.

On the other side of the room, Tav and Rolan look on in disbelief. Rolan turns to Tav, "And how long has that been going on?"

Sometime during the night, Lae'zel and Cal could avoid pring questions from their friends (and family) and managed to get where it was only them in the cold night air of the shadowlands. Of course, Lae'zel didn't mean to open up to Cal... but somehow, he always brings out the worst in her, so she gives in to her feelings and explains her journey and why she is still infected... As she spoke, she couldn't believe how open she was. She was weak and vulnerable, but as she looked up at Cal's glowing eyes, they were so steady on her... She never felt safer…

"I'm a ward of my people... I was cast out... lied to, now I'm... alone."

"Refugee..." Cal finishes her sentence. Lae'zel lifts her eyes to see that Cal is already gazing at her. 

They both look away from each other bashfully; Lae'zel continues, "I have my Companions and Tav... but how could they fully understand me and my mind now…"

Cal takes in her words before an idea, "You could be with us!"

Lae'zel looks at him, confused, before he explains, "Think about it; we are not so different. We are both refugees trying to find a new home and a new purpose... and we both have cool eyes. I have ridges, and you have spots, but it decorates our skin. We both have pointed ears, though I would argue yours are far more elegant. Also, we both have sharp teeth... So would you want to join us for dinners, we usually eat lots of meats." 

Lae'zels eyes widen, "Join... your family..."

Cal flushes and stammers as he explains, "Only if you wanted! You could come and go as you please, but... We would treat you kindly. I can see you and Lia being fast friends, and... Well, Rolan will be at his apprenticeship, but the two are kind of similar, rough around the edges at first but loyal."

Lae'zel tilts her head, "So you see us getting along?"

"Yes! I mean, it would be an adjustment, but it's an option for you."

Lae'zel Couldn't help but smile at the thought of finally having a choice of her own.

As the night continues and the conversation grows quiet, Lae'zel stands and says, "You should reconvene with Rolan and Lia. It's late, and you must rest."

Before she can walk away, Cal stands up and quickly grabs her hand to stop her. She would have ripped her hand away if it had been any other, but this is Cal, so she allows it.

"I know you will be cured... and I don't want you to only be a pleasant memory I think of in the late nights as I stare into the stars... I want you in my life. I will respect whatever you decide to do with your future... In my selfish hopefulness, I hope you will stay in the city with us... But If you go elsewhere, I want you to know... You can always have a place with us if you want to." 

Cal leans in and kisses her cheek in soft tenderness. Lea'zel feels her cheeks redden at the mushy display, but it still stirs something in her chest. 

"I will get to the Gate... and look out for you there," Cal declares. 

Lae'zel shakes her head. "Your optimism is exhausting yet refreshing." She touches Cal's cheek, and he leans into her. He's so different from everyone she's encountered on this journey. She's unsure if she wants to hurt him or hold him, but she's in no place to decide now.

"This future where we meet in the city sounds pleasant... but I am unsure of my future and where I fit."

"It Should be where you want to be," Cal challenges. Lae'zel is shocked for a moment before she smiles and pats Cal's cheek. "Good night, Cal."

Cal lends his forehead to hers, a grand gesture of love and trust he wants to one day explain to her... "Good night. Lae'zel..." 

"Till we meet again in Baldur's Gate."

(part 3 finding each other again in the city!!)

[autistichalsin]

It has come to my attention that some are disappointed with the content I share here. Namely, some are angry that I "push certain views of Halsin" by only reblogging headcanons that agree with my own.

To be clear, I am a Tumblr blog, not a lending library. I am under no obligation to give equal attention to every perspective. I will reblog a headcanon for one of two reasons: 1. I agree with it, 2. I didn't agree with it, but I enjoyed how the author presented it and wanted to share it.

To expect me to reblog posts that do not interest me for either of the above reasons just to give "equal attention" to all interpretations of Halsin is staggeringly entitled. If you want a blog that focuses on every Halsin post equally, make a "the Halsin tag" blog that automatically reblogs every post shared in his tag, or if you can't program, reblog them yourself. I have seen them done for other characters and ships before, and they are always enjoyed by all. I know I would certainly follow and reblog from such a project. But THIS page is not that project. I do NOT love all views of Halsin equally, I don't love all Halsin ships equally, I don't like all Halsin fics equally. I am here to reblog what makes ME happy, and to share the thoughts that make ME happy.

Which brings me to my next point: some are also angry that I write metas only from my own point of view. These metas are a labor of love for me. I enjoy analyzing media, which is why I'm also planning a side project of analyzing some of my favorite TV shows. I am not here to analyze all interpretations of my favorite media, though. I am here to analyze the ones that interest me.

If you would like me to analyze and reach the conclusions you do (such as Halsin being a happy middle aged guy who has no problems of his own, or Halsin being 100% healed from his sexual assault, or Halsin having had no friction at all with his Grove until the day he left with Aradin), I suggest you DM me so we can discuss a commissioner's fee, or perhaps me setting up a Patreon for you to support my work. If you aren't going to be compensating me (which is understandable, these are hard times) then I would ask that you let me enjoy my hobby in peace, and understand that no one is obligated to make content for free that caters specifically to you. Or you could just save us all the trouble and block me so you don't have to see my metas anymore.

But demanding I cater my metas to every viewpoint, that I reblog equally from all points of view, all ships, etc relating to Halsin, is absolutely insane and entitled behavior, and with all the respect these individuals have shown me when making these complaints, I am going to decline at this time. Thanks.