#but i hesitated for a long time whether i wanted to make her greek or italian

[imagining-in-the-margins]

Maddening One, My Goddess (S.R.)

*Picture is not indicative of Reader's appearance.

Summary: Spencer hooked up with a goddess on February 13 and almost immediately comes to regret it when he attends a pre-planned Valentine's Day blind date.

Request: Spencer has a one night stand with a random woman but on valentines he's supposed to go on a blind date with one of Penelope's friends and it turns out it's the same woman Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader Category: Fluff (16+ for sexual themes) Content Warning: Fade to black scene with sexual themes, alludes to sex, one night stand, Greek mythology, Reader as Aphrodite, second hand embarrassment, awkward dinners, kissing/making out Word Count: 4.85k

MASTERLIST

Many mistakes begin with a poorly timed question. There is no more obvious rendition of this tired trope than a book chosen at random from the romance section of a bookstore.

So often had it happened, where the hero seals his own fate by misunderstanding the weight of his words. Whether he had been the one asking or the one being asked, it always ended with tragedy reminiscent of the Greek Gods.

I knew I would be that hero from the moment I saw my heroine sitting lonely at the cafe on the corner. Her eyes, half-lidded but filled with yearning, remain affixed on the empty chair across from her. 

The place was packed with busy bodies, but she seemed so still. It was as if an oil painting of Aphrodite had come to life and left her without her other.

Perhaps it was just the foolhardy romantic in me, but I found that a woman waiting for nothing to arrive was a bit too tragic with Valentine’s Day only one night away.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I had asked.

Those eyes that had been lost resurfaced. They’d turned to me with a dreamy sigh and a demure charade to hide the deviance hidden betwixt the words.

“No, I wasn’t,” she had purred, “but now I’m hoping you’ll ask me to stay.”

Who was I to deny Cupid’s arrow, no matter how poorly timed? Was it chauvinistic to want to save her from solitude when she was so clearly aware of her own tragedy? She had not been a woman who needed to be saved. But she had wanted someone to try.

Try, I had. We spoke until long past the flickering of shy streetlights. I’d watched the sun set behind her, casting its halo as her backdrop. The jealous star had burned twice as beautifully in an effort to outshine her. When it had finally accepted defeat and gave in to the night, she also had to take her leave.

It had only been a few hours. It was only a few hours before the day of the lovers’ feast. I’d spent the afternoon fantasizing about an alternate reality where I could let myself be consumed by her. I had trailed behind her, her Icarus chasing what felt both unattainable and inevitable.

When she had leaned forward to kiss me, wax wings turned to a puddle at my feet. I had been trapped in place, powerless to her as she kissed me again, and again, and again. I fell for her then, with no reservations.

The chilly February air had presented the perfect contrast to her warmth. Her scorching lips were still soft. I had felt the intensity growing stronger with each meeting of our lips. When she had shyly asked for entrance, I had given it without hesitation.

Like the fools in every Greek tragedy, we plummeted swiftly into the inferno of lust. Cupid had claimed another victim, but I hadn’t been able to find a reason to resist her.

It was inevitable, after all. Fated by Eros himself.

Yet I’d been surprised that she’d lingered when her had chariot arrived.

Still sporting that intoxicating stare, she had asked, “Are you coming?”

So many mistakes begin just like that.

“I-I just met you,” I’d answered honestly, “I’ve uh… I’ve never done this before.”

She’d tipped her head back and laughed. It had hurt less than I would have expected. How could it, when the sound had been so beautiful?

“Oh, honey, I know,” she’d giggled, “But don’t worry, I’ve done it enough for the both of us.”

The animal in me trembled as it puffed it’s chest at the taunt.

“Is that supposed to be attractive? Because it is,” I’d laughed.

It had been enough of a yes for her. She took my hand in hers and began leading me away from the remnants of wax wings that I no longer needed. Like them, I’d shed my insecurities in exchange for a promise of a bed less painfully empty.

“Really? Not worried about where you’ll end up on the rankings?” she’d snickered.

“Terrified, actually.”

She had paused before she could climb into the backseat. She’d turned to me with an overwhelming, paradoxical nature. Still somehow seeming shy, she’d tugged me forward until her lips ghosted over my ear.

“Good boy,” she’d whispered, “you’ll be on your best behavior, then.”

And I had tried. I’d tried with everything I had to please her any way that she would let me. We had remained tangled together from the moment we’d crossed the threshold to her hotel room until long after the clock had struck midnight.

She had been every bit as idyllic as I’d expected. My shy seductress with her eyes full of wonder and ambrosia spilling from her lips. I had worshipped her like Aphrodite herself, and like her devout followers, I felt no shame in my own humility.

But as the sun peeked through thin veils, I knew that reality had persisted. The jealous sun rose and shone brightly as it sought to reveal the aftermath of a night with a goddess.

I woke to an empty bed and the distant sound of the shower. The feeling of regret was nonexistent up until I heard the raucous reminder of exactly what day it has been.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt.

At first, I thought about ignoring the call. I considered the most cowardly option of not alerting Penelope Garcia of my indiscretions. If I simply didn’t answer, maybe it would spare me some of the humiliation.

Of course, that also risked her searching the location of my cell phone, which would take her approximately fifty five seconds to do. If she were to do that, I feared that the moment she discovered I was in a hotel room a couple blocks from my apartment, she might come kick my ass herself.

I knew I had to be brave. I had to tell Penelope the truth that, despite her kindness in finding some poor woman who would put up with me on Valentine’s Day, I had to cancel.

I had to cancel because I had made the truly heinous, foolish mistake of a one-night stand on February 13th.

Without allowing myself to dwell on my idiocy any longer, I picked up the phone and spoke as quickly and quietly as I could.

“Penelope, I have to cancel.”

“What?!” she shouted back.

“I’m sorry!” I tried to interject, but she shouted over me with a contained fury, “Reid, what the hell are you talking about? You can’t cancel, the date is tonight!”

When I didn’t answer, she continued—much louder— “It’s Valentine’s Day! The day of love, Cupid’s birthday, the holiest of Hallmark holidays, the day on which we agreed that you would come with me on a double date with a woman I very carefully chose specifically for you!”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry just—.”

I stopped as soon as the shower had. The sweet sound of her humming in delight caused butterflies to roar in my chest before they were caught in the vortex of anxiety that was beginning to peak.

“I have to go,” I rushed, but she hasn’t understood.

“Damn right you do!”

“No! I meant I have to get off the phone. I can’t go tonight,” I repeated.

On the other end of the phone, Penelope remained blissfully unaware of my predicament.

“Reid, if you abandon me on my favorite day and leave me to pick up the pieces of this poor girl’s broken heart, I am never going to personally make sure that—!”

The door opened.

“I’ll call you back,” I said before hanging up.

Despite the obvious fear plastered on my face and coursing through my veins, my Aphrodite strolled past me with a wave of her hand.

“You’re bad at whispering,” she droned.

I hadn’t exactly been trying to, but I realized that actually just made me seem worse, so I didn’t dare correct her. Instead, I just watched her nonchalantly drop the towel from her naked body.

I was so distracted by her beauty in the morning light that I almost missed when she spoke again.

“Also, relax,” she sighed, “I already have plans today, so I’m not interested in whatever you were planning.”

Perhaps I had been wrong about how it would feel to be struck through the heart by Eros. I had thought it felt like sweet torture, but in that moment, any remnant of sweetness turned to bitter waves in my stomach.

“Oh, okay,” I muttered.

I’d tried—and failed—to hide my disappointment. In a way, I think she was doing the same.

I thought about saying something, anything to prolong my time with her. I looked at her again. Just the same as the day before, the sun hung behind her and made her appear like a vision from the heavens. She glanced at me over her shoulder as she tried to collect her clothing scattered on the floor.

I opened my mouth to ask her if she was sure she’d wanted me to leave when she still looked so tragic.

The words never made their way through my lips. They died on my tongue the second that she spoke.

“Do you need me to order you a cab?” she asked.

So many mistakes had started just like that.

The walk home to my apartment had been a grueling endeavor. Partially because of the vengeful wrath of Penelope Garcia in my ear, but mostly because I couldn’t help but feel that I’d made the most horrible mistake by accepting her invitation to leave.

It would have been rude to overstay my welcome, of course. But there was something about the way she’d looked at me as we had stood at her door.

I’d expected her to shut it in my face, but she hadn’t. In fact, before I had departed for likely the last time, she had taken the time to press a lingering kiss to my burning cheek.

“If you ever work up the nerve…” she’d whispered, “I’ll be waiting.”

The nerve for what, though? The question had haunted me the whole day. I feared it might haunt me forever.

But this had hardly been an opportune time and place to ponder and yearn for another woman. There, in a beautiful restaurant on Valentine’s Day, with two close friends and waiting on a woman whose heart I was fully prepared to break.

My own heart pounded with the anticipation of the disappointment. I carried my own heartbreak in a lead arrow that would surely drive everyone away.

I knew when she’d arrived because I could hear Penelope’s excitement from across the table. She nearly leapt from her chair to greet my date.

By contrast, my eyes stayed fixated on her feet. That was, until Penelope said something that seemed impossible.

“(Y/n),” she said so simply, as if it hadn’t been an earth-shattering revelation. “This is Spencer. Spencer, this is…”

My Aphrodite, my damsel, my greatest desire and my greatest regret. I stared at her with wide eyes and a dropped jaw that floundered rather than spoke.

“(Y/n),” I muttered when my mouth managed to make words.

She smiled.

Then, as if no part of this was strange or fateful, she continued, “It’s so nice to meet you, Spencer.”

Each step of her perfectly polished heels felt like a knife to my heart. When she took the seat beside me, her perfume hit me the same as her lips against my cheek that morning.

I was so stunned, I couldn’t even breathe. I was waiting for everyone to reveal that this had all been a twisted joke they were all in on.

She seemed so… calm. So prepared to pretend. I wondered how I’d ever thought of her as a damsel. If anything, in that moment, she was more of a villain.

The wrath of Aphrodite came with a quirk of her lips and her hand resting gently on my forearm.

“You know, Spencer…”

How cruel it was, the sound of my name on her lips at a time when I could not kiss them.

“Penelope told me you got cold feet this morning.”

“Uh,” I blabbered. My eyes darted up and down from her hand to her eyes.

I tried to find a way to pretend. It seemed so futile. From the corner of my eye, I saw Luke’s eyes expertly navigating the tumultuous waves between the two of us.

It would only take one poorly worded statement, one question, one answer—one mistake—and he would know the truth.

Assuming he hadn’t already.

“It’s nothing,” I said as confidently as I could, “I uh… It had nothing to do with you.”

Great job. Super convincing.

The bustling sounds of the restaurant felt overwhelming, but still nowhere near as deafening as the way she giggled under her breath. She took her time slowly dragging her hand down my arm until it finally fell away.

“Well, that’s a relief,” she said with a sigh. “I would hate to have ruined such a wonderful evening.”

Of course, she hadn’t. I had. I had become so consumed with the weight of my feelings for her that the mask I would’ve worn was heavier than any lead arrow that Eros might craft.

Even when Penelope and Luke tried so hard to help her maintain the facade that any of this was normal, I remained stubbornly stuck to the truth.

There was a goddess beside me with revenge to exact on the man who thought himself worthy of worshipping her. And, my god, she knew how to make a man suffer and squirm beneath her heel.

She didn’t even need to touch me to make my body react. Her voice alone was enough to cause goosebumps to ripple over my skin. I nearly dropped my fork against the ceramic from the shock of her speaking so boldly.

“So, Spencer, what do you like to do for fun?”

“I don’t have fun,” I answered immediately.

Just like she had the night before, she tipped her head back and laughed. She bared her neck to me and I tried not to think about how it felt against my lips. I tried to drown out the memory of her calling my name with a trembling timbre.

“Really?” she said between chuckles, “So no crazy late nights with people you’ve just met?”

Instead of answering, I just stared at her as I took a long drink of water. I didn’t bother pleading with her because I knew it wouldn’t work. My gaze was not made of saccharine attempts to please her into showing me mercy. It was heavy and filled with the rocks now lining my stomach.

Underneath the table, hidden from prying eyes, that damned woman punished my insubordination by running her foot up my leg.

I jumped hard enough that I bashed my knee against the table. It backfired—or rather, worked exactly as she’d intended it to—when she took the opportunity to rest a warm, gentle palm against my thigh.

“Are you alright?” she asked, still smiling.

“Yes. A-And the answer to your question is… no. No, I-I don’t do that.”

Smooth.

Smooth like the supple skin of her thighs as she perched herself against my hips. Stinging like the drag of her nails down my back.

I had to stop picturing her naked when her hand was on my thigh.

From the other side of the table, Penelope and Luke broke free from each other and attempted to dissipate the awkwardness ensuing between my Aphrodite and I.

At least, I would like to think Penelope had good intentions. Then again, I had scorned her first thing in the morning while still laying in a hotel room with the most beautiful manifestation of God.

“He says that,” Penelope ushered with an excited and accusatory hand gesturing wildly to me, “but he’s definitely kissed both a movie star and a serial killer, so…”

Yeah. She was pissed.

“Garcia!” I pleaded because I thought she might show me mercy.

She didn’t.

“Stop being weird and I’ll stop saying embarrassing things. Like this one time—!”

Thankfully, though, Luke was familiar with the wrath of women and had no problem neutralizing both threats with a simple question.

“(Y/n),” he called, “what about you? What do you like to do?”

Unfortunately, poorly timed questions never boded well for me.

“Most of my time alone is spent at local places,” she answered.

The truth. The terrifying, dangerous truth.

“I meet the most interesting people,” she sighed.

I could feel it on my skin. Not literally, but figuratively. What I could feel literally, was the way she gripped my thigh tighter until her nails could make marks to match the others she left behind in her wake. 

I nearly whimpered. I swallowed it with a bite of food that could never taste as good as her. I had abandoned all hope of Luke not figuring out what was happening. Judging by the shit-eating grin he sported, he had probably known from the moment she’d arrived.

I was in full blown damage control, and absolutely none of it was working.

She was, though. She was working so hard at ensuring my downfall would come swiftly and in the most embarrassing manner.

“For example, yesterday, I met the most beautiful man, and he…”

With a sigh of defeat and absolutely no self-preservation, I groaned, “I’m not going to like this story, am I?”

“Why?” she snickered. She had this glimmer in her eye as she removed her hand from my thigh. “Which part are you worried about?”

She’d won. She knew she had won.

Penelope’s patience snapped like a twig beneath a boulder.

“If one of you beautiful, infuriating people doesn’t explain to me what the hell is going on at my dinner table right now, I’m gonna lose it!”

That dastardly goddess turned to me and smiled. I stared at the ceiling and prayed for a miracle.

I got Luke instead.

“These two already know each other,” he explained very gracefully with a wave of his fork in our general direction. When Penelope still didn’t understand what he was saying, he clarified, “They know each other… very well.”

“Actually, we just met last night,” I corrected.  

It had been in the spirit of my incessant need to ruin everything.

“That’s definitely not what he meant,” explained my Aphrodite, who had apparently decided to join in on the celebration of my descent into madness and debauchery.

“I know,” I sighed.

As soon as I looked at the woman beside me, I couldn’t help but drown in the residual feelings left behind from Cupid’s bow. I looked at her, dressed beautifully for what she must’ve thought was another man. I thought about how her beauty never waned, only altered in its theme.

She was still smiling. I wondered how much of it had been driven by her adversarial teasing. I would be lying if I said I’d hadn’t sensed the competitive spirit in her the day before.

After all, Aphrodite could be jealous and petty. She could be vindictive and clever and, when she wanted to be, she could be human. Those were the moments where I would love her the most. The quiet vulnerabilities and wordless exchanges in the middle of the modern warfare that was a double date with an established couple on Valentine’s Day.

I’m the midst of my internal monologue of adoration for the woman, I heard a sharp, scandalous gasp come from across the table.

Followed by a salacious whisper from my Aphrodite.

“Oops.”

“Spencer!” Penelope screeched in a failed whisper, “Why the hell would you sleep with someone the night before your very thoughtful friend sets you up on a blind date?!”

Before I could respond, the woman beside me held her hand to her chest in feigned disbelief as she sarcastically cried, “Really, how awful.”

I couldn’t help but voice the obvious, despite Luke warning me not to with a quick, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

“Why are you only asking me?!”

Mistake.

As the only merciful one remaining, Luke chimed in with a desperate attempt to save me from being devoured for dessert.

“He’s got a point. Not sure I’m meant to believe he was the Casanova here.”

He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought. Normally, it might wound my pride, but in that moment I was willing to slaughter the beast inside me for any freedom from my current, personally crafted hell.

“No offense, Reid,” Luke managed through his lighthearted laughter. Then, he turned to the beautiful goddess beside me and offered more bashfully, “A-And no offense to you, ma’am, you’re just uh… a little intimidating.”

To her, it was the highest compliment a man could give.

“Thank you,” she purred.

I took the concession and tried to wield it as both shield and sword.

“Yes! What Luke said!” I squeaked, instinctively leaning away from her when she swayed closer. As if proximity made her more powerful, because it did. I could practically feel the warmth emitting from her. I could smell the champagne on her breath as it mixed with her perfume. My olfactory organs failed me, clinging instead to the memory of her and the way it both calmed and excited me.

Snap out of it!

“She’s the one who asked me to go to her hotel room! Ask her!”

The accused raised her hand further to cover her treacherous lips and she mimicked Penelope’s gasp. Behind lithe fingers, I saw how she still smiled.

“You can’t just ask a woman why she has sex with someone, Spencer,” she chastised playfully, “I wouldn’t answer such an impertinent question anyway, I’m a proper lady.”

For the first time of the night, I laughed. It was a loud, bitter, uncontrollable sound immediately followed by something we both knew was true. 

“Oh, you are not—!”

Unfortunately (and fortunately), I wasn’t able to finish the thought because Penelope’s clutch whacked the words out of me.

“Stop it!” she scolded before bringing it down on my head for a second time.

“Ow! Why are you hitting me?!” I whined.

“Don’t slut shame her!”

Fair point.

“You should only be so lucky!” she huffed.

Then, in the spirit of the continued chaos that had led to basically everyone in the room staring at us slack jawed and fascinated, Luke decided to throw all caution and good will to the wind.

“It seems like he was that lucky,” he chuckled.

It earned us two whacks each.

We looked at each other and tried to stifle the laughter. From beside me, I heard my partner in crime snickering along with us.

Worth it, I thought.

Worshipping her was always worth whatever punishment would come.

“You two— Ugh!” she groaned in disgust as she finally took her seat. Defeated, she stubbornly remained angry only at the two of us who really should have known better. “You have ruined my plans to make these two fall in love. I hope you’re happy.”

Raising a celebratory glass to perfectly painted lips, my Aphrodite smirked.

“I’m having a great time,” she said dreamily.

Then, to make it absolutely clear that she had only been teasing for the drama of it all, she cheekily whispered to me, “Had fun last night, too.”

Penelope watched the scene unfold with an apathy that was so unlike her. It was if her excitement from her plan having worked—albeit in an unexpected way—had canceled out her anger.

In the end, she had nothing left to say but, “You two deserve each other.”

I turned to the woman in question at the same time she turned to me. I was immediately caught in the inferno of lust and adoration in her eyes. The flames felt all consuming. The longer I looked at her, the harder I fell. If I hadn’t been sitting, I’m certain I would have fallen to my knees trembling.

She knew it, too. That’s why when she smiled, it was softer and more genuine than the rest.

“There are worse fates,” she hummed.

She would know. Aphrodite was familiar with the Fates.

I, on the other hand, was a mere mortal who had sacrificed almost everything he had. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, and an overwhelming desire to kiss the goddess hidden in plain sight, I had to test my torturer one more time.

“Does this mean I can leave now?” I asked.

That time when Penelope raised her hand towards me, it was firmly grasping a knife that was pointed straight at me.

“No, you’re going to sit here and be respectful and eat your damn cake!”

Just once more.

“… She started it.”

“Eat your damn food!”

So, we did. We ate our food with calmer heads. Throughout the meal, the distance between each half of the couples diminished. Eventually, I’d even managed to summon up the courage to accept a perfectly manicured hand resting against my palm.

That night ended in an eerily familiar way. Once Penelope and Luke had abandoned us in the night, only the two of us remained. The streetlights shone down on Aphrodite in a pathetic attempt at mirroring the relationship between the sun and the moon.

She just stood there, still tragic, still beautiful. She looked off at the blanket of darkness to find any sign of stars fighting against the man made mimicries of their wonder. 

I wondered if her soul seemed so sad because she had missed laying alongside the universes. I had been so enraptured by the theory that when she addressed me, I’d jumped. 

“So, Spencer…”

“I’m sorry,” I replied immediately. What for? It didn’t seem to matter. I had been sorry. I was sorry for not having asked to stay.

She laughed and my heart shivered at the sound. I watched how her whole body relaxed as the joy fell from her lips.

Don’t think about kissing her.

But oh, how I wanted to.

“Please, Spencer, that was the most entertaining Valentine’s date I’ve ever been on, by far,” she said between wonderful sounds, “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Oh, good,” I strained nervously, “I had fun, too.”

A lie, but she already knew that.

“No, you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t.”

But we still could.

“What I was going to ask was…” she trailed off. She turned to reveal a wicked smile and provocative eyes that would forever render me helpless. “You are coming home with me, right?”

All the fight left me at once. I surrendered myself to her. My head and shoulders fell with a wave of relief.

“Oh, thank god, I thought you’d never ask.”

Thank Goddess, I corrected myself. But she had already known that, too.

“Were you really planning on leaving me alone on Valentine’s Day?” she teased. She swayed closer to me until the floral scent of sweetness felt almost suffocating. The intoxicating taste of ambrosia, the indulgence of her lips haunted me still.

I fought past the lowered inhibition and overwhelming lust to offer her a more genuine vulnerability.

“Well, I uh… I found someone else I wanted to spend the day with, but she kicked me out of her hotel room.”

She accepted the piece of my heart with a godlike grace. She took my hand in hers and rested a weary head against my shoulder.

It had been soft. There was no ulterior motive in the movement. She had simply wanted to be closer to me, and I had offered her a place to perch among the mortal coil.

I thought of how different it had been from that morning. Even more so, I thought of how it had been exactly like the night before.

“Did you know it was me?” I asked.

She wordlessly tilted her head to the side with an inquisitive look in her eyes.

“I just figured you might’ve heard me say Penelope’s name.”

After a quiet, saturnine moment, she confessed in a whisper, “No, I didn’t.”

My heart sunk in my chest, if only for a moment. Like she was so loath to do, my Aphrodite willed her way into my heart and held it up with strong yet quivering hands.

“But I was hoping that you would ask me to stay.”

It was soft. It was fated. It was human.

That time, we opted not to take the chariot. Together we ventured through the concrete jungles and climbed Mount Olympus. We sought comfort in each other through the trials and tribulations that was our blasphemous feelings.

We worshipped each other in Eros’s name and never stopped to think about what would happen in the morning.

I realized that it was true that many mistakes began with a poorly timed question. But it was not the question itself, it was the timing that mattered most.

So when the time was perfect, when the sun served as her backdrop and the intoxication from Cupid’s bow had finally subsided, I would ask her again.

I would ask her to stay.

(Tell me what you thought about this piece here!)

Looking for more to read? Check out my Masterlist here!

Reid Taglist (Everything Reid): @mrs-dr-reid , @dreatine , @hopefulfangirl24 , @laurakirsten0502 , @dontcallmekittens , @rintheemolion , @andreasworlsboring101 , @imsuperawkward , @wentz2005 , @lovejules888 , @dashneydanger , @materialisthicc , @violetspoetic ,  Complete Taglist (All Works): @cynbx , @emsma11 , @mediocre-writer , @fightingdragonswithwho , @andiebeaword , @jayyeahthatsme

[killemwithkawaii]

No better way to word this so Imma just say it: as a fellow peets enjoyer, I would enjoy reading your takes on the SFs Gangs feet. So if you ever need a excuse to talk about it… gestures

(Also calling it. Larry is ticklish as fuck down there which makes most of the kinky stuff one may want to do impossible because he already feels phantom tickles when you just wriggle your fingers in that general direction and becomes an absolutely giggly mess instead. Which also has its charm mind you)

Anon, it is such a pleasure to be reminded that there are persons with impeccable taste, such as yourself, lurking in the fandom and on my blog, and it's even better when said persons encourage me to be as self-indulgent as you have with this ask. Please accept these headcanons that I thought about way more seriously than I probably should have lmao (I did my best to not let my personal preferences influence them, but a few maaay have sipped through the cracks, and so did yours 🙈💓💦)

What are the Gangs Feet like?-

[CW: Grapefruit (though this is 99% sfw), unsanitary, tickling]

Sally:

-Big feet for his height, greek shape, pronounced metacarpal and ankle bones, arches are a little high.

-Wears shitty off-brand high tops with zero arch support and doesn't seem like the type to own a pumice stone, so there's some callusing on his feet where his shoes rub, but the rest of the skin is relatively soft.

-Typically keeps his nails trimmed purely for comforts sake

-Smell varies from very minimal to strong, depending on whether he's been playing video games or hiking around the woods all day, and whether or not hes had the spoons to change and shower recently.

-Wears soft cotton ankle-length socks (sensory friendly and cushions his very exposed achilles tendons), occasionally with novelty prints. He keeps them on most of the time because his feet get cold easily.

-Sometimes paints his toenails (badly)

-Not ticklish unless you really, really try.

-Hesitant to accept a foot rub, but once you've assured him that you actually want to give him one and he gets used to the feeling, he'll slowly melt into his seat... 🥴

-Blushes if you play footsie with him. 😳

Larry:

-Big ol flipper feet, roman shape, a little wide, average arches.

-Wears sturdy, ankle length work boots with good support, so there's minimal callus, though the skin is overall a little tough.

-Might forget to trim his nails sometimes, and the smell can get pretty ripe if hes been working real hard all day... 😬

-Wears moisture-wicking, mid-crew length socks with strong elastic because he can't stand the feeling of his socks slipping down and bunching at the toe. He has a bad habit of stripping off his socks when he's lounging and leaving them on the floor.

-Has some moles on his feet (just like he has on the rest of him).

-He's ticklish as hell, so touches have to be predictable, deliberate and firm (unless you want to see him reduced to a giggling, thrashing wreck, in which case, do so at your own risk ⚠)

-Would lean back and 'feel like a king' getting his feet rubbed (once it's clear you're for sure not going to tickle him). 👑

-Taps and shakes his feet if he's sitting still for too long.

Ash:

-Larger than average, narrow, greek shape, low arches.

-Used to be that kid that always walked around outside barefoot, but her current use of cosmetics and shaved legs suggests a beauty regimen that would keep her feet looking presentable. She periodically uses a pumice stone, regularly moisturizes, keeps her nails trimmed and occasionally uses nail polish (purple, black or clear).

-Wears supportive, cushioned athletic shoes, and thin, no-show socks, generally in solid colors, but may choose to forgo socks altogether.

-Usually smells like her moisturizer or has a pretty mild scent, unless its especially hot out 🌸

-Average ticklishness

-Could be convinced to have her feet rubbed if it was a mutual thing, or she was especially sore and really needed it.

-Will totally do mani-pendis with a friend! 💅✨️

Todd:

-Average size, egyptian shape, average arches.

-Wears white and grey crew socks and sandals with shorts, so he has a noticeable tan line on his calves. He spends most of his time seated, so they're pretty soft, but the skin can be a little dry in patches.

-Generally keeps his nails tidy, though he can neglect them if he's become hyperfocused on a project, in which case Neil has to remind him to trim them after hes had enough of getting scratched while they're lying in bed togther. 🛌

-Not much of a scent, since the sandals let them breathe.

-Basically impervious to tickling thanks to his parents.

-Will accept the occasional foot rub from Neil, but is more likely to give them, and is pretty good at it, since he's learned a few techniques and pressure points over the years.

-Keeps his socks on most of the time (including during sex) unless it's very hot out. He's just more comfortable that way 🧦

Travis:

-Smaller than average, square shape, low arches.

-Wears mid-crew socks in various colors, sneakers, and dress shoes. Average amount of callous.

-Trimmed nails and almost no scent (he has to shower every day), but that likely changed when he became more involved in behind-the-scenes cult work, and he became increasingly disheveled as he began neglecting his personal hygiene.

-Ticklish to the point of kicking (and will not hold back) 🤬

-Does not like having his feet touched at all (hes touch averse in general), and you probably could not convince him to give a foot rub to anyone under any circumstances without blackmailing him into it. ❌

-Always has socks on unless he's changing or bathing, even when he's sleeping.

[pebblysand]

Obsessed with your writing as always, so if you feel like it could you answer please: 11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it? / 16) How did you come up with the idea for Giulia? (there's got to be a She Lives AU/Case Fic pls I'M BEGGING YOU) <3

aw, thank you soooo much <3! man, also those are two excellent questions. i apologise in advance for the long answers.

11) Have you ever amended a story due to criticisms you’ve received after posting it?

so: the short answer to this is no. at least, not that i recall. it may have happened when i was writing fanfiction at a younger age, but i honestly don’t remember if it did. i have, however, sometimes amended things in a story after posting it, but it’s always been because of a flaw that i saw or something that i wanted to change, rather than something someone else wanted to me to change.

i actually regularly do that. if you’ve been reading castles from the start and have recently gone back, you’ll notice small changes here and there. but that’s just me suffering from edititis (which i have dubbed as the constant will to edit and keep editing shit until i die. if i ever published a book, i think i’d still feel the need to go into bookshops and scribble changes into them). in castles, though, i’ve never (and don’t intend to) change anything major. it’s a couple of lines, maybe a scene, small stuff. however, in my previous long fic, children (not potter), i went back a couple of years later and rewrote the whole thing. but that was because i wanted to do that, not because someone else asked me to.

this, of course, aside from the obvious ‘oh, you wrote “lay” instead of “lie”’ or ‘oh, you put two p-s in “apologise.”’ i sadly don’t have a beta for most of my work and whenever someone points out a typo i get embarrassingly annoyed at myself cause god, i spend hours and hours proofreading these and there’s always typos that get through the cracks. it drives me nuts. but of course, if i get a comment pointing one out, i’ll obviously go back and change that.

this being said, i don’t necessarily rule out changing something on the basis of a comment in the future, it would just have to be something i agree with. this is a rather complicated topic for me actually because i do have a knee jerk reaction to criticism which i think is maybe different from most authors. i’ve seen in the past a lot of people on reddit or elsewhere complaining about authors getting very defensive/angry at criticism. i have the opposite flaw: i genuinely think everyone who criticises my work is right. so, my knee jerk reaction is to people-please, go back, and change the thing that made this person unhappy. i’m fighting constantly against that knee jerk reaction, trying to trust myself and my narrative choices haha. in a way, i do think my knee jerk reactions is quite a good thing because it clearly means i listen to people and don’t think i’m better than them, but i’ve recently come to terms with the fact that it also has a downside. i very quickly question myself, think everything i write is shit, and lose the will to write. i have alluded to this before but there is a reason why there was a four-month gap between chapter 8 and 9 of castles.

the way i’m learning to deal with this is two folds: first, i try to remind myself that everyone is contradicting themselves and there is no way i can make everyone happy. in castles, i have people in the comments who don’t want harry and ginny to end up together. i have people who think ginny should be ‘punished’ for dumping harry in chapter 3, and people who don’t. i have people who love the foreshadowing i do and my use of time in a non-linear way, then recently got a comment saying that person hated it. so i try to remind myself that i’m the captain of this ship and in the end, i need to make decisions lol.

second, i also frequently go back and check in with myself. when i got a lot of criticism about harry’s characterisation a couple of chapters ago, i went back and re-read the whole thing to make sure i still stood by what i had written. and, i think, while i didn’t at that point, if i had come out of it thinking i needed to change x, y, or z, i probably would have. i think that’s one of the gifts you have in fanfiction: interactions with your readers and the ability to go back and change things you don’t like. so it’s not like i’d completely rule out changing something after posting, it’s more that i’ve checked in and felt there was no need. it doesn’t mean it won’t/can’t happen in the future.

comments and criticism do influence future chapters though. like, i’ll read something and think: yeah, that’s a fair point, or here, that’s a good idea, and take that on. for example, i think that had i not gotten certain comments, i would have written harry’s reaction to ginny’s letters as a lot less ambivalent in chapter 9 that i ended up doing. i might have reached the same conclusion in the end and it didn’t influence the overall plot, but criticism and comments do have an influence on future developments, yes. not all of them, but some of them.

.

16) How did you come up with the idea for Giulia? (there's got to be a She Lives AU/Case Fic pls I'M BEGGING YOU) <3

aw, jules. that’s also a very interesting question. so, for her i feel like there’s two things.

first, there’s her function in castles as harry’s work partner. i won’t lie, that was sort of born out of a reaction i’ve had to many other post war fics that always rang a bit wrong to me. in a lot of post-war literature, when harry joins the aurors, he’s just partnered up with ron. and i always felt that was weird because… they’re both newbies!! they need a more experienced partner, someone to teach them shit! and, so once i’d decided that, i sort of started digging into who that partner could be and what he or she could bring to the story.

i very quickly decided she’d be a woman. first because the only other auror character was robards and i wanted to balance it out, and also because she comes in at a point where harry is actually more comfortable with the women in his life, than the men. there’s a very weird post-war dynamic with the weasleys with a lot of the unspoken ramifications of losing fred, of everything that he hid from them regarding the war, as well as his relationship with ginny. his relationship with kingsley is … complicated, and at that point, he doesn’t really trust robards. he feels much closer to hermione (who is also on the outside of the weasley dynamic) and i just think that in a weird way, the relationships he has with women in that part of castles are a lot more honest than what he has with ron, for instance. so, i also wanted giulia to be part of that.

on that same note, the one thing that i knew when i started thinking about her is that she’d be honest, no-nonsense because at that point in the story, it was what harry needed. he’s navigating blind in the middle of a storm for most of the first half of castles and i think he needed someone he could trust and who would be honest with him. everyone around him is trying to protect him but harry’s always preferred having the information just laid out in front of him - i wanted giulia to provide that. it was also particularly interesting because, as he says himself at one point, she is the only person in his life who hasn’t known him for years, and who hasn’t been through it all with him. and, then he’s paired up with this person and told: you have to trust them with your life. and, of course, that doesn’t work like that. and so i wanted to giulia to be honest and no-nonsense because that inspires trust.

and then… there’s what every writer in the world will say, which i appreciate is very frustrating if you’re trying to come up with a character formula: she just shot off the page. i have no explanation for it. the main character who i had planned and for whom i had an extensive backstory was mia, not giulia. then, i started writing her with those two things in mind and she went from being a work partner who was going to appear in a couple of scenes to, well, giulia. that’s the part i can’t really explain. i remember writing that first scene where she meets harry in the patrol car and jokes about him trying to change his appearance and i was like ‘ohhhhhh who is this?’ giulia basically stole the show and wrote herself. i had very little hand in it. which, when you think of her character, is incredibly fitting. i had to dial back mia’s story (although, i’m now developing it for the next couple of chapters so it just got moved rather than deleted) because giulia just took so much space. it’s one the joys of writing where a character you thought would be minor just takes on a life of its own. and, the whole thing about her being gay (and sort of a player), and her slytherin past, and her relationship with harry all just became strangely self-evident. i wish i could say: ‘oh, i had the idea for giulia by doing x, y, z’ but it really wasn’t intentional. i had a baseline but she created herself.

obviously, then, she did end up filling a very important role of having harry understand that the guilt he felt over the things he’d done during the war shouldn’t plague him forever (‘you’ve done shit things, do better,’) but that was a role i gave her after she shot off the page, not before.

regarding her death, that’s sweet. i’m still sad we lost her. i was writing her for chapter 9 and just felt sad. this being said, it’s kind of hard for me to think of an au in which she doesn’t die because she always was going to die. from the very first time i wrote her, i remember i wrote the chapter from the moment harry meets her to the end of chapter 4 in one sitting. and there’s this line she says which is: ‘we’ll all die and fall into oblivion but you won’t’ (when she’s trying to get him to talk) and i remember writing that sort of instinctively, stopping and thinking: oh shit. she dies, doesn’t she? and, once i’d thought it, i couldn’t unthink it. it was set. and, i remember getting a tonne of comments from people who loved giulia at that point and biting my tongue because i knew, i always knew she was going to die. that too was self evident because in the end, harry has got to learn to stand on his own, she can’t always be there to tell him what to do. and, obviously, that becomes clearer after she dies, in chapter 9 where he’s just found out about ginny and he’s trying to figure out how to feel but all he remembers are bits of conversations that don’t really help.

and, like, she’s far from perfect. she’s impulsive and can sometimes be a bit too honest. and, while a lot of the things she tells harry about sexual assaults are correct, the way she teaches him also sort of backfires because it’s so prescriptive he feels terrified of doing the wrong thing and ends up, for most of chapter 9, doing nothing. and, generally, i tend to think she was the right person to teach harry at the right time, but her style of teaching would have completely backfired on most people. like, ron wouldn’t have taken to her. at all.

but man, i really miss writing her.

anyway, thanks again for your questions and sorry for the essays, haha. they were really good questions! if anyone wants to ask more, the full list is here and my ask box is open.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 44)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: The usual.

A/N: Hi, hope you like this! Ik I still have a winter blurb request to get to, I’ll probably post it sometime during the week. Thank you!

Btw, ‘mḗtēr’ is Ancient Greek for mother, and barley is a symbol of Demeter. :)

You are sitting on your bed, already dressed for the night, when Ivar comes into your bedroom.

You lift your gaze from your failed attempts at embroidery patterns that Thora makes look so damn easy, and watch Ivar walk closer, his free hand reaching to tug off the cloak over his shoulders.

You don’t miss the angry way he takes it off, or the stronger-than-needed stabs of his crutch against the ground.

He sits down before you on the bed, and you do not hesitate to move close, your legs on either side of him as you rest your brow between his shoulder blades, enjoying the familiar movements of his back as he starts to work on the braces of his legs.

Your arm wrapped around his torso, you let your hand travel up and down his stomach, smiling when he reaches back to put a heavy hand on your leg.

“Will you tell me what is wrong?” You prompt.

“Jarl Olavson was defeated.” He tells you curtly. Your hand stills, and so does your breath.

“Defeated?”

“Yes, defeated,” Ivar bites out, a movement of his head as his shoulders rise and fall with an angry breath. “Considering how we met, you should be very familiar with defeat.”

“Hey,” You chastise, tugging on his hair as reprimand. After a moment, he breathes out through his nose, and his hand tightens on your leg. You take it as an apology, certain none will actually leave his lips. “By whom?

Ivar doesn’t answer.

He should know by now that he says as much with his silences as he does with his words.

If it were King Alfred’s army, he would tell you. If it were any other Vikings that were somehow stupid enough to battle Ivar’s lieutenant in York and lucky enough to defeat him, he would tell you.

He wouldn’t tell you if it were the man he admitted to having in chains and on a moment of irrational impulsiveness, he let go free.

“How did he win? I would think he didn’t have the numbers after Strepshire.”

“He didn’t, not then,” He accepts, finishing taking off the braces of his legs. “But he does now.”

“Do you think his King aids him now?”

“No, it wasn’t Alfred’s army. We would have known if it were.”

You swallow down the pit of worry in your stomach, and move back on the bed, settling under the covers and waiting for your husband to join you.

He does soon after, discarding his shirt without a care for the cold that still bites, and -for reasons beyond the obvious ones- you keep your eyes on him.

You watch as he grabs a fistful of the pants’ fabric to move his legs, and you cannot help but notice the furrow between his brows, you watch his wrist expertly trapped in the chains that dangle above the bed as he settles for bed and you cannot help but linger on the tension that strains his shoulders.

If Stithulf managed to grow in power in such a way during the winter, enough to defeat the commander of York’s forces, most likely forcing him to retreat to the formerly Saxon city, then…even if neither of you would like to admit it, it is Ivar’s fault, and maybe yours.

Ivar let Stithulf go because of the deal you have made, because he wanted more time. Before he left you had to bite your tongue to keep yourself from requesting that of him, and you didn’t bite it when it came time to ask the Gods for the same thing.

And now, warm under the covers and laying on your side as your Ivar lays by your side on his back, pale eyes searching the nothingness of the space above him, you feel the tinge of worry, of regret.

You ran from Fate once, when you decided to go to Eleusis even while aware that the Gods -your own or others, you aren’t yet sure which- summoned you to Scandinavia; and you burned for it. You fought, and you lost, and you died.

You dread to think maybe you ran, maybe Ivar ran.

“Their movements, their…formations,” He stops himself, a twitch of irritation in his nose as he debates with himself whether to speak or not. “They don’t fight like Saxons.”

“They never did,” You offer, quietly. “And if you are right, and most of the Arabs survived…”

He shakes his head, sitting up on the bed once again. You take a moment to watch the outline of him bathed in the low and warm light of the dim fires, before you sit up as well, shuffling closer and bending your legs underneath you.

“It is more than that, it isn’t just the foreigners,” His words die with a frustrated sigh, his left hand closing into a fist before it releases when it doesn’t find the familiar handle of the crutch he can grab tightly onto. Past the clear tell of gritted teeth, he admits, “When we sail back to England, we will be going in blind.”

“You still have time.” You say, but it seems it goes unheard.

“How can I prepare if I can’t…predict him?” He asks, and it isn’t really a question you think he wants an answer to. If he did, all you could offer would be that he would have to fight like the others do, the ones that don’t have his mind that seems to let him get ahead of his enemy’s moves, his eyes that seem to let him foresee his enemy’s plans. But, you don’t say anything, instead resting your chin on his shoulder and letting one of your hands trail down his back. Ivar grits his teeth, and stays silent for a long time. After a while, he turns his head slightly to you, “What would you do?”

“You’re asking me?”

A shrug of the shoulder you’re not resting on, and Ivar offers simply, “Why not?”

“I have never led an army.”

“Your commander did, and he obeyed you.”

You lift your eyebrows, and insist, “He died because of it.”

“I am not planning on doing that,” He clarifies, the beginning of a smile on his lips, “Obeying you, or dying.”

Your eyes narrow at his taunt, and you retort, “Why are you asking me, then?”

“I’m curious.”

“I don’t have any answers. I am not…” You take a breath, and mull over your words before you start again, “One of the things I admired Narses the most far was how he…” A small smile curves at your lips, and you look at the nothingness ahead, somehow able to see clearly in your mind’s eye the cocky smile of the young Strategus as he hooked the spear under his arm and bowed mockingly at you. “He was never caught off guard. He was foolish, and he refused to stick to a plan most of the time, but…with the passing of time I started to think he counted on that, on the lack of a plan. Back in Greece, the battles we won were because of his adaptability, as much as any strategy I could…suggest to him. I insisted on a plan, and he was smart enough to not defy me, s-…”

“I wouldn’t say smart.”

Your lips curve into a smile, and you lift your head off his shoulder to meet his gaze directly. Ivar leans back, falling back on the bed, and you follow, leaning over him as your hand travels up and down his chest.

“What would you say then, love?” You ask, a challenge and something else. You bring yourself closer, “Would you say bewitched?”

You remember being in that small hut in Aneridge, able and willing to forget either of you had names and stories, and daring ask him, are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?

And, more importantly than that, you remember the way his eyes remained on you, a slow blink as he considered his answer. You remember the tone of his voice that made a shiver run down his spine when he replied, not through magic.

His smile is challenging, mocking, but Ivar shakes his head instead of answering.

“You were speaking of how you won, back in your homeland.”

“He…adapted, a lot. Too often for my liking,” You furrow your nose, and your husband chuckles, his hand warm as it travels up and down the arm you’ve draped over his chest. “My pride kept me from accepting we had to change our tactics, I will admit that. Maybe that arrogance was my downfall.”

Your eyes fall from his, and you almost want to ask, order, don’t let your arrogance be yours.

The words are at the tip of your tongue when the voice of one of Ivar’s guards on the other side of the door startles you.

“Someone is requesting the…the Queen to, uh, meet with them.”

“Is it Rúna’s husband? Is it the baby?” You ask, already scrambling to get out of bed at the mere thought that she is to give birth now. It has been a difficult pregnancy for her, and you’ve given stern orders to her husband to come to you when the time comes for her to deliver.

“No, uh…your mother, my Queen.”

The air is knocked out of you with those words, and you stand unmoving for a few breaths too long. You feel the cold of the floor seeping into your very bones through your bare feet, but you feel rooted to the ground.

A quiet call of your name, and you turn wide eyes to Ivar. He searches your gaze, a strange sort of hesitation in his expression that is probably born out of whatever he sees in yours, and he says your name again.

You blink, swallowing hard.

“Go to her.”

You nod your head, but don’t move for a couple of heartbeats, until you have the cold startle you into movement. Wrapping the robe over your nightdress, you slip into your shoes and step out.

Letting the two guards lead the way to one of the back rooms of the -now deserted- longhouse, you try deciphering if what runs through your veins right now is thrill or dread.

Sieghild stands tall by one of the stone pit fires near that are lined up near the walls, surrounded by seats; her shield not at her back but, as always, close to her. At the sound of your steps, she turns around, the same almost-crooked smile on her face, the familiar face with traces of ink in the shape of the roots of Yggdrasil, the same green eyes of your childhood.

You stumble over your own feet as you run to her, and never before have you felt as time disappeared and you were suddenly a child again as you do then.

“Mḗtēr!”

Sieghild embraces you tightly, with the desperation of having thought you lost forever, the relief at having you back, the anger at your disappearance; strong arms wrapped around you and lifting you a bit off the ground. You breathe a relieved laugh that sounds like a sob, your own arms wrapped as strongly as you can around your mother.

“Little one, you are alright, you are alright.” She whispers, and even if she talks to her own fears and not you, you still nod against her shoulder.

“I thought you were-…”

“I am here, child. The Gods wouldn’t call me to Valhalla while you still need me.”

You look into familiar green eyes and offer a helpless shrug, “I’ll always need you.”

“Then I shall always be here.” She promises, pressing a kiss against your forehead like she did when you were a child.

But you weren’t, your heart bitterly wants to say, words you keep at bay by biting your own tongue.

For now, you close your eyes at the rough touch of Sieghild’s battle-worn hands on the sides of your face, you let her brow press against yours and the familiar scent of iron and the always underlying scent of those fields of barley you would run through with her as a child.

When you step back, you feel the months-old anger come back, you feel the uncertainty and resentment settle over you like a warm cloak, and you meet Sieghild’s eyes, unwavering.

“I would like a word with my mother.” You state, keeping your gaze on her. You watch as our mother watches the people leave the room, watching out of the corner of her eye as the last of the men closes the door behind him.

She turns to you with a smile that is in part mocking and in part proud.

“I always did say you were Fated to rule, did I not?”

Many times she told you that, usually angrily, when what she stubbornly calls your ‘Athenian nobility’ shines through.

Galla spares you a glance out of the corner of her eye, the faintest quirk of a smile on her lips, her words a tease and something else as she quips, “Born with a crown on her head, this one.”

Many others have implied the same, sometimes in praise and often in reprimand.

Ivar meets your eyes, an unwavering edge to his madness, a darkness to the curve of his smile, as he promises, “Don’t lie to me, Priestess. You were made to rule, to command. Don’t pretend otherwise with me.”

You shake your head, “Fate has nothing to do with it.”

“Doesn’t it?” She retorts, but it isn’t a question she expects an answer to. Instead, the shieldmaiden strides to the seats by the dimmest hearth in the room. She always has done that, ever since Eleusis, making sure you aren’t near open flames that make your skin crawl.

You walk to her, hands folded in front of you, and take a seat before her.

“You gave me up. You arranged for me to marry Ivar, and you never told me.”

A deep breath, like she was expecting this, and Sieghild leans back, a hard nod of her head.

“I did,” She offers no other explanation for a few moments, before adding, “I had my reasons.”

“Which are?”

Her eyes narrow as she looks you over, a quirk in her mouth that speaks not of a smile but of something wilder, and Sieghild’s voice is icy when she asks,

“Who do you think you are, to demand anything from me?”

Your answer is unwavering, and you don’t even think twice about the words that are to leave your lips, “Your daughter.”

Sieghild holds your gaze for a few breaths, before looking away with a grunt and the clear tell of gritted teeth. She was expecting something else out of your answer, the years alongside her let you see that in that small gesture.

A twitch in her nose, furrowed for only a moment, and Sieghild offers, voice unusually quiet,

“I told you since you were a child about the path the Gods, yours or maybe mine, had woven for you,” Green eyes pierce into yours, and for a moment you are saying goodbye again, in the outskirts of Aneridge and by the gates of Eleusis. She swallows, and continues, “You ran once, and I lost you, I had to leave you behind and let those damned Christians burn you alive. I couldn’t let you run again.”

“That is why you asked me,” You state, not even a question. The night she left you behind on the edge of that forest plays behind your closed lids with striking vibrance. “You took me there and told me we were at a crossroads, the…the world between worlds. I chose to stay.”

“It was Fate you did so.” She retorts with a sigh.

And that word grates at your ears. It always has, ever since you have had memory.

Your eyes fall shut, and you take a deep breath to remain calm.

“You know, with time passing I had forgotten how much I hate that word leaving your lips,” You grumble, mostly to yourself. Sieghild still chuckles, but it is dimmer than usual. The errant thought that maybe you don’t know what the usual is for your mother anymore crosses your head, but you dismiss it easily enough. Finding your strength, your anger, you meet her gaze and with your head held high you insist, “You cannot hide behind Fate, mother.”

For all the times she has accused you of your own fair share of arrogance, few times she has admitted you take after her in that regard. Now, more than any other time, her own arrogance, her own pride, are apparent in the way she bristles at your words, suddenly sitting straighter.

“I don’t hide, little one. You know that.”

You shake your head, at her resolve, at her unwavering certainties, at her abandonment. Your eyes wide, you lift a hand and point a finger at her, too late realizing that is a gesture you have seen often in the man you married.

“Fate didn’t chain me to Ivar’s side until you made a deal with him!” Your voice thunders at the same time it breaks and you do not care. Your lip curls into a snarl, or maybe something more fragile, something more broken. “You fulfilled what you were told was Fate, because you believed it was inescapable.”

“And you stayed behind to die in Eleusis because you wanted to fight Fate,” She retorts, green eyes blazing. “How is that any different?”

“It was my choice.”

“And it was my choice to send you to Kattegat.”

You hate the way your lower lip trembles, the way sorrow wants to overpower pride, and succeeds.

You furrow your lips, raising your chin as you insist, “You abandoned me.”

“I did what I should have when you were younger. I saved you.”

Your nails dig into your palms, and you stand up. The chair makes a horrible sound against the wooden floor, and you pace away from the table, shaking your head to yourself.

Your mother follows you with a challenge shining in her green gaze.

“You didn’t save me.”

“You are alive, you are safe. I wouldn’t ask for anything more.” She crosses broad arms over her chest, head titled to the side.

You feel your lip curling into a snarl, your hands trembling at your sides as the anger that burns in your blood demands you do something.

Voice thundering, you demand, “I would have!”

“And you would have died for it!” Sieghild barks back, voice rising as well. “You think you would have survived Stithulf if it weren’t for that boy, huh? You think that damn Christian would have kept you alive for much longer?”

You shake your head, feeling like a chastised child under her burning green gaze.

“Ivar isn’t the reason I survived.”

“He kept you safer than I ever could, even if he didn’t realize it, even if you don’t like accepting it, little one,” She retorts, standing and walking closer. “You are arrogant, but you are also smart. You know it is true.”

You shake your head, stepping back.

“You didn’t tell me, you just left me behind in that place, and I-I was alone, and…” Your eyes fall shut and you find yourself almost compulsively twirling your wedding ring as you try finding resolve again. Without opening your eyes, you take a deep breath and ask, “Why come back now?”

“I told you to survive until spring came, I knew we’d be together again after the winter,” She tells you, quietly, almost mournfully. “Even if you hated me, even if you hate me now…what I did, I did for you. To keep you alive, to let you have a future.”

“All my life, I-…” You furrow your lips, consider your words and start again, “You more than anyone knows how important it is for me to be…free. Free to choose, free to…be. You took that from me, you let Ivar take that from me.”

But Sieghild doesn’t falter, even if her eyes give away more than she would like to admit.

“It is a privilege to be able to live life in the way you have, little one. To never have your beating heart be the only thing that you can count on, that you can call your own. The truth is that there is no reason for freedom without life, not the other way around,” Strong arms crossed over her chest, your mother insists, “Between seeing you in chains and seeing you on a grave, I know which I prefer.”

“Does it matter which I prefer?”

Her silence is enough of an answer, and you sit back down on your chair, twirling your wedding ring on your finger. You notice the way your mother’s eyes travel to the movement, but if she has anything to say about it, she keeps it to herself for now.

“When you love someone, someone that you know will go where you cannot follow once death touches them…” She starts, slowly, deliberately. “Is there anything you wouldn’t do to keep them alive? Keep them with you?”

“I never tried keeping you, or anyone, from your dear Valhalla.”

A quirk of her mouth, humorless and challenging, as she sits back down as well, “I taught you to lie, don’t try it with me.”

“I’m not-…”

“Four years ago, on the outskirts of Circe, you did what you had promised you wouldn’t do. Do you remember, little one?”

You bite your lip to keep it from trembling, as you take in your mother’s pale features, “You could have died.”

“And what glorious death it would have been,” Sieghild retorts, not missing a beat. Her smile is wry, tired, but still irrevocably hers. “Better than whatever awaits me in this bed, that’s for sure.”

���You won’t die here either.”

“I better not,” She warns, closing her eyes. You are worried about the sunken look on her face. Your leg bobs up and down anxiously and you feel your fingers fidgeting as you itch to get to work on making something, anything, that will make it better. “To be robbed of a chance to enter Valhalla because my child is too stubborn t-…”

“Valhalla cannot have you yet!” You snap, blinking past the burning in your eyes when Sieghild opens her eyes to meet your gaze. “Your Gods cannot have you yet, I-I need you with me.”

“Of course I remember.” You retort, gritting your teeth. She has always had this infuriating way of hers of deliberately and obviously guiding you with questions to say what she wants you to, to admit what you refuse to.

“What I did was no different. You dragged me from the battlefield and insisted on delaying the inevitable by tending to my wounds, because you didn’t want to lose me. Even if it cost me what I live and fight for, you want-…”

“You Varangians and your glorious deaths,” You groan, rolling your eyes, “You lived. You lived to fight in another battle and die another day.”

“And you lived to see yourself free once more.”

“It is not the same.”

“Explain why, then.”

That gesture, it is the same as the life that once was all you had known, of her routinely throwing a stick your way, smoothing the ground with her boot and demanding an explanation for the newest battle you had witnessed, or the latest historical one that you had been drawn to.

You sigh, tired beyond what you think you could express with words, “Mother.”

Sieghild considers you for a moment, gaze travelling over your features, taking you in as if a stranger. Maybe you are, in some ways.

She softens after a breath, shoulders lowering as she takes a deep breath.

“I…I had a dream, the Gods showed me that when the ground was softened, when the earth thawed, you’d be returned to me. So, I was certain I would find you once spring came.”

There’s a part of you that tries thinking of it all and tries making all the pieces make something that makes sense, and that part whispers that the Gods let Sieghild see that spring would see you returned to her because it was when spring came that you would make your choice, that you would be free to leave Ivar. That part of you has a heart that beats along the cadence of all the prophecies and half-coherent visions that have plagued you and others, that part of you feels like blind eyes looking directly into yours and bloodstained lips whispering you will not find your belonging amongst flowers.

But that part of you is trying to accept a world where somehow what has happened, what you have lost and what you have suffered, has a reason. It cannot have a reason, it cannot be inevitable.

So, you search your mother’s gaze and ask,

“Why spring?”

“We can set sail away from here now that the season allows it,” She replies easily, and you lean back in your seat, irrationally stunned. Sieghild raises her brows, “Have you already forgotten all that was keeping you here was the harshness of winter?” Your eyes lower from hers, and Sieghild takes a breath, “Ah, but it isn’t the season what keeps you here now.”

You shrug, reaching for the bread and picking out a piece with your fingers as you mumble, “You were the one to tell me all my life that my Fate lied in Kattegat.”

“Many would say your Fate is to fight for Greece.”

You lift your gaze to hers, head tilted to the side.

“My Fate would be to rule over it,” You correct her, and the lines on your mother’s face deepen when she smiles. “But I have no interest in doing so.”

Sieghild looks you over, green eyes shining with something you could swear looks like pride. Eventually she leans back, an arm stretched over the back of her seat and her head tilted to the side.

“You will be staying in Kattegat then?”

You bring the piece of bread to your mouth, offering another shrug, “It is my home.”

“Kattegat is?” She drawls out the words, lifting her brows. Your eyes narrow as you are put on the spot, and there is no hiding the bite in your tone when you ask,

“Why do you ask questions you know the answer to?”

Your mother shrugs, “It entertains me.”

There’s a sigh making its way past your lips before you can stop it, an exasperated but fond one. In the look you and Sieghild share there are more words than either of you would ever dare to say aloud, and you lean back in your seat, picking another piece of the bread.

“Where were you all this time?”

“With King Angantyr of the Black Danes, mostly,” She chuckles to herself, “All the way in England they speak of Ivar the Boneless’ witch, you know.”

“As long as men have tongues to speak, they will speak lies,” You offer around a shrug, words that were of someone you met along the Silk Roads, and though you do not remember their face, you remember their wisdom, and you know your mother does too. Still, she narrows her eyes, almost suspicious, and you clarify, “I am no witch, mother.”

“But you are his.” She sentences.

“Only because he is mine as well.”

Her eyes shine with a glint you haven’t seen in years when she smiles, and you find yourself smiling back, heart lighter.

After a breath, your mother leans forward and quietly asks, “Do you trust him?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Of course I do.”

The shieldmaiden nods once, and takes a deep breath, “We have matters of war to discuss then, you and I. Your husband too.”

You frown, and when she stands up you do the same. Your mother simply starts walking, long strides towards the front of the longhouse. You scramble to catch up, asking questions as you go,

“What? Why?”

“I had a plan, you see. I didn’t come to Kattegat now on a whim.”

“You are hiding something.”

“Not for long. I had counted on using this…information to our advantage if you were to decide to leave, but…” She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, “Plans change, little one.”

____ ____ ____

Thank you for reading, hope you liked it!

I have a lot of fun writing Sieghild, she’s like the Priestess without the snobbiness lol. Main example of how much fun I have writing her being the length of this chapter lol, sorry. But yeah, they had (have) a lot of things to work through, though they are, much like the Reader and Freydis, on very different world perceptions when it comes to the issues they’ve discussed, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927​ @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax​ @angelofthorr​ @samsationalwilson​ @peachyboneless @1950schick​ @punkrocknpearls @ietss​ @itsmysticalmystery​ @revolution-starter​ @the-a-word-2214​  @fae-sedai​  @crazybunnyladysworld​    @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​ @aprilivar​ @msrawog  

[themousaicult]

‘The Daughters of Sparta’ by Claire Heywood

Hello everyone! Seeing as this is my first attempt writing a review that just contains my thoughts and feelings, please forgive me for lack of structure. Hopefully with time, and if anyone has any sort if if input on what they would like to hear or even discuss, then I would be 100 percent down to take notes! And hopefully, the ‘structure’ won’t be as jumpy or underdeveloped, but I cannot promise much- because my silly self completed this at 1am. At the moment, I am merely putting my thoughts on here, that I hope convey to whoever reads this to encourage to read these amazing books and hopefully would want to engage in future conversation. I should also point out that it has been a little while since I’ve read this book, so I sincerely apologise if I get anything wrong! But I really loved the book that I thought this would be a nice starting point! So without further ado, let’s begin!

Plot line and opinions?

Okay dokey! So, for anyone who has not read the book and is hesitant on whether this would be a good read. I can definitely say that this is a book that will pull on your heartstrings! The basic concept of the book, is to give the perspective of the two main female characters of the book- Klytemnestra and Helen of Sparta. Claire here attempts to bring a deeper and more thoughtful analysis on their characters, by firstly making the plot line in first person for them both. Additionally as the reader engages of their respective plot lines, we follow their story from young girls to women married, all the way up to the Trojan War and all the best moments as well as the bad.

With Klytemnestra, we see an older sister who understood her purpose (in regards to Ancient Greek expectations). Her purpose, at first, she believes was to inherit her mother and fathers place to become the next ruler of Sparta along side her husband. However, that sense of being was ultimately flipped when her father sought alliances with Agamemnon to be her husband. During her youthful years of marriage to Agamemnon, I would describe it as fragile. Fragile in the sense of her inexperience and yet she steps in to her own, as a woman, as a wife and mother, as a lover and queen of Mycenae. This is something I found very empowering for her character because we see her highs and her lows. We see her struggles being in a palace, in place so far removed from her family and the familiarity of her home land. From what I know about her (since it has been a long time since I’ve read the Iliad) she was very much depicted as being a calculating woman. A woman who depicted as being a vengeful, cold blooded killer for merely avenging her daughter who was sacrificed so needlessly. I think the way Claire depicts her as a woman surviving, who did at some point fall in love with her husband or at least find middle ground with him until he left to conquer Troy. But I think Claire humanises her character a lot more, that if put in Klytemnestra’s shoes, you would do everything in your power to make the most out the situation. Either by picking up the pieces that your husband leaves behind to fight a war not worth fighting, keeping your husbands kingdom afloat, managing the quarrels of citizens, looking after the children and protect them from any harm. The prime example of that maternity in action, is where she brings her first born daughter Iphigenia to Agamemnon, under the belief that she was to be married to Achilles. I would argue that after being humiliated time and time again but her husband, the needless death of her daughter to be a sacrifice to her husband’s hubris, this is her pivotal moment in her character. I don’t think I can put into words how heart broken I was reading the events leading up to Klytemnestra getting her daughter ready for a wedding, to her seeing her daughter at first hand whilst restrained, being mercilessly killed by the hands of her own husband… just to appease a goddess and conquer more land. I sympathised greatly on why she wanted revenge that ultimately led to Agamemnon’s downfall once he returned from Troy. So whilst she is what the Greeks at the time, would have thought to be the ideal daughter, mother, lover and wife who understood her duty. From a more sympathetic opinion, she was a woman who fought for her voice to be heard. Who was a passionate lover when given the chance with the right person, was a doting mother and a brilliant queen- a role she was born to be. We must appreciate that whilst mythology always has different versions of the same story, when we look at the role of women, we should as the readers try and strip away the titles and opinions given to them by men of that time. But liberate their experiences- even if they are fictional characters. I truly think Claire has done an incredible job at her portrayal of the brilliant Klytemnestra… but I truly feel I have only scraped the surface of her character.

The second character, the most infamous daughter Helen of Sparta being the youngest daughter, she herself goes through many struggles. My take on her character at the start, is one that is very naïve, sweet, over trusting, idealistic and very much over fantasises. Indeed, in the earlier years she has a very close connection with her elder sister Klytemnestra, idolises her even and on the occasion would be jealous of her too for being older. She was very much grounded on the idea, that she would stay in Sparta and take her parent’s place once they stepped down seeing as her older sister had married. However her character development and arch changes drastically once she married Menelaus, and I would argue this event of marriage is her pivotal point in her story line. Indeed it is this marriage that the audience sees Helen go through a turbulent life. From being a young wife, as she was forced to be a woman too soon and all the responsibilities that came with it. To a woman who couldn’t even recognise herself, whilst reading her points of view, I couldn’t help feel seriously sorry for her. She worryingly idolised and fantasised womanhood, that the reality scared her. Finding out for herself that intimacy with a man was was not what she expected, that she did not love her partner nor feel exactly loved in the way she wanted (as she compares her treatment to that of her mother and father)- we can clearly see that she was forced to be a woman too soon and I think that truly scared her. As a result, she had a daughter that she thought she would have a close relationship to and form a motherly instinct. But instead she was not remotely close to her child in feeling or physicality, indeed, she didn’t want to be anywhere near her child let alone her husband to the point she would find ways to prevent having another child that cost her hours of excruciating pain and almost her life. It ultimately set them on a path to be more than strangers and would lead to her meeting with Paris. She became lonely, felt unloved even more so after finding her husband laying with another woman, not giving the same attention to her as he once did… even finding out that the mistress had given him a boy. When she would normally be adored; especially when she was told of her origin, when she was fought over by many important men around Greece. She was the beauty in the eye of the beholder, but instead became withdrawn, envious and depressed- wanting to be with her sister and family once again. It is understandable that where you feel unloved, one seeks to find that feeling again. And so I didn’t feel that bad when Paris came along and made her feel something again at first.

Granted her husband surprisingly in this depiction seemed to be a more tolerant, less aggressive, kinder man then how he is depicted in the Iliad and even Troy the movie. It was surprising take from Claire that Menelaus was more angry of her ‘being abducted against her will’ more so then his reputation being ‘ruined.’ HOWEVER, back to her meeting with Paris, I do see Paris as her ultimate downfall. He was not only bad for her in the sense that he persuaded her to come with him to Troy under the pretence of love and devotion as a husband. He was her undoing that led her into false promises, landing her in a worse off marriage than the one that she fled from. Helen married a man that only saw her as a trophy to boast about, objectified her on all fronts, was stranded in a foreign land that hated her for bringing war to their walls. But also led her to be from the most beloved and adored woman of Greece to the most hated. I think her desperation to be loved for more than just base line looks and her renowned title, is understandable. We cannot dismiss her feelings, not at all. It is just a shame that her insecurities but also her lack of judgement were used as a tool for boasting men who wanted fame and glory knowing they had Helen of Troy as their wife knowing many innocent men were being killed for her return. And Claire does an excellent job portraying her struggles in a light that even as a modern day reader, you find similarities that allows you to sympathise. For her experience in Troy was only made bearable thanks to Hector and royalty who didn’t feed into hostile gossip.

For the end of Helen’s story, I was so surprised again by Claire’s portrayal of Menelaus. When Troy was no longer standing, when Troy was conquered and at the hands of Agamemnon, the ending was slower paced and bitter sweet? If this is spoilers to you, then please stop here, but for those who have read it. Then here are my thoughts. The ending I felt was the most humane conclusion to her story. That whilst she was the most hated woman across Greece and now Troy, her first husband did not hate her in the slightest. If anything, Menelaus was more than understanding on why she fled and believed that had there been better communication, better trust and maybe a better sense of character in all sides, then this could have been avoided. By allowing to speak her wants, her fears and regrets, we see a sensible reconciliation. Admittedly Menelaus knew that the events of Troy were irredeemable, it could not be taken back. But he was willing to try again if she was. And I think that was something I have never seen whilst reading historical fiction books about Greek mythology- was proper communication that didn’t have stubborn people putting their hubris before everything else, and I found this to be seriously refreshing. I also believe that Klytemnestra being freed from the shackles of her broken marriage to Agamemnon, whilst extreme, was liberating for her. Free to love whom she pleases, free to be intelligent, free to be a mother and lover…free to be a woman. Heywood’s depictions of two of the most well-known women in Greek myth was written so well, I would really recommend checking it out for yourself.

But I hope this is okay for a first attempt, I am so, so sorry for any grammatical errors as well as spelling errors! If sentences don’t make sense, or if anything I have mentioned doesn’t align with the myth historically regardless of the book again I sincerely apologise! I am terrible at staying up late, so I am expecting some mistakes😅

[agwitow]

Alpha Wolves

content warning: swearing, mild violence

Marcus yawned, his jaw cracking, and shook out his pants. It had been a long night, helping two pups with their first change. They were already packed into their parents’ SUVs, fast asleep, and on the way to their homes. In a few months they would be good to join a pack. It wasn’t always as simple with new shifters, but those two each had a parent who was one as well. Even at eight and ten, they knew a fair amount of what it meant to be a lycanthrope.

Dressed in sweats and a light cotton long-sleeved shirt, he ran a hand over his jaw and sighed. Full moon changes always made his hair grow. Even though he’d been clean-shaven before the change, he had what felt like two-days of growth now. Shaggy hair didn’t bother him nearly as much as a beard did, though by the end of the three days he’d need to get that trimmed as well.

He padded barefoot into the little cabin that served as his base of operations while helping new shifters and started a pot of coffee brewing. He hated the stuff, but it would be at least a couple hours before he could head home to sleep, so he needed something to keep him awake.

While it percolated, he checked his phone. Three emails from work, two from the pack, and some spam. He’d just opened the first email when the phone rang.

“Porter Consulting.”

“Mr. Porter, it’s Deputy Palerma from the EKSD,” a male with a pleasant tenor said.

East Keddol was a small town several miles from Hapburgh, the city Marcus lived and worked in. It was in the interesting position of being almost perfectly between Hapburgh pack territory and Redview pack territory. Surprisingly few places fell into the odd in-between spaces between packs, and, as far as he knew, no one had developed any specific protocols for dealing with them.

“How can I help you today, Deputy?”

“We have a shifter—twenty-three-year-old male—who attacked his friends when he shifted for the first time. Miss Davidson recommended I call you.”

Kaelyn Davidson did for the Redview pack what Marcus did for the Hapburgh one. She was, if he remembered correctly, also a month or two out from giving birth. Handling an adult shifter who’d already hurt people was probably not high on her list of ways to spend her time.

“I see. Is your new shifter awake?”

“No. We had to hit him with a tranq to be able to bring him in. He’s changed back, but hasn’t woken up yet.”

Marcus snorted. Safety Departments were, mostly, better than the old police system, but sometimes they were still a little too trigger happy. At least it was a tranquilizer dart instead of a clip of bullets. “I’ll send someone to pick him up. He’s going to wake up before they get there, and he’s going to be cranky and hungry.”

“I’ve taken the class on shifters, Mr. Porter,” Deputy Palerma said, sounding offended. “There is a post-shift recovery kit in the fridge.”

He stifled a sighed. “If that’s all you have, that’s fine, but it would be better if the new shifter could get freshly made food. Eggs, nuts, oats, cottage cheese or Greek yogurt, and pumpkin seeds are best. Avoid meat, if possible, especially red meat.”

“I thought shifters need protein the morning after?”

“We do, and the foods I listed are all high protein items. New shifters can find meats to be… an issue at first. As I’m not able to speak with your young man at present, it’s better to be cautious.”

There was a moment of silence on the line before Palerma said, “Alright. Who will be coming, and when should we expect them?”

“It’ll depend on who is free.”

“Can’t you just tell someone to do it? You’re the alpha, aren’t you?”

Marcus had to grit his teeth to keep from groaning. That damn study from the 40s. “That’s not quite how things work. All pack members have proper ID.”

“Fine,” he said, the word ending with an annoyed click of his tongue.

“Thank you. Someone will be there between 10:30 and noon.”

Once they’d said their farewells, Marcus sent out a quick message through the pack’s group chat.

New shifter, East Keddol holding, possible alpha complex. Any takers?

He set the phone down and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding enough cream and sugar to make it mostly palatable, before settling on a stool at the tiny kitchen’s bar-height table. He’d drunk half the cup before a chime indicated he’d gotten a response. Two more chimes rang out before he’d picked the phone back up.

Eddie: I’m free but never handled an alpha complex b4 wdin2k?

Ksenia: lol take a muzzle

Julianne: y can’t the Reds take em?

Marcus rubbed the bridge of his nose, sighed, and replied: Kaelyn’s 8 mo. Pregnant. Take the green SUV, put him in the back, and keep the divider up.

Eddie: is it that dangerous?

Thomas: alpha-complexers are just assholes

Julianne: TOM! There are CHILDREN in this chat

Thomas: no regrets!

Marcus temporarily turned notifications off for the group chat, replied to the most important of the work emails, set up reminders for the other two, then headed for the cabin’s futon. By the time he’d make it to his apartment in the city, he’d barely have any time to sleep before he’d need to head back out to meet the new shifter. So he’d nap on the futon and feel stiff for most of the afternoon.

#

A little after 2pm, the rumbling and crunch of a vehicle coming up the gravel drive to the cabin announced the arrival of Eddie and the new shifter. Marcus set aside his laptop and headed out to the porch to greet them. He was still barefoot and wearing sweats and the long-sleeved shirt, but he’d run a trimmer through the beard so he felt less like a back-woods mountain man.

The car had barely come to a complete stop before the back door opened and a young man stepped out with a glower. He was around average height, with enough muscle mass to indicate he worked out at least somewhat regularly. Dark blond hair hung to his shoulders and a thick beard wrapped his jaw—though whether that was a stylistic choice or the moon driven change accelerating his hair growth even more than it did for Marcus was unclear.

“You Marcus?” the young man demanded.

He raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and leaned against one of the porch supports. “I am. And you are?”

“Joseph.”

He nodded and shifted his gaze to Eddie, who’d stepped around to the front of the SUV. “How was the drive?”

Eddie shrugged, his gaze darting to Joseph and then away. “S’okay. Wouldn’t want to do it again, though.”

“Don’t blame you. Thanks for doing it, though. See you next week for a run, okay?”

His shoulders relaxed and he smiled. “Of course. Later, Marcus.”

Joseph scoffed. “Like he would be any good.”

Marcus shook his head and stepped down off the porch. He was a little shorter than the new shifter, though broader in the shoulders and with more muscle mass. “You will respect each and every member of our pack, or you’ll be sent to Palstead Institution. It is not a pleasant introduction to being a shifter.”

“Whatever, man. Just give me whatever stupid speech you’ve got so I can challenge you.”

“There will be no ‘challenging’ here.”

“Fuck that. I ain’t no submissive bitch.”

“What you do or don’t do in the bedroom has no relevance to this situation.”

Red flooded Joseph’s face a moment before he took a swing at Marcus. He’d obviously had a little bit of training, but the movement was still too big to be truly effective.

Marcus side-stepped and twisted a little so that he had more leverage as he placed a palm against Joseph’s arm and pushed. It wasn’t a big push, but the kid had overextended himself and it knocked him off balance enough to make him stumble. He took a step back and waited for the next attack he knew would be coming.

Joseph didn’t disappoint. He came up swinging wildly, rushing toward him as if he couldn’t decide whether to beat his face in or tackle him to the ground.

Marcus calmly deflected each blow, leading Joseph in a circle as he side-stepped and backed away from the attacks. Less than a minute later, Jospeh was panting and struggling to even come close to landing any blows.

“Have you finished with your temper tantrum, yet?” Marcus asked.

Joseph glared at him but stopped, bending over with hands on knees as he panted.

“You seem to be under the misunderstanding that pack members fight each other. Different packs rarely even fight each other.”

“How…how do you know who’s alpha, then?”

“There is no ‘alpha.’ Not the way you’re thinking, anyway.”

“What?”

Marcus sighed and took a seat on the ground. The grass was soft and, thanks to a sunny morning, contained no hint of dampness. After a moment’s hesitation, Joseph slumped down as well. “Pack is family. Would you pick a fight with your dad to try and take over the family?”

“No…”

He shrugged. “Picking a fight with a pack member makes about as much sense. We each have a role to play, and that role is based on our skills and personality and knowledge. Not on who we’re able to beat up.”

“Aren’t we wolves? At least partly?”

“Yes. And that’s how wolves behave.”

Joseph stared at him blankly.

He sighed again. “Come inside. I’ll make you a tuna sandwich and you can read one of the brochures.”

Joseph followed him inside, silent, but with a simmering edge of anger beneath his exhaustion. Once the full moon was over and the forced changes weren’t sapping his energy, he would be a real pain in the ass if Marcus couldn’t nip the problem in the bud.

“Here,” he said, picking up a glossy tri-fold and handing it over. “Have a seat. Read. I’ll make the sandwiches.”

He settled onto a stool, shoulders hunched and brows drawn. “Why Alpha-Dog Theory is BS,” he read. “Seriously?”

“Mhm,” Marcus replied. “Some of the pack wanted to title it It’s Not Your Inner Wolf, You’re Just an Asshole, but that seemed a bit confrontational.”

“… Oh.”

“Mhm.”

(Moon-Bound - part 2)

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[heliads]

A Matter of Metal

Based on this request: “an alternate version of magneto’s son and been in shield and been really close to hill and fury so sword has sent him to investigate the hex with the trio and he has the same powers of magneto and basically wants what agatha wants wanda powers and basically betrays sword/shield”

masterlist

Three people sit at a table. They are each dressed in shades of navy and black, guns obvious on hips and knives hidden on shins. The flickering glare of a fluorescent light casts shadows across the room. Despite all the resources of S.H.I.E.L.D., they’ve never bothered to get it fixed. The man, one black eye patch hidden in shadow, sits closer to the woman, whose dark hair is clinically pulled away from her face. They stare at a second man, one who returns their gaze without a shard of hesitation. Between the three of them, they know enough secrets about S.H.I.E.L.D. and the various governments to tear down the entire fabric of the world.

Instead, their focus is on a manila file folder, one that’s been slid across the table to the second man. He eyes it coolly. “You want me to investigate Wanda Maximoff?” Fury nods. “S.W.O.R.D. claims to have it under control. I’m not sure how much of that I believe.” Maria Hill gestures towards the folder. “You’ll be there as our eyes and ears. S.W.O.R.D. is willing to accept our help, but we’re fairly certain it’s only as a way to get us off of their back. You’ll have to be careful, Y/N, but we think you’ll be able to find out more than they’re letting on.”

Y/N raises an eyebrow. “At this rate, I’m not sure whether you’re sending me because you trust me or because you want to see what would happen if you sent another agent with abilities to tangle with Maximoff.” Fury chuckles at that. “Are you sure your powers don’t include mind reading? I can’t keep anything from you.” Y/N lets his stony facade break for a second as he laughs. “That’s why we’re such good friends.”

Hill smirks. “If you consider Fury a best friend forever, I’m getting worried about your mental state. You sure you’re up for this job?” Y/N grins. “I’m the only one you trust. If I wasn’t ready, you wouldn’t have asked me about it at all.” Fury nods. “You’re not just there to watch and wait, L/N, you’re there to act. If you feel the need to intervene, do so at will. We’ll defend you to S.W.O.R.D.”

The barest hint of curiosity flares across Y/N’s eyes. “You want me to go behind S.W.O.R.D.’s back?” Fury shrugs. “We want you to make the right decisions, even if they happen to be against S.W.O.R.D. direction. Use discretion, but do what you must.” Y/N nods, then begins to rise from his chair. “When do I leave?” Fury and Hill stand as well. “Whenever you’re willing. The first trucks leave in a couple of hours.”

Y/N turns to go, but a call from Fury makes him glance over at the man again. “And L/N? Take care. From what I’ve heard, things aren’t exactly smooth sailing over there.” A devil-sharp grin makes its way onto Y/N’s face. “Trust me, Fury. I can take care of myself.” Just as he says that, the room begins to shake. It’s not much, barely noticeable, but still there. Every metal thing in the room begins to contort for just a second, and then the moment passes and they smooth themselves back out again once Y/N disappears from the room.

Y/N heads quickly to his apartment. It’s not far from S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, carefully chosen for an easy escape if necessary. In this case, Y/N won’t be running away from anything. Instead, he’ll be running towards something, a risky shot that just might plunge him into a scenario far more dangerous than either Fury or Hill realizes. That’s why they’re sending Y/N, after all. No matter what, he always comes out on top, regardless of how deadly the situation ends up turning. In fact, the darker the scene, the better he works.

Y/N begins to fill a black case with a number of supplies. Clothing, weapons, you name it. Just as the case begins to fill, he pauses, and turns to a gunmetal gray box almost hidden in the back of the room. Y/N kneels before it almost reverently, and lifts the lid. Inside lies a helmet of dark metal, one that would be snug to the skull but extends down, cut away from the eyes like those of the Ancient Greeks. Y/N’s eyes close as he holds the helmet in his hands. It was not his, not at first. No, it belonged to his father. Erik Lehnsherr.

Erik had raised Y/N, both by his presence and his absence. They both shared the same ability to manipulate metal, to raze the earth if they wished. The only difference was that Erik was long gone, and Y/N was forced to stay here today. Y/N isn’t sure if Erik was dead or alive, or if that even mattered. Erik had vanished one night in a cloud of smoke, with the yells of men echoing over the pounding of heels on asphalt. He could be dead, or missing, or simply choosing never to return. In all honesty, it didn’t matter. Y/N remembers the key detail- the look of anguish on Erik’s face as he realized he was losing his family again, one final blow in a sea of countless injuries.

When Y/N leaves for the S.W.O.R.D. encampments, there is a metal helmet hidden in the black case on the seat beside him. He does not let it out of his sight for a second.

The truck is rocking back and forth, heavy tires digging deeply into muddy ruts as it travels along an only semi-paved road on the way to Westview, New Jersey. Y/N sits in the back with a couple of other new arrivals, but he does not speak to them. He rides with these nervously chattering brains and muscle only because he does not wish to stand out amongst the residents of the Westview encampment. Few people know the true importance of Agent Y/N L/N, and it’s best to keep his high level under wraps. This want for secrecy, however, is not enough to force him to converse with the others. Everyone has their limits, he supposes. This is his.

Y/N can sense the Westview encampment before he even looks out the tinted windows to see it. He can feel the boundary pressing in around him, the tendrils of magic practically reaching out to wrap around his brain. Y/N’s power is raw, has always called to others like it. Apparently his magnetism doesn’t just extend to metals. As the truck carries him closer to Wanda’s energy barrier, a pounding in his skull gets worse and worse, feeling like an anvil slamming against his temples.

Y/N does his best to hide any signs of weakness, but he must have a slight sheen of sweat glistening across his forehead or something, because S.W.O.R.D. Director Hayward raises an eyebrow when he greets Y/N outside of the truck. “You alright there, agent? What, you get sick on the way over?” Y/N isn’t in the mood for politicking. “You might consider questioning your driver instead. I think I’ve seen more technical skill in a fifteen year old with a learner’s permit.” As Y/N strides away, he sees a trio of friends exchange glances as they try to hold back laughter. He recognizes them in passing- Woo, Rambeau, Lewis, present in the S.H.I.E.L.D. databases thanks to their experience with Avenger-level threats.

Y/N arrives late in the afternoon, and sits in on a couple of debriefings before night falls over the encampment. S.W.O.R.D. isn’t exactly following through with the laissez-faire attitude they highlighted in their project write-up, but Y/N assumes that a few details were embellished to make sure Fury didn’t come after them. These details would include an accidental send-off of one Monica Rambeau into the so-called Hex, and a later disappearance of a S.W.O.R.D. spy at the hands of Wanda Maximoff when the man had been discovered creeping into Westview via the sewer system.

Clearly embarrassed to present these findings to an extension of S.H.I.E.L.D., Hayward had decided to wait on any further activity regarding Westview until the next day, or at least until things cooled down with Wanda herself and with the tensions already simmering between Director Hayward and the trio of Woo, Rambeau, and Lewis. Y/N waits until action on the encampment is beginning to settle down, when the dark cloak of night will hide his silhouette, and then slips out of his assigned bunk, heading towards the barrier to Westview.

If he thought the call to the magical energy was bad in the truck, it is a thousand times worse here. Yet the pure power of the boundary calls to Y/N even as it pushes him away. Y/N walks until he’s mere inches away from the shimmering scarlet surface. Around him, guards ignore his sudden appearance, their scopes and tech not picking up his figure. Y/N smiles to himself. It’s funny how easy it is to manipulate all that metal. Erik would have loved it.

Y/N turns his focus back to the barrier of Westview. He considers it for a moment, then pulls his father’s helmet from where it was hidden under his coat. He slips it on, and the pain dissipates to almost nothing. What remains instead is that same hunger, that same want for the power right before his eyes. Y/N reaches out a hand to touch the barrier, and his eyes widen for just a second as he makes contact. It is amazing how much is right there for the taking. Without another glance, Y/N steps through the barrier into Westview.

Agent Y/N L/N has been missing for only a couple of hours. Director Hayward issued a statement telling everyone at the encampment that L/N was out on a S.W.O.R.D.- authorized mission, that he will be back soon. Some people believe him, but more notice the crease of fury that has appeared on his brow, or the clench of his knuckles as he storms into the tech center where Darcy Lewis and Monica Rambeau currently watch the live feed of a drone,  one that has just been sent into Westview.

Hayward stomps up to the group, considers the monitor for a second, then nods to an awaiting technician. “Take the shot.” Monica, who had been speaking to Wanda through a microphone, freezes. “What?” Her panic is not enough to stop the missiles from clicking into position on the drone, or to have any impact on Wanda, whose eyes glow red as she shuts down all S.W.O.R.D. control of the drone. Monica’s live feed flickers into static.

Scarlet bands of energy wrap over the drone, and she turns away from it. Wanda does not notice the failsafe missiles still preparing to fire, or notice that anything is wrong at all until the launched missiles crumple in a tangle of wires and screeching metal. Wanda whirls around to see a man in a metal helmet standing across the street, his eyes fixed impassively on her. He releases his clenched fist, letting the buckling metal fall to the ground in tandem with his lowered arm. Wanda stares at him. “Who are you?” Y/N returns her gaze. “Someone who can help you get what you want.”

Scores of S.W.O.R.D. agents are clustering around the Westview barrier, watching as it flashes scarlet, rent apart as a woman steps through. She is dragging a broken drone, which she tosses at their feet. As she speaks, fear and apprehension begin to dawn on the faces of the gathered agents. Monica Rambeau steps forward and attempts to reason with Wanda. Director Hayward realizes that this negotiation tactic isn’t working and tries another option: outright threats.

Yet Wanda Maximoff does not seem concerned by the soldiers pointing guns at her, or at least not until Hayward snaps his fingers and a wave of fully automated weaponry focuses on her. “They’re not humans,” Hayward calls, “You can’t control their minds.” Then another voice echoes out from behind Wanda. “But I can.”

Y/N L/N, clad in his father’s metal helmet, steps through the barrier. He raises his arm, and all scraps of metal crash and crumple together, surrounding Hayward with piles of useless waste. Hayward stares. “Agent L/N? What are you doing?” Y/N laughs, the sound deep in his throat. “I’m making my choice.” Hayward seems taken aback by this betrayal. “What would Fury say?” Then, quieter, “What would your father say?”

An edge of stone hardens in Y/N’s eyes. “I wouldn’t know, because he is gone. Do you know what I remember from that night? I remember my father fighting to get back to me, but he was forced away because of your organizations and petty squabbles, all because you’re scared of people like us. People with powers. So, now that you mention it, I think he would be proud of me. I’m finally continuing what he always wanted.”

Hayward’s eyes narrow. “You would turn your back on S.H.I.E.L.D., on S.W.O.R.D., on everything, for what? A chance to use your powers whenever you wanted? You could do that here, you know.” Y/N appears disinterested. “Where you’ll hold it over me for the rest of my life? I’d rather not.” Hayward glares. “This is your final warning. We will be coming after you.” Y/N raises his arm again, and the gathered S.W.O.R.D. agents flinch away. “Actually, you won’t. I plan to make that very clear.”

Y/N’s eyes glint, and the entire encampment begins to shudder. Hayward turns to his officers as he realizes the unfortunate truth- everything here, the walls, the weapons, the tech, it’s all made of metal. A cold smile spreads onto Y/N’s face as he watches the encampment crash to the ground in a hail of sparks and ruined scrap, weeks worth of research gone in an instant. Y/N turns his back on S.W.O.R.D., holding out a hand to Wanda. “Ready to go back?” She nods, smiling, and accompanies him back inside the barrier.

Wanda is grateful for a new ally. It’s a shame, though, for if she were to see inside Y/N’s head she would see no desire to help her. Instead, what lurks underneath that helmet is an all-consuming want for vengeance, for power, for everything Wanda can give Y/N and even more that he can take from her. Even after just a couple of hours in Westview, Y/N realized that Wanda represents an untapped source of power, one that Y/N could call to himself as easily as drawing breath.

His lip curls when he thinks of Hayward’s last words to him. Mentioning Y/N’s father? That was a low blow. And besides, it didn’t even work. Y/N could laugh to think of how little Hayward knew of Erik Lehnsherr. Had Hayward known a fraction of Erik’s true goals, of all of his attempts to reinstate control to mutants and people with abilities, he would never have allowed Y/N onto his little base in the first place.

What would Erik think of Y/N’s decision? He’d be proud. As Y/N disappears into the shrouded city of Westview, feeling his own powers grow with every second that he spent around that beacon of energy known to the world as Wanda Maximoff, he sends out one last thought to his father. I’m doing what you would have wanted. I’m continuing the cause. S.H.I.E.L.D. had always held Y/N back, but he’s finally broken off all chains. It’s time to begin again. It’s time to create a new world, one where power is given to those deserving of it.

If Wanda Maximoff had any idea what would happen to her perfect little town, she would have run long ago.

wanda maximoff tag list: @mionemymind​ @xxxtwilightaxelxxx​    

[staarshines]

Alderaanian Tragedy || P.D.

Warnings: Mentions of ecstasy (in the song), mention of getting drunk

Word Count: 1.8k

The story as to how you ended up in the middle of a cantina on Ajan Kloss, dancing with the love of your life, foreheads pressed together while laughing, still high from the first two kisses just a mere few hours after the war of your generation ended.

[A/N]: i said i would write it 😌 NO THIS IS NOT ANGST I PROMISE!! it’s based off of the song “greek tragedy” which’s remix went viral on tiktok lately—if you’re gonna listen to it while reading the story, please do not listen to the remix because that’s the complete opposite of the original 😭 And yes if like five of the words seem changed I did change a few lyrics to fit the universe better!!

Poe.

That was the only person you wanted to find when you landed—everyone else could wait. Rey, Finn, L’ulo, Rose—they all could wait.

The love of your life couldn’t.

Maybe it was the absolute high you were still riding from watching all those allies drop out of hyperspace. Maybe it was relief about the war you’d been fighting for for nearly half a decade finally being over. Maybe it was fear of how many blasts had barely missed your X-Wing that last battle. Or maybe, just maybe, it was just exhaustion of keeping the secret for so long. But you needed to tell him.

After all, you had no excuses now.

We’re fighting in a war.

We can’t risk being distracted.

What if something happens to one of us?

It’s not a good time.

If he doesn’t feel the same, we won’t be able to work together anymore.

No. None of that. All those “excuses” went down with the dreadnoughts on Exegol.

You’re too lost in your thoughts to even be actively looking for him, just wandering through the crowd of ecstatic rebels because you know the moment you see his eyes, you’ll be racing toward him.

And you’re damn right.

You run into his arms so hard that you knock the breath out from your own lungs—forget about his. You know he’s saying something, you just can’t hear it over the rebels’ cheers and your own sobs. It’s practically impossible to get out of his grip, but once you do, you press your forehead so hard against his that it hurts, laughing through your tears, his face cupped in your hands and vice versa—you swear to the Maker you would’ve kissed him right then and there had Rey and Finn not nearly tackled you both to the ground with a hug.

Nobody says a thing for who knows how long—the silence in between the four of you is more than enough. Once the four of you pull apart, it takes mere seconds for you all to break out in laughter after seeing the fatigue on everyone’s faces. Nevertheless, the flyboy has something else on his mind.

“We’re definitely getting drunk tonight, right?”

“I thought we were dressing cute—” you blurt out, looking at your black skater dress and Finn’s collared shirt before seeing Poe in his signature tank top-half flightsuit and Rey in one of her regular sleeveless tunics and a jacket.

“I thought we were dressing homeless…”

“I was just too tired to change out of my flightsuit.” Finn snickers and you just roll your eyes, fighting back a smile (and failing, obviously). “It doesn’t matter, really. I look hot either way.” He sends a wink your way which you hope looks like you blatantly disregarded it—because your mind certainly didn’t.

“Don’t get too cocky, Dameron.”

Making your way down to the cantina, you can’t help but let your mind wander a little because of how flirtatious Poe is being. Sure, he was always flirty little shit, but something about this was… different.

Probably just the weight of the war off his shoulders, you tell yourself.

But that couldn't be the only thing. There had to be something else.

This. This is what you hated about being a rebel—were you still a rebel if the war was over? That’s beside the point—the hope. The hope is what you hated. Rebellions were built on hope. As long as there was hope, a rebel would keep fighting. No matter how improbable or impossible, even, the situation was, a rebel wouldn’t give up on it. It’s the only reason the Rebellion won the war, really.

And you’ve told yourself more times than you can count that work’s ideology should stay in work’s life. A motto that outrageous doesn’t just transfer over to a, well, to any love life. You’ve talked yourself down in your quarters, the hangar, your X-Wing, a fucking dreadnought, and even this cantina where you’re sitting right now.

Your heart just wouldn’t listen.

“This song—hell yes!” Poe’s excited yells pull you out of your thoughts, and it takes you a few seconds to realize that Alderaanian Tragedy is playing. “C’mon flygirl, get up! Let’s dance!”

“Flygirl?” you don’t hesitate to question the nickname—not that you were complaining, no. The opposite, really. “Since when has that been my thing?”

“Since I said so.”

“Oh really?”

“Mhm. I practically own the brand. I say what goes.” You nod teasingly but don’t budge, earning a groan from him. “Fine. You made me do this, then.” He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the booth with a surprised yelp from you. You reach a hand out to Finn and Rey but Finn just waves you off and Rey blows you a kiss, winking. Sighing, you decide to accept your fate, catching up to Poe so he doesn’t have to drag you through the crowd anymore.

“We’re smashing mics in karaoke bars…”

“Are you really going to pull us into the middle?” you yell over the pumping music, barely even being able to hear yourself.

“Is this your first time meeting me?”

“You’re running late with half your makeup on…”

Poe comes to a stop and grabs your other hand, beginning to sway to the music. You’re still a bit reluctant, which earns you a pout from him. Maker, not the damn pout.

“This method acting might pay our bills…”

You smile just the tiniest bit at remembering how much you loved this song—Poe’s grin when he sees that you’re having fun makes you start giggling almost uncontrollably.

“But soon enough, there’ll be a different role to fill…”

You sing along, finally starting to let yourself loosen up and have some fun, which makes Poe happier than he’s been in a long time.

“I love this feeling, but I hate this part…”

Poe sings along with you, giving you a little “Yeah!” of encouragement at the end.

“I wanted this to work so much, I drew our plans in the stars…”

You swear you see him point to you both before pointing up at the ceiling like you could see the stars—damn this dim lighting. Did you just imagine it, or did Poe really make that verse about the two of you—?

“Speeders are flipping, I’m in hot pursuit…”

He grabs your waist and twirls you into his chest—you swear your heart stops right then and there.

“My character’s strong, but my head is loose.”

He rolls his head back and sticks his tongue out at you—as stupid as it may be, you laugh. The bass of the beats start shaking the floor, and you both look at each other like you know what to do next.

“She hits like ecstasy…”

You’re jumping like crazy with your hands on Poe’s shoulders, laughing gleefully and letting your hair whip around without a care in the galaxy.

“Comes up and bangs the sense out of me…”

He’s singing along now, and as loud of the music may be, you can hear him—you’re closer and honestly? He’s louder. Like the song means something to him.

No, he’s just enjoying the night. Stop being a romantic for once.

“The tarot cards say it’s not that bad, the blades rotate there’s just no landing pad…”

Dramatically falling back with full faith that Poe will catch you—which he does—you try to stop yourself from thinking about how deep you are in your love for him. Dancing like this, it’s not… It’s not how best friends dance. There shouldn’t be this much tension, and there sure as hell shouldn’t be this much meaning.

“And better have said it, but darling you’re the best…”

You mouth the last four words—as does he—and pointedly tap his nose, as if to solidify that you were talking about him.

“I’m just tired of falling up the Penrose steps…”

He slows down a little bit and you gladly oblige, a little bit out of breath yourself as well.

“I hate this feeling, but I love this part…”

You let your arms drape over his shoulders, feeling like he was trying to tell you something. You look into his eyes but you can’t read them because of the lack of light—you swear you see a shimmer or a sparkle somewhere in there, though…

“She really wants to make it work, and I clearly want to let it start…”

One of his hands travels up your back while the other tucks a loose strand of your hair back in place—the simple motion setting off that Maker-damned fizzing feeling in your stomach again.

“We’ll build a podracer as soon as I get home…”

Your hands switch positions from over his shoulders to holding his face—were you two getting closer? You honestly couldn’t handle the suspense.

Fuck it.

“Oh and she hits like ecstasy…”

Your veins throb and you swear your heart explodes as your lips crash into his, which he gladly welcomes. He’s everywhere, up your back, your neck, your hair, and suddenly, he’s kissing you harder, deeper, with some sort of urge that you’ve never known before. It’s dizzying, because you feel the same thing—you’ve never wanted anyone like this before. Ever. In this moment, all you wanted was Poe. You want him closer, closer, closer, even though he can’t get any closer. Maybe time stopped when your lips met his.

“Comes up and bangs the sense out of me…”

You don’t want to break the kiss—in fact, you want to let it go on forever—but you need a second to think without his lips on yours.

Did you really just kiss him?

Poe Dameron?

The love of your life?

And he’d kissed you back?

“It’s wrong, but surely worse to leave…”

You’re searching his face for answers and he seems to be doing the same—that is, until, you both come to the conclusion that another kiss is probably the answer.

“She hits like ecstasy…”

It still isn’t clear whether or not you’d just dreamed this moment into real life, but there was something about the way he was gripping onto you. Something that screamed “I’m never going to let you go. I’m never going to let you go. I’m never going to let you go.” And honestly? You didn’t want him to.

“So free up the cheaper seats…”

Even though you’re too out of breath for kissing, you still need to be as close to him as possible—thus being the last detail of the story as to how you ended up in the middle of a cantina on Ajan Kloss, dancing with the love of your life, foreheads pressed together while laughing, still high from the first two kisses just a mere few hours after the war of your generation ended.

“Here comes an Alderaanian Tragedy.”

Masterlist

All taglists are open! Send me an ask or a message :)

Permanent: @becausewhyknotme, @browneyedhimbo, @theladyoffangorn, @officialtonystarkprotectionsquad, @justmebeingtheweirdmeiam, @fantasticcopeaglepasta, @talk-geek-to-me, @letsmellowjello, @thescarletknight2014, @bbluespiritzuko, @brooklynsmorales, @poe-djarin, @marvelinsanity​, @softly-sad​, @yourbucky084, @mcolbz14, @houseofthirst, @arkofblake​, @asianravenpuff​

Star Wars: @kittyofalltrades​, @m1rkw00dpr1ncess​, @propertyofdindjarin​, @coldbreadbouquetworld​, @melvls​, @thedevilwearsbeskar, @agentshortstacc​

Poe Dameron: @poe-damnnn-eron​, @lapilark​, @peterhollandkait​, @demigod-dragonrider-schoolidol​, @twomoonstwosuns​, @lady-sloan, @poes-stardust​, @legamelo​, @xremember-me-notx​, @imtheoutgoingsidekick-baby​, @yourbucky084​, @agents-assemble​, @daydreamerinadazedworld​, @darthadeline​, @roserrys​, @fandom-addict-aesthetics​

Story Tag: @permanentmess​

[luminescencefics]

you feel like home - part seven

“I know that. And I’m sorry. Just—fuck, Ryan—I need to speak with you. Please.” It’s the waver of his voice that forces Ryan to finally look into his eyes, noticing the way his skin looks taut and the bags underneath are more pronounced now than ever before. The pallor of his face is almost disturbing, and even though Ryan is still upset, the sight of him pleading with her is enough to make her concerned. 

His hand is still grasping her elbow, and when she tears her eyes away from his face and down in the direction of his hand on her body, he gets the hint and drops it, backing away slowly. Her door is ajar and with a silent nod of approval, Harry’s following her into the flat.

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*** When It Goes From Worse to Maybe Okay

In the days that follow, Harry’s never felt so alone. It’s an odd thing to say, considering he’s spent every day with his son the same way he has for the past five years. But there’s something missing this time—something that makes him feel less than part of a whole. The loneliness is deep in his chest now, and the emptiness echoes through his body until he feels a shiver run underneath his skin until he’s nothing but hollow.

He’s never felt so cold in his life. 

The hollowness grows deeper when Harry thinks about how most of this is mainly his fault. Because he has become so in tune with Ryan’s feelings in such a short amount of time, sensing her unease before she even knows she’s started fidgeting in front of him. And maybe that was his problem—he spent most of his time making sure she was okay, and in turn, forgot how to even act in front of her. 

It’s not like he didn’t try to speak to her on more than one occasion. After Ryan left his flat with his tea mug, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He could barely sleep that night, going back and forth in his mind of whether or not he should just knock on her door and kiss her. And the restlessness didn’t stop—the next morning he heard a crash on the other side of his bedroom wall, and his mind started reeling, wondering if she was on the other end of the abnormally thin plaster. Was she up all night thinking of him, too?

And then when he knocked on her door and she was wearing big glasses and her hair was a messy knot bound together by a flimsy pen and she looked so cozy, he’s not quite sure why he didn’t kiss her then, either. Because he wanted to—it was all he could fucking think about. It was as if his body movements were in sync with his heart, because they moved closer towards her on their own accord without asking his brain for permission, and it was only when he could feel her short spurts of breath on his neck when he realized he could kiss her right then and there if he truly wanted to. But her brown eyes were blown out and her bottom lip was quivering and her hands were shaking, so he backed away. He figured she was uncomfortable and how could he kiss her when he was asking her to watch his kid for a few hours?

He was a blushing mess that entire afternoon. And when he finally had the entire flat to himself and grabbed his guitar, plucking strings and making melodies that faintly sounded like Ryan’s giggles, he never wrote a song faster in his entire life. Harry found himself scribbling dark eyes and olive skin and scraped knees, messy hair and big jumpers and hallways in his leather journal. And when he pieced them together and finally started singing, the song was so obviously about her that he couldn’t even believe it. Has she always subconsciously been in every lyric he’s written since he’s met her?

Harry couldn’t stop thinking about the song until he was standing right in front of her a few hours later, looking into her dark eyes underneath big lenses, her olive-skinned shoulder poking out of her oversized jumper. His heart took over again, and when they prompted his lips to blurt out an invitation for dinner, he couldn’t even be angry with his head for not kicking into gear. He had never been more nervous for a date in his entire life—was it even a date? Did he even say the word date? 

His mind was in overdrive. Harry cleaned his already spotless flat twice over, and when he looked at the clock and saw that he only had thirty minutes until she was knocking on his door, he panicked and jumped into the shower. The entire time he was shampooing his knotted hair, he couldn’t help but wonder if she was panicking, too. Was she staring at herself in the mirror, deciding what shade of lipstick to wear? Did she change her outfit three times? Did she want him as badly as he wanted her?

After changing out of jeans and a corduroy pair of trousers, Harry knew he was fucked. His confidence was slipping, and he almost laughed at how much of a teenager he was being. It felt like he was fourteen again getting ready for his first date—giddy and nervous and practically shaking at the knees. Ryan felt like a lot of firsts for him, if he was being honest with himself. Did he feel like that for her, too? 

God and when he saw her. Her dark hair was falling down her back and the color matched her twinkling eyes, and when he noticed the subtle shade of lipstick she was wearing, it looked as if she had just eaten a perfectly ripened raspberry that stained her pouty lips. He couldn’t stop staring at the tangled gold necklaces around her clavicle—he saw the year 1993, a Greek letter that he assumed was her astrological sign, and a pendant that looked as if it had been on her neck for her entire life. He was fascinated—completely and utterly transfixed with the girl standing in front of him in the hallway.

Kissing her seemed inevitable with the way they were dancing around each other in his kitchen, the way her bare shoulder brushed against his forearm when she leaned over him to grab the rolling pin, the way she looked at him underneath the curtain of her eyelashes when she was on all fours in Jackson’s bedroom. The way she cleaned up without hesitation, the way she seamlessly fit in his living room, the way she flirted with him to the soft sounds of Joni Mitchell playing in the background.

But then he was talking about Rachel and feeling things he hadn’t felt in a long time. Talking about his unearthed hidden emotions he kept buried for five years, and suddenly Ryan was looking at him with the saddest look on her face and he couldn’t bring himself to admit that he was fucking terrified. 

Because she was there and sitting in front of him and it was everything he could have ever wanted—but then she started talking about her parents and her breathing pattern shifted in a way that made Harry nervous. And when her hands started trembling and her cheeks were painted red and she couldn’t bring herself to even look at him, he knew she was panicking, so he grabbed her hand to bring her back to him. To them. To sitting on the couch with their knees touching and being surrounded by the comfort of one another. 

And he wanted to kiss her—so fucking badly that his entire body was shuddering with anticipation. But it didn’t feel right to him, not after he just unloaded his past relationship with Jackson’s mother, not when she just told him about her parent’s divorce, not when she was shaking so hard underneath his hand.

He wanted the moment to be perfect, and for the first time in days, he listened to his head instead of his heart.

But when he saw the look on her face, all downtrodden and blank eyes, he immediately regretted it. And when her hand left his and she ran out of the flat without even putting her shoes on, Harry had never been angrier with himself. 

In trying to find the perfect moment, Harry let the actual one slip right through his fingers. 

And he deserves it, he supposes. Harry’s always been a suffer in silence type of person, and after the way he treated her in his living room, he’s never suffered more. Because being with Ryan, even for the short amount of time he was given, made him feel alive again. She was quirky and different and somehow burrowed herself into his life without even truly knowing it, and when she left, he felt her absence everywhere.

Where Ryan was scared of the unknown, Harry was afraid of reliving it. Afraid of letting somebody into not only his own heart, but also his son’s, only to just leave in the end. He was afraid of needing somebody—because raising a child without much help forces you to become acquainted with the feeling of solitariness. Before he met Ryan, he felt as if he was swimming in an abyssal ocean, floating his way through life. But with one chance meeting, one awkward run-in in their shared hallway, it’s as if he’s come up for air—breathing in all the possibilities of what could be. 

Being alone is scary, but being left is even scarier—and even though he was never in love with Rachel, Harry tried his hardest to make it work because he assumed it was what was expected of him. He never wanted his son to suffer in the end, to feel neglected, to feel not good enough. 

He knows in his heart of hearts that Ryan would never treat him the way Rachel did. But for a split second, his mind went into that dark space. The space that warned him not to let his heart, or more importantly, Jackson’s, fall into the wrong hands. Because giving somebody else that power allows for the pain he shoved deep inside his chest to come back up to the surface, and he isn’t quite sure if he wants to relive it.

But the crippling feeling of regret after he saw Ryan hold back tears in the hallway was enough to make him hate himself just a little bit more.

It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. Harry had been building up the courage ever since he told her he wanted to kiss her when she was in the lift to knock on her door and make it right. He wrote everything down, for fuck’s sake. An entire list of all of the things he had done wrong, of the things he wanted to do to make it better, of the ways she made his heart beat loudly inside of his chest like the bass drum to a rock song. 

But then Rachel shows up at his door unannounced, giving him the worst type of news he could have ever received. 

Without warning, she drops a napalm bomb on his front doorstep, informing Harry that she was offered a job position at her firm’s New York office. Before he could even hear her out, Harry instantly falls into defense mode—closing the door a few inches behind him so that Jackson remains unaware of his mother’s presence, folding his arms over his chest in a lame sort of protective armor, frowning deeply through his dried lips. Because once again, Rachel was choosing herself over her son. And once again, Harry was left to pick up the pieces.

So he tells her this.

“I can’t fucking hear this right now,” Harry whispers harshly, cutting her off just as the words temporary position falls from her lips. He didn’t even acknowledge it, didn’t even comprehend the string of sentences she was trying to explain to him.

“Harry, would you listen to me? I haven’t finished explaining. It’s only for a few—”

“—No! I don’t want to hear another excuse, Rachel! I’m the one that’s left to pick up the pieces whenever you fuck off to go do whatever it is you’re so passionate about. I’m the one that has to tell your son where his mum is. I’m the one who constantly puts Jackson first while he’s second, hell, practically fucking third on your list!” With every locution, he’s watching Rachel grow redder and redder with anger, and he knows it’s because he hasn’t let her get a word in edgewise.

But he isn’t in the mood to speak rationally. He’s had a week from hell, and just when he was about to go and make it better, Rachel had to show up and ruin it with ease. 

“Don’t you fucking dare accuse me of anything without even listening to what I’m trying to say to you! God, Harry you’re so bloody thick sometimes! I’m trying to speak to you like an adult, yeah? Like the way we always said we would talk to each other when we started co-parenting!” Rachel points a long finger into his face, waving it with each stressed syllable that falls out of her rogue-painted lips.

“You have to actually be a parent in order to co-parent, Rachel,” Harry spits out, and the minute he sees Rachel’s stony expression falter, he almost takes it back. 

He watches her take a deep breath, shaking the sadness from her eyes before the harsh expression replaces it. “Are you always going to make me the villain in your story, Harry? We came to the agreement two years ago that Jackson would stay with you while I finished law school. And for the past year, I’ve been doing the best I can, taking Jackson on long weekends so that you can have a break and I can spend time with him. We knew this would only be temporary until I became a practicing solicitor. This job will expedite that—I’m only needed there for six months, and then when I come back, I’ll permanently be in London. I’ll be working lesser hours, I’ll have more flexibility,” she pauses, eyes staring straight into Harry’s. “I can see Jackson for more than one weekend of every month.”

Harry’s head feels as if it’s about to explode, and suddenly he doesn’t want to be reasonable anymore. He wants to be angry. He wants to be upset. He wants to be irrational. 

“Do whatever the fuck you want, Rachel. You’ve been doing it all along.” He knows he’s being unfair, because even though Rachel has always been more selfish than Harry, she’s still a good person. She still tries her best to be a good mum to Jackson even when she’s buried in mountains of paperwork. She still tries to be a good friend to Harry even after all of the shit they’ve been through.

But Harry feels angry with the world, so he decides not to remember these attributes. Instead, he makes her the antagonist in his story—because being angry at her makes him a little less angry at himself. 

And when he sees messy brown waves behind Rachel’s shoulders in the hallway, it’s as if everything happens in slow motion. He watches Jackson run after Ryan, he hardly processes what Rachel says to him from his doorway, he watches Ryan comfort his wailing son with concerned eyes, and before he can even speed up time, Rachel’s yelling at Ryan, and Harry’s not sure how he hears it all over the sound of his heart dropping to the floor with a loud crash. 

Ryan’s gone just as quickly as she came and Harry’s left to pick up the remnants of his and Rachel’s disaster once again—scooping up Jackson with one arm to try and quell his chest-heaving sobs, closing the door on Rachel and telling her he’ll speak to her later, falling into bed with a heavy head and an even heavier heart.

That was three days ago. 

Now he sits in his dark flat, curtains completely drawn, lights still off. The wick from the sandalwood candle on the end table flickers from his position on the couch, the tiny flame creating swirling patterns along the slate grey walls, the crooning sound of Van Morrison from the record player the perfect backdrop for Harry’s dismal mood.

Gemma came to pick Jackson up for a few days after video chatting Harry and noticing the paleness of his face and the purple bruises under his eyes from lack of sleep through the grainy screen of her mobile. Her concern was evident, and after hearing Jackson mumble that daddy’s been sick for a few days (a lie both siblings chose to ignore), he didn’t even fight her when she told him Jackson was going to stay with his cousins for the weekend.

Now that the flat is empty, void of Jackson’s high-pitched laughter and tiny bare feet slapping against the hardwood flooring, the loneliness is practically unbearable to Harry. He can feel it eating away at him, and sitting on his couch listening to Astral Weeks for the third time through isn’t making him feel any better. 

Harry knows he needs to do something about it—because Ryan isn’t sitting in her flat feeling sorry for him, and out of everybody who was hurt by what happened in the hallway three days ago, she deserved it the least. 

Because thinking of her messy hair and big eyes, small hands swallowed by oversized knitted jumpers, pouty lips and red cheeks, small quips of smiles and dulcet giggles, secret tattoos scattered on olive skin—thinking of those things makes the heaviness in his head feel a bit lighter. 

And even if he ruined any hope of them ever having something, he knows she deserves an apology. Because all of this agonizing waiting and tiptoeing around feelings is only making his head spin faster and faster like a brand new top on a granite counter, and Harry can’t bear feeling like this anymore. Not when there’s any inkling of hope left.

Harry remembers hearing the sound of Ryan’s heavy oak door close almost an hour ago, and ever since she moved in practically two months ago, he’s picked up on her habits. He knows that she delegates Friday’s as her food shopping day, and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he opens the curtains and flicks the living room light on, waiting by his front door near the peephole to try and catch brown hair whipping past.

And when he sees it almost fifteen minutes later, he has to blink to make sure he didn’t miss it. But there’s no denying Ryan’s tousled locks, and without hesitation he opens his door, meeting her in the hallway where it all began.

“Ryan,” Harry starts, watching the way she starts shifting her shopping bags into one hand so she can reach for her keys in her jacket pocket with the other, seemingly ignoring him. She’s trying to get out of this conversation with everything in her, and Harry knows this. But he needs to apologize. He needs to talk to her—even if it ends with her slamming her door in his face. “Ryan would you please—”

“—I really don’t think you have the right to ask anything of me right now, Harry.” It’s short, clipped, absolute. She still isn’t making eye contact with him, and Harry feels as if he’s going to burst. Once she allocates her keys it’s as if Harry works in fast motion, grabbing her elbow that isn’t anchored down by shopping bags, practically begging her at this point to just fucking look at him.

“I know that. And I’m sorry. Just—fuck, Ryan—I need to speak with you. Please.” It’s the waver of his voice that forces Ryan to finally look into his eyes, noticing the way his skin looks taut and the bags underneath are more pronounced now than ever before. The pallor of his face is almost disturbing, and even though Ryan is still upset, the sight of him pleading with her is enough to make her concerned. 

His hand is still grasping her elbow, and when she tears her eyes away from his face and down in the direction of his hand on her body, he gets the hint and drops it, backing away slowly. Her door is ajar and with a silent nod of approval, Harry’s following her into the flat. 

Luna, upon noticing a new figure entering the flat, treks over to him happily, rubbing her body against his shins and purring loudly. He crouches down and pets her quickly, watching Ryan settle her bags down on the countertop. When she spins around with her lower back resting on the counter, her arms crossed over her chest defensively, he stands up quickly and rubs at the back of his neck timidly.

“Go on, then.” Her voice has never sounded so distant, and Harry’s suddenly panicking at the thought of her wanting nothing to do with him ever again. Not even for his own selfish reasons, but for Jackson. Because he’d never forgive himself if he ruined things with his son’s new friend due to his own idiocy. 

“I’m sorry. What happened in the hallway was entirely uncalled for. Rachel had no right to speak to you that way, and I should have done more than just stand there and watch it all unravel. You didn’t deserve that.” His voice is scratchy from lack of use, and he begins wringing his hands in front of his waist due to the onslaught of nerves flushing through his system. Suddenly he’s terrified of what Ryan is going to say.

“Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t deserve that.” He feels the knife lodged into his chest start to twist, a pinching gut-wrenching pain shooting through his body. He hates it.

“I know, and I’m so—”

“—You’re sorry. I know,” she cuts him off and he’s left standing there completely unsure. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to formulate something, anything, to get her to stop looking at him like that. 

But before he can find the words, Ryan’s voice carries from her kitchen into Harry’s position in the middle of her living room. “Jackson didn’t deserve that either. And I’m not trying to wedge myself into your lives, because trust me, the message was received loud and clear. But you don’t get to stand there and judge me, psychoanalyze me, just to go off and talk about me to your mates or your ex-girlfriend. You don’t get to voice any other insecurity I have to the people in your life, to put into your songs or whatever the fuck you do with that information. Because you’ve lost that privilege. You’ve lost every and all privileges to get to know me.” Harry flinches, his eyes squeezing shut at the rib-racking pain that echoes through his entire body.

“You’ve lost that privilege when you told your son’s mother that I was the nanny. That I was kind to you with the ulterior motive to fuck you. And even if that were true, you have no right to tell people that. Because I’m fully aware that my social anxiety is crippling at times. I’m fully aware that I’m better off on my own because people intimidate me. I’m fully aware that I’m not the type of girl who ends up with boys like you. And that’s fine. I can live with that. But what I can’t live with is you deciding that on your own, and judging me just because you feel like you can. Because that’s cruel, Harry.”

It’s the most she’s ever said to him without stumbling over words or breaking eye contact. Ryan’s standing strong in front of him, cheeks void of a crimson blush, lips in a straight line. Her hands are still and her feet aren’t shifting and Harry’s never felt worse about himself in his entire life.

Her words crush through his body, bulldozing any inkling of self-guilt and anger. Because suddenly, he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of self-hatred. He want to scream, kick, and punch through every fucking wall because he’s made this woman feel like complete and utter nothingness, and the only person who deserves to feel like that is him. 

He’s fucking heartbroken.  

Before she can send him on his way for the last time, he suddenly finds the words to speak. He needs to fix this, to salvage any inkling of hope between them. Because he’s never thought of her that way, and the fact that she thinks so lowly of him because of the false things Rachel said to her when she was angry gives Harry the push he needs to tell Ryan the truth. 

The whole truth.

“I had no right to make you feel like that, and I’m sorry for that. Truly fucking sorry. But I never, ever, referred to you as Jackson’s nanny. I never spoke a word about you to Rachel or to my mates. If anything, Jackson probably talked about you and Luna with her, because god knows that boy is in love with you. That was just Rachel making presumptions and taking her anger with me out on you, and I’m so sorry she made you feel like that, and I’m even sorrier for not intervening. I would never judge you for being who you are, I just—fuck.” Harry runs an exasperated hand through his messy hair before looking at Ryan, taking a deep breath and inching closer towards her.

“I panicked. Because everything was happening so quickly and for the first time since Jackson was born, I wanted to cradle you against my chest instead of him. And that’s a fucked up thing to admit, because he’s my fucking son and he was crying and he needed me, and all I could think about was how your heart was breaking and I needed to shove that feeling down before it took over. Because it fucking terrifies me.”

There’s a sudden silence between the pair, with nothing but mahogany eyes staring into emerald. Ryan’s aware that in all of her time knowing Harry, he’s never been this open and honest with her. He’s laying all of his cards out on the table, and that revelation alone is enough to make the empty hole in her chest start filling up with each subtle beat of her heart.

Harry takes a tentative step forward, and once he realizes that Ryan isn’t backing away, he takes two more so that he’s standing directly in front of her.

“I’m not used to wanting to be around somebody else besides Jackson. It’s been almost five years, just me and him, and then when you came into the picture, I suddenly wanted to be around you. Every second. Of every fucking day.” When Harry acknowledges that her eyes haven’t diverted to the ground, he can feel the hollowness in his body start to dissipate, the coldness in his veins start to thaw out with each beam of light that radiates off of the girl standing in front of him.

“It scares the shit out of me, Ryan. I’ve never felt this way about anybody before. And I know I messed it all up by not kissing you, and I know I made you feel like I didn’t want you. But I just—I’m so scared of you leaving me, of leaving Jackson. Because no matter how many times I deny it, I’m so fucking scared of being left again. I don’t know if my heart can handle that.”

Ryan nods slowly, processing Harry’s biggest fear being laid out in front of her. She starts to feel bad for him all of a sudden, because maybe she was wrong in thinking that he didn’t want her. Because even though he’s in front of her and he’s here holding his heart in his shaking hands for her to have, part of him is terrified because he can’t only think about himself, he has to think about Jackson, too.

And that’s something Ryan possibly overlooked. Because she’s never been left the way Harry has, she’s never had to put all of her love and care into another human being who looks at her as if she hung all of the stars in the sky, she’s never had to be a parent by herself. 

There’s no rule book for that—no step-by-step instruction manual to describe how difficult that process truly was. And Harry did it because he had to. Because he needed to. Because he wanted to. 

And when she looks at him—really looks at him, at the small wrinkles around his brilliant green eyes that she wants to smooth over with the pad of her thumb, at his curly hair that somehow is still fluffy and tempting to touch, at his dried lips that she still wants to put on her own with everything inside of her—she’s mystified at how he could possibly think that.

How could anybody ever leave him?

With a small smile that somehow makes him feel whole again, she says, “Who said I was leaving you?” 

The weight that lifts from his shoulders practically makes him float through thin air. Harry takes a small step forward, testing the waters ever so slightly to make sure that she doesn’t cower away. And when she stands tall, looking at him as if she never wanted to blink again, he takes two more.

With one final step, he’s toe-to-toe with Ryan, so close that he can see the obsidian specks in her irises, the gold flecks when the light hits them just right, the gentle swoosh of her ebony lashes. He can feel her warm breath fannings against the column of his throat, and suddenly he’s reaching out, wrapping one long finger around a stray tendril of her dark hair.

“You’re wrong about not being good enough for boys like me. You’re wrong about being better off alone. Because I’ve done that, Ryan, and loneliness is shit.” His voice is low and deep, sweet like honey that seeps through her concrete walls. Ryan can feel them breaking apart inch by inch, and when he brings his other hand up to cup the underside of her jaw, she can practically hear them cracking, disintegrating beneath their feet.

“You’re so stupidly made for me, it’s fucking terrifying. And I know that I have Jackson. And I know that’s probably not in your plan. And I know this is going to sound absolutely insane,” with one last breath he leans down, the tip of his nose brushing against hers ever so softly. “But imagining another day without you is nearly impossible.”

Ryan tries her hardest not to gasp at his confession, and before she can conjure up the right words to say, Harry’s mouth is on hers. 

His left hand is cupping her jaw and the right is holding the back of her head gently and suddenly Ryan can feel the empty hole in her chest come back to life—thumping so loudly against her body she’s almost certain Harry can feel it against his own. 

Harry’s practically sweating at the rush of heat that swarms his insides, and when he feels Ryan reach up on the tips of her toes so that her chest is flush against his own and her arms lock around the back of his neck, he almost topples over at the feeling of it all. 

It’s everything and more, and part of him can’t believe that he waited this long to finally feel it—because he could write fucking symphonies about the way her lips feel against his own, the way the little hums in the back of her throat make his spine tingle, the way her fingers weave through the hair on the base of his neck so that she can anchor herself to him completely. The way he’s never felt this way kissing somebody.

The way he never wants to let go.

But they have to at some point, and begrudgingly he lets her go, watching the way she blinks against the apples of his cheeks. The flush that he’s grown to admire is back on her face, but this time it’s from another reason completely, and Harry’s almost positive that this is his favorite version of it yet.

“Should’ve done that a week ago,” Harry mumbles against her lips.

Ryan giggles and Harry’s almost certain he’s in love. “You’ve done it now, that’s all that matters.”

And when he brings his lips back to hers and wraps his arms around her lower back, hoisting her up and spinning her around until he’s swallowing her giggles with his own mouth, he knows that she’s right.

All that matters is them. Right now. Together.

***

A/N: Hi all, that was part seven of you feel like home AKA the penultimate chapter AKA the one that hopefully makes you guys smile instead of cry. I hope it was worth the wait! This was the story I wanted to tell, and I hope this clarified the frustrations we all felt about Harry in part six, as well as our first impressions of Rachel. I never wanted to villainize her, I just wanted to explore the possibility of a mother wanting to put her career first the way so many men have done in the past. I hope I did that justice.

Thanks for all the feedback and love you guys are giving this fic, it makes writing it that much more fun. Part eight will be posted on Thursday December 17, so feel free to chat with me in the meantime and tell me your thoughts! This was a submission for the 1DFF Quarantine Challenge, which has other amazing writers participating as well, so feel free to check out the page! See you next week for the FINAL part, and stay tuned to watch me get emotional during the entire week x

taglist: @stylishmuser @vikki1220 @greatestview @verorax @cronias13 @adoremp3 @ilovegolden @taintedwonder @stepping-into-the-light @onlyphysicallypresent @dontwanttobealone @justsaying20 @elemayox @awomanindeniall @ihearthemcallingforyou @halloweenniall @live-at-the-forum @kakayam @harryinsweatersandbandanas @hopelessly-harry @ficnarry @morethanamelodyy @niallgolden @harryswinterberries @caramello-styles @harrysstyle @greatestview @solllaris​ @niallgolden​ @mellamolayla​

[where-theres-smoak-2]

10 More Little Details from JATP.

I made this post a few days ago about all the little details I had spotted in JATP and I said that there were probably more that I had missed, well I found more that I missed. Again most of these are probably old news to most people but they are new to me and I always get excited about the details, the nitty gritty of a show and I over analyse everything so I figured I would share all my thoughts with you guys. Obviously there are spoilers. I’m going to start off with some smaller details first just some funny little things I spotted then we can take a trip down the rabbit hole and really go crazy with the whole over analysing thing.

1) Starstruck. 

Hey you remember this truly iconic and amazing scene where Willie and Alex literally fall for each other? 

Well I think considering how much chemistry was going on in that scene I can be forgiven for not noticing this at first but the star on the ground next to them has the name Dave Hoge written on it and I kept thinking the name sounded familiar. 

Then I remembered that David Hoge is the name of one of the producers on the show so I think this is in relation to him unless there’s another Dave Hoge that I don’t know about. 

2) Post It’s. 

Speaking of little details floating around in the background. If you’ve read my other posts I talked about how Luke’s missing person poster was behind him when he was eating the hotdog. Well there’s another interesting poster right next to it. Unfinished business at the orpheum. Also note that the date on the unfinished poster is Dec 1994 and we know that Luke ran away from home in december which coupled with its proximity to his missing persons poster makes me think that his unfinished business has something to do with his parents. 

Also later in episode 3 when Alex and Willie are talking on the bench there are so more fun posters behind them. 

Ok so if you can pull your eyes away from the beauty of Willex for a moment (I know its hard) you can see that one of the posters says detention and a second that says Small Dark Room and again mentions the orpheum. Obviously this is a throwback to when the boys were detained in a small dark room before being pulled back into the world by Julie. But another thing worth noting is that the Small Dark Room poster has a purple background and you are going to get tired of me saying this but purple is associated with magic, know of any magician’s in the show? I can’t help but wonder if Caleb was actually keeping them detained in that room for some reason waiting until he needed them, the purple could indicate that magic was what trapped them there. 

3) Poisoned Hotdogs? 

One of the theories I had was that the boys didn’t die from food posioning but that Caleb had actually heard them play whilst they were alive and decided that he wanted the band right there and then, so he posessed Sam the hot dog guy and actually poisoned the boys. Since then I have found some evidence that might back up that theory. If you look again at that detention poster above, undeneath in yellow writing is the word toxic. So the posters if you put them all together actually spell out a sequence of events, Toxic as in the boys are poisoned, detention and small dark room as in they were trapped in the small dark room, unfinished business, they come back and are released from that small dark room because they have unfinished business. Still not convinced? Well how about this in the episode when they find out about Bobby, Luke is wearing a shirt that says poison on the back. Coincidence? Hmm I think not.

4) Tell Me What You’re Longing For. 

So in episode 2 when Julie comes home and finds the boys in her room each of them seem to be obsessing over a particular object. On the surface this just seems like a funny scene but when you look a bit deeper the objects that each of the boys choose actually says a lot about each of their characters and where they are at mentally and emotionally in that moment. 

Alex for example has fixated on the photo of Julie and her mum and is trying to pick it up. It seems to me that Alex has chosen this particualr object because its what he longs for with his own parents. In the photo its a happy little girl and her mother is kissing her and showing her affection. Also the boys know a little about Julie’s mum at this point and so they know how supportive and loving she was to Julie. We know that after Alex told them he was gay his parents, well Luke says they were never cool again, but we can guess that they didn’t show Alex much love and affection after that. This obviously would have really hurt Alex. Another reason why I don’t think Alex got much affection from his parents is because when Julie was crying after singing Wake Up Alex’s first instinct was to hug her, he also reprimands the boys for not hugging him when he was crying in that room for 25 years, this shows that a hug was something that he wanted. Also he always seems surprised whenever Willie would take his hand like its something he’s not used to. He hesitates before hugging Willie in episode 9 seeming to be conflicted and unsure before he finally gives in and just sinks into Willie, I mean to me it just seemed so desperate like he needed that contact but because he was never really hugged by his parents he is unsure about whether its ok or not. Also the most telling of all is also in episode 9 when he asks if they can try that hug thing again. Basically I don’t think Alex’s parents hugged him enough if at all and so when he sees that photo of a mother showing love to her child he is drawn to it as its something he has always wanted. 

If we move onto Luke, he is trying to get his hands on Julie’s dream box. Again this is really in line with his character. We know that Luke is all about following your dreams. Also we find out that Julie stores her song lyrics in that box and we all know how passionate Luke is about writing and music. I do find it kinda funny that Luke zeros in on the one thing in the room that’s connected to Julie’s music. It’s like he’s got a radar that could sense that that was where Julie had hidden her music away. Also in my previous post I mentioned the connection between Caleb and Greek Mythology well this could be another nod at Greek Mythology. It could be a nod to pandora’s box. Today pandora’s box has a lot of negative connotations around it, how many times have you been warned not to do something in case you open pandora’s box? It’s this idea that bad things will be let into the world. However in the myth Pandora shuts the box and locks hope inside of it. The myth tells us that its this hope that helps the humans get through all of the hardships that had come from the box so it does kinda have a happy ending or I should say a hopeful ending. It’s interesting to me that Julie says that the box is just full of things that don’t make her sad. Julie has all of the bad things out in the world with her and has locked hope away in that box. Just like Zeus says to Pandora, Julie tells Luke not to open the box, and just like Pandora, Luke ignores her and does open that box. When he does he releases hope and happiness back into Julie’s life. But its not just Julie that locks her emotions up, Luke does too. He is ignoring his feeling about his parents and his regrets, he trys to ignore his feelings about Julie too, however one emotion he does let out is his anger at Bobby. I think when it comes to Luke you could say that he himself is the box but that he is the opposite of Julie in the sense that he’s keeping all of these negative emotions trapped inside and has locked hope out. Julie is the one who opens that box for him and lets those emotions go when she helps him feel connected to his parents, before he thought he had no hope of ever being able to make things right with them again but Julie shows him that he can. She does it again when all the boys have resigned themselves to their fate because they don’t think there is any hope that they’ll be able to play the orpheum and therefore complete their unfinished business. But then Julie shows up to snap them out of it and remind them that there is still hope and not to give up. She comes up with a plan and gives hope back to them just as they did for her. We know that Luke longs for a connection to people through music and this is exactly what he gets from that box he finds a connection to Julie through their joint pain at losing their mothers, the pain that helps them write the songs for the band and eventually find hope. 

Ok so then we come to Reggie. At first glance it doesn’t look like Reggie is doing anything at all, I mean he’s just laying on the bed. But actually this too can be significant to his character. He’s not just laying on the bed he is stroking the bed sheets and looks very relaxed and content, he’s got his eyes closed and he’s just enjoying the comfort he’s feeling. I think this tells us that what Reggie is longing for is home. Reggie seems to enjoy anything to do with the home. We know that Reggie likes to spend his time more in the house with Julie’s family than he does out in the studio. He also made that comment about liking showers and the occasional bath, I don’t know about you guys but when I think about home I think about warm baths and cozy beds and hanging out with my family, those home comforts so to speak. These are all the things that Reggie is drawn to. Also if you think about the country song he wrote its called Home is Where My Horse Is. Again he’s thinking about home. The scene where the boys get emotional about Ray talking to Rose is also significant. I mean when you think about this is a man who is talking about his home and the memories he made there with his family and who is faced with leaving his home when he clearly doesn’t want to leave. Reggie’s reaction to this is to go back to his own home, to go see his parents. When he gets there its to find his home is gone. We know this hurts him because it comes up again later when they find out Bobby has stolen their songs, after Luke says it’s not about the money Reggie points out that if Bobby has shared with their families maybe his home wouldn’t have been turned into a bike shop. Losing his home is hitting Reggie hard and so when they all return to Julie’s room the thing that draws Reggie in is that feeling you get from being in bed at home.

Each object the the boys choose are representing what each of the boy is longing for most. Alex longs for a loving parent, Luke longs for a connection to someone through music and Reggie is longing for home.  

5) Gone with the Wind.

This is one that is probably really obvious but in episode 1 when julie goes to the studio as she opens the doors a breeze rushes out. We know from the fact that she apologises for not going there that this is likely the first time she has visited since her mom died. I think this breeze is like her mother’s spirit is rushing out and into the world. 

You can see that the breeze is moving from the inside out from the direction Julie’s shirt is rippling. I like to think that once her spirit was released Rose got to work right away putting all those little clues/ dahlias about the place. 

6) Sunflowers. 

In episode 9 within the first few minutes we get several images of sunflowers.

 First when Alex is talking to Willie there’s some flowers outside of a shop, then when they go into the Orpheum’s office place there’s a vase of sunflowers on the desk, when they get back to the studio you can see that there is another vase of sunflowers on the unit behind the boys and then finally Julie is wearing a top with a sunflower on it. Sunflowers represent loyalty and are also another connection to greek mythology. The story of the origin of the sunflower goes that a woman named Clytie fell in love with the sun god Apollo. There are different versions of the myth and in some versions Apollo loves her back but then falls in love with someone else and in others he never loves her back. But in every version the outcome is the same Clytie is turned into a sunflower and she is so in love and loyal to Apollo that she continues to watch him fly across the sky in his chariot every day. This is why sunflowers are associated with adoration and loyalty. But the Myth also tells the story of loving or wanting something that you can’t have. This theme comes up alot in the show. First with Julie and Luke, its that star crossed love, they have feeling for each other but one’s a ghost and the other is a lifer. But I actually think the sunflowers are a hint at what was to come in the episode. Afterall the yellow of the sunflower is symbolic of friendship so I actually think Caleb is the one that wants something he can’t have. He wants the band but ultimately he can’t have the band because of the loyalty and friendship they have with Julie. 

7) It’s All About The Accessories. 

Another thing I noticed on rewatch is that several of the characters have necklaces that might have some significance. The first I want to talk about is Luke. Luke is nearly always wearing this necklace. 

  I think the only time he isn’t wearing it is at the end of episode 9 when he is that suit outfit. Now I’m not going to pretend to be an expert on semi-precious stones because I’m not but I do have an interest in them and their symbolism and properties. I’m fairly sure (though not certain) that this is Agate, or more specifically Black Agate. Now if I’m right and this is Agate then it could have some really interesting symbolism. Agate is used as a grounding stone, it’s suppose to help keep you grounded and balanced. It brings stability. We know that something is grounding the boys to this earth, to be clear I’m not saying its the stone but that the stone is symbolic of that connection that is keeping them here and connected to Julie. Agate is also suppose to help with emotional trauma and black agate is often given in times of bereavement to help ease the pain of grief. We know that Luke is grieving about losing his mother and father and seeing them grieve for him, so its really interesting to me that he is wearing a stone that is meant to help ease that pain as that is exactly what happens, through his song Unsaid Emily he is able to bring some comfort to his parents and ease their pain, in doing so he also eases his own pain. Another propeity of agate is that its suppose to protect agaisnt evil curses. Again this connects to Caleb and the curse he puts on the boys and how ultimately that curse is broken, Julie protects the boys with her love. So I think this stone not only represents Luke but also represents Julie and how she protects and brings comfort to the boys and Luke in particular. Another interesting thing about Agate is that it is closely related to the moon. Why is that interesting you might ask well because of this... 

Julie is also nearly always wearing the same necklaces, one I think is a saint or virgin mary, the second is her name with a flower, which I think indicates the deep connection she has with her mother and the third has moons. The moon is often associated with magic and like said agate is closely related to the moon, It is another link between Luke and Julie and the ‘magic’ that connects them. I mentioned in that previous post that Julie often wears the colour purple which is also associated with magic but more on that later. Again I think its really interesting that both Julie and Luke wear necklaces that can be connected to the other. 

But I don’t think they are the only characters that wear necklaces that might be linked. The next one I want to talk about is Willie.

We often see Willie wearing this key on a chain around his neck. The most obvious symbolism here is that Willie is the key to something. It could be that it symbolised how Willie was the key to bringing the boys to the Hollywood Ghost Club or the fact that he was the key to finding out more about the ghost world in general, I mean Alex and by extension the boys learn alot from Willie. I like to think its also because he is the key to Alex’s heart but that’s probs just my shipper heart influencing me. Another thing it could symbolise is maybe Willie is the key to their unfinished business somehow. I am really curious to know what the key goes to I mean keys unlock things. Like...

 you know padlocks. I do think there might be some connection between one character wearing a key and another a padlock which is opened by a key. It could be a hint that Willie and Flynn will have some kind of connection, maybe they will have to work out a mystery together or act as a team to help the band and the only way they can do it is by working together. I also think the fact that Flynn is wearing the padlock is signifcant. Padlocks to me represent safety and security, you put a padlock on something that you want to protect or keep secure. Interestingly the name William means protector or warrior. I do think that Willie and Flynn will have an important role to play in protecting the band. Ok so next lets talk about Alex. 

 Alex also has a necklace that he wears often. His is a simple gold chain. But again I think it has some symbolism to his character. Chains have been a symbol of everlasting love and life since ancient times, its the circle that never ends. We are all pretty sure that its the bands everlasting love that saves them from Caleb in the end. Also Willie’s love for Alex (and yes I’m saying love) is what leads to Willie trying to save them too. But chains also have a negative connotation, one of opression. As I talked about earlier Alex has been judged for being gay and likely faced alot of opression due to his sexual orientation. Chains are also symbolic of inprisonment which again links into Caleb’s plan to trap the boys at his club. Gold is also associated with purity as it never tarnishes or rusts and well is there a more pure soul than Alex’s? Something else that is interesting is that in many cultures gold was used in burials as it is said to protect the souls in the afterlife which is similar to Luke’s Agate necklace which is also used during times of bereavement. Another thing that is similar between Gold and Agate is that gold is also said to protect against curses and is often related to magic.  So lastly we have Reggie. 

 Gonna be honest this one was a little harder and I spent a little while studying the necklace and doing a little bit of research, the reason why this one was harder is because there seem to be three different materials at play here. There’s the light blue beads, the dark blue beads (which I thought were black at first they’re not) and the metal pendant. But lets start with the light blue beads, to me they look the most like blue calcite. Again not an expert but if it is blue calcite it again has some interesting symbolism to it because blue calcite is often used to enhance psychic powers so that you can commune with the spiritual world. I mean obviously this is symbolic of the fact that Julie is able to see and communicate with our ghostly boys. The dark blue beads I think are lapis lazuli, again if I’m correct then this is another stone that is used during burial because it is thought to protect and guide spirits in the after life. It also like gold and agate is said to protect, it protects you agaisnt psychic attack and said to be able to block curses. The metal pendant was the hardest part for me, at first I thought maybe it was silver but to me it looks too dark and dull to be silver. What it could be though is lead. And yup you guessed it lead is also linked to death as well as spells. 

So yeah pretty much every character has a necklace that has some kind of symbolism around it and even more curious than that alot of them can be connected to each other. All three of the boys have stones or metals that are meant to protect and are associated with both death and spellwork. Those stones also link back to the moon. The other thing worth pointing out is that Willie also wears a shell necklace which obviously can be connected to the ocean which is also connected to the moon. Gold can be connected to the sun and Lapis Lazuli is also often connected to the sun, the sun is often connected to the moon as they both represent cycles and opposites, willie wears a key that connects to Flynn’s padlock, basically all of them can be connected to each other in some way. But of course I could be reading way too much into this and they’re really are just pretty necklaces. 

8) Cats and Dogs. 

Speaking of accessories I do want to go back and focus on Flynn again for a moment. One thing I noticed about Flynn is that its not just the padlock that is a consistent thing with her outfits. She is often also dressed in clothing that has cat prints. She also has cats on her backpack and in episode 2 she wears a necklace with a cat on it along with her padlock necklace.   

Rmemeber earlier when I said I thought Flynn would play the part of a sort of protector to the band well as you can see Flynn often wears leopard print, in African lore the leopard is said to be the guardian of the dead and is said to show the way to the next realm. There is a similar myth in Ancient Eygptian culture through the cat goddess Bastet, whilst she had many forms throughout time and many duties one of which was to protect and guide. Another interesting thing about this goddess is that she was also the goddess of women’s secrets. We know that Flynn is the only one that Julie told about the band. Also leopards are seen as a counselor in the spirit animal world a role that Flynn often plays for Julie. The leopard represents your psychic self and future telling. Again this fits Flynn’s story as it is her who figures out that Julie’s mother is leaving signs and working behind the scenes so to speak. 

But whilst it seems to me that cat’s are more heavily associated with Flynn’s character its not the only animal that can be linked to Flynn. She also is sometimes seen with dog imagery. She sometimes carries a dog purse.

Since ancient times dogs have been considered to be psychic and also able to see ghosts. This could be a hint that in season 2 Flynn will also be able to see the boys. Also like the cat the dog in ancient greek mythology is associated with the dead and is also a guardian for the afterlife, hades has a three headed dog named cerberus that guards the gates to the afterlife. 

Other cat/ dog imagery can be seen in those posters I mentioned earlier. 

Of course this could all be just a coincidence and might not mean anything at all. But what else is interesting about these posters is if you look at the cat one again, it’s accompanied by a poster showing someone playing music and what to me looks like a spirit type thing appearing. Then there’s the one with the cat right under it which is interesting because the poster says mammoth offspring on it but that defo looks like a cat to me not a mammoth. As a slight tangent though the mammoth thing could be a reference to the talk about bringing the wooly mammoth back from extiction, its symbolic of that idea of bringing back to life something that has been long dead. Anyway under that there’s a poster of a woman with a moon in the sky and the words acting moon. Cats are often closely related to the moon and both the moon and cats are closely related to witchcraft. What does that matter you might ask? Well...

9) So we’re going with witch?

Remember that hilarious scene in episode 1 when the boys are discussing how Julie got all her stuff in their studio so fast Reggie offers up the suggestion that Julie is a witch because there are chairs floating on the ceiling. Luke is inclined to agree with him at first before Alex shoots them down. I think this is another one of those scenes where you just think its a funny moment but then when you think about it makes perfect sense. I mean I legit think Julie is a witch, or at least she has some kind of magic. There are so many things that link her with magic. I already talked earlier about the moon necklace she wears. But she also has a moon on her jeans in episode 1. 

Again the moon is heavily linked with magic. Also there is the fact that her companion Flynn seems to be linked to cats and witches often have cats as companions/ familiars. 

As I said earlier the colour purple is representative of magic well the first time Julie makes the boys appear to an audience in Bright the light that the technician sets on her is purple meaning Julie literally glows purple before she does this magical act of making the boys visible. 

A similar thing happens before their performance for Finally free though its not as intense. But you can see that purple glow around her. 

And again, whilst its more subtle, for Edge of Great when Julie is coming out of the studio the light in the studio is purple and once again she appears to be glowing purple.  

Also this would again put her as an equal rival for Caleb. We know that he is a magician so in my opinion it would make sense for Julie to posess some kind of magic, like I said her and Caleb are opposite sides of the same coin. So yeah in conclusion Reggie and Luke are right Julie is a witch.

Edit: Also I forgot to add this one in but in episode 9 she is wearing a top that says ‘Mystic Child’ on it along with flowers and moons and stars. 

 10) All Eyes On Bobby.   

So the final thing I want to talk about is Bobby/ Trevor. Don’t ask me why because I would not be able to tell you but I can’t help but be intrigued by his character. I wonder why he did what he did, why did he steal the songs and not give the others any credit? Did he grieve his friends? Or are they trying to paint him as like this villian who doesn’t care about anyone? Well I actually think we can get some answers to these questions from a rather interesting place. His daughter’s song All Eyes On Me. If you take some of the lyrics and put them in a different context I really do think they can be linked back to Bobby. There are several connotations to stealing, ‘I'm stealing all the attention’ or another one is ‘Stealing looks, it's robbery’ and another one ‘ I'm taking over your playlist’ I mean bobby really did take over Luke’s playlist in the sense that he took all the songs. So now that we’ve established that this song could very well be hinting at bobby what else can the song tell us about his motives and mindset. Well there is that section ‘ They don't get the shine that I get, Some get jealous, They can't help it, They wish they were me.’ I actually think this part is about Luke. Julie says that whilst the album he released of Luke’s songs did really well his other albums weren’t as good. Now she doesn’t say that they are bad just that they weren’t getting the same attention Luke’s were. This also tells us that Bobby like Luke also wrote songs. But I think that Luke’s songs always got more attention and praise and over time Bobby began to gain some jealousy towards Luke because as the song says Bobby doesn’t have the shine that Luke does and Bobby wishes he was Luke. More evidence in the song that Bobby felt this way comes from the opening lines ‘ Whenever I walk in the room, All the focus on me, The way I talk, the way I move, They all want on my team.’ I feel like this might have happened alot, that Luke would just get loads of attention whenever he walked into a room and everyone wanted to talk to him. Then if you look at these lines ‘ I make an entrance when I don't try, don't try, Cause all I see is all eyes on me, I only lead, I never follow, follow.’ Again this could be a hint at how Bobby was feeling towards Luke at that time like Luke got everything easy, he could get attention without trying. Also I’ve always got the vibe that Luke was the leader of the band and so its possible the line about only leading never following could be that Bobby felt that Luke wasn’t paying enough attention to his ideas and was starting to feel a little bit of resentment towards him. Maybe he was also feeling a little like he was in the boys shadows. It’s worth noting that in the song Now or Never whilst Luke, Alex and Reggie all have solo pieces where they sing Bobby doesn’t, yet we know he must be able to sing, I don’t care how good Luke’s lyrics were if Bobby couldn’t sing he wouldn’t have got a platnium record. I think some of this can be picked up in that beginning scene with Sunset Curve and Rose. Bobby is the first one to approach her but then the rest of the group comes over and despite approaching her first he ends up being the last one to give her his name. Also most of the interaction happens between Rose and Luke, Alex and Reggie with Bobby barely speaking at all. I do feel like whilst all the boys were close Bobby was a bit more of a timid one around the others and didn’t stand up for himself or his ideas like the others do. For example we know that Alex and Reggie will push back against Luke. When Luke tells Reggie to stop putting his country songs in his journal you can guarantee this isn’t the first time he’s had to tell Reggie that, also when he says it Reggie just retorts that its a gift and he should have another look at it. This shows that Reggie isn’t afraid to pitch his ideas to Luke even if Luke says no. Also when Luke tells Alex no dancing and Alex just immediately starts dancing as a retort. I get the sense that it wasn’t the same with Bobby. Now don’t get the wrong idea I’m not saying in any way that the boys bullied or deliberately pushed Bobby out more that Luke, Alex and Reggie kind of have this banter and they bounce off each other but it seemed to me like Bobby struggled with this and just couldn’t keep up with it. During the conversation with Rose you can see that Bobby looks a little annoyed and you can understand why, he works up the courage to talk to this girl and instead his bandmates kind of take over the conversation which is why he reminds them about the hot dogs I think he figured if they were gone he’d be able to have a more comfortable conversation with her.  

Which brings me to my next question, how did Bobby react to his bandmates deaths and did he ever feel any guilt about stealing the songs. Well on the surface his actions right after seem a bit suspect and there is that line in All Eyes On Me ‘Must have won the lottery’ which if we take this song as actually being about Bobby then it could be construed as he was kinda happy that his band mates died that he almost saw it as a stroke of luck. I mean couple that with the fact that right after their deaths he layed low and changed his name plus the fact that he stole their songs it doesn’t look like he cared all that much and I’ll admit for a hot minute there that is the image I had of him. But then I looked closer and actually there are quite a few signs that Bobby isn’t as fine and dandy as he first seems. One example is the fact that he meditates, meditation is often used by people with mental health issues such as depression, anxiety and insomnia. I’m not saying that just because he meditates he must have some metal health issue just that its a possibilty especially when you combine it with the other hints. For example after the guys haunt him and he rushes out telling Carrie that he’s going to see his therapist, Carrie rolls her eyes. I get the feeling from this that seeing his therapist is something that her dad does often which again could indicate that he was more effected by his bandmates deaths than we know. Another subtle hint that he might be still struggling with their deaths is that we see him returning from a run in episode 9 that along with the meditating and the therapist tells us that he cares about his health and wellness which you know good things but its possible that the reason why he cares so much is because his friends died at a really young age which was traumatic for him and made him think about his own mortality and so he maybe becomes a bit obsessed with his health. Also him laying low and changing his name can be explained by the fact that the press were looking for him we know that from the article Julie read in the pilot. Bobby had just lost his friends and I’m sure the last thing he wanted was the press asking him a load of questions and there’s a good chance he knew that they were looking for him. He and Rose probably exchanged numbers at the Orpheum and seeing as the band were going to play there it wouldn’t be a stretch to think reporters would have gone there to see if they could get a way of contacting Bobby. Rose could have called Bobby to warn him and this is why he changes his name not to cover his tracks because he stole Luke’s songs but because he was avoiding the press so he could grieve in peace. I think he then might have then tried to get his music out there after some time deciding the guys would have wanted him to keep chasing his dreams. But he runs into a problem of nobody is all that interested in his songs, I think in a moment of desperation he plays one of the bands songs, he goes back to something familiar and they love it. He tells one little lie and then it snowballs to the point where he can’t take it back without causing irreparable damage to his reputation. I could see him trying to justify his actions to himself by telling himself that the songs belonged to the band and that he had as much right to them as the boys and well the boys weren’t here so what was the harm. As to why he didn’t give credit to the band it was probably because he knew that if he gave credit he would have to explain what happened to them and then their tragedy would haunt him for the rest of his life, the media and fans would all bring it up, maybe he just thoguht he wouldn’t be able to deal with that pain and so he just stays quiet and then he just gets buried in the lie, the record label wants more songs so he records more and more of Luke’s songs and then when he has enough of a name and loyal following of fans he starts recording his own songs. The reason why I think it went down like this is again from the song All Eyes On Me the verse ‘They know my face, They know my name, Reputation on lock, It's not my fault I got the fame, Ain't my fault it won't stop.’  The beginning part about knowing his name and his reputation on lock makes me think that after that first album he had enough of a reputation to secure himself and that he no longer needed Luke’s songs and I think at this point that guilty consious really kicks in and he decides not to record anymore of Luke’s songs. I really do think Bobby chose not record anymore as we know that he didn’t record all of Sunset Curves songs, he didn’t record bright, finally free or unsaid emily (thankfully) and he could have which to me suggest it was a consious decision on his part to stop. If he really was money hungry and all he cared about was fame and money then he would have recorded the rest of their songs. Another reason why I think Bobby has a bit of a guilty conscious is the line ‘It’s not my fault I got the fame.’ That to me sounds like something someone might say to try and convince themselves that they are not guilty of something, like Bobby is trying to justify his actions by saying that it wasn’t his fault that they died and he lived to go on and be successful, that it was just luck, which would circle back to the line ‘must have won the lottery’ this isn’t about celebration a lottery is about sheer dumb luck and he is recognising that. But here’s the thing that sealed it for me and convinced me that Bobby isn’t this completely heartless person who never cared about his friends. 

Just look at this guys face. This is right after the boys appear on stage in Stand Tall. Look his expression isn’t one of jsut shock to me that is the face of a man who is grieving, who is feeling pain at the loss of someone he loved. I mean he looks devastated and his eyes are welling up, this is pure emotion and you’ll never convince me that this is the face of someone who didn’t love those boys like they were family. 

I do want to say though that I in no way condone what Bobby did, he either should have given them credit or not recorded the songs. I’m just trying to explain what I think his thought process was during that time and point out that this image that he is some fame hungry monster isn’t entirely true. I do think that we could see him getting a redemption arc in season 2 and maybe some rifts can be mended. 

I also think that Carrie will get a redemption arc and will make up with Julie. I do think there is alot of parallels between Sunset Curve and Carrie and Julie. It’s the same story of they were really close friends but then they have a falling out and end up as enemies. I think this is way they use Carrie’s song to tell the story of Bobby and the boys. Another reason why I think they are going to possibly get a redemption arc or at the very least play a bigger part in season 2 is because of the flowers, those little signs that Julie’s mum likes to leave. In episode 9 when Bobby comes in and sees Carrie watching that video on the table is a boquet of flowers, of white roses, white orchids and lilys.

Lilys obviously have a lot of symbolism of remembrance but they also represent rebirth and renewal. Orchids in some cultures represent unity and white orchids are said to represent hope. The roses I obviously think is a connection to Julie’s mum but white roses symbolise new beginnings. This makes me think that there is hope for a new beginning for Bobby, Carrie and Julie and the Phantoms. I do think it’ll be the memory of Rose that brings them all together after all Bobby knows that Rose/ Julie’s mum is the girl they were talking to in the pilot. I think he’ll tell the boys this and I think each of their connections to Rose is what will help mend the rifts between them all.  

Ok well that’s it for now because this post is getting way way too long. If you have taken the time to read all the way through this then thank you, let me know what your theories and thoughts are I’d love to hear them. I’m definitely going to be posting more about JATP its my current obession right now the next post is going to be about Alex and Carrie and how I think they might have some kind of plotline in season 2 so keep an eye out for that if you think that is something you would be interested in.  

[celestialices]

QUEST!

Greek Mythology x Haikyuu

Haikyuu!Ensemble x Reader

Summary: You were just a perfectly normal student at The University of Tokyo, when suddenly a bunch of 'normal boys', as they call themselves, appeared in your life and started to squeeze themselves into your life. Always saying something like "You're a goddess, we need to take you back to Olympus" (you brushed it off, saying that it was just a silly compliment) and even absurd sentences such as "You got Medusa's eyes" and "You're really Medusa's daughter!"

You really want a peaceful school year, but the universe beg to differ.

005: JOURNEY TO EARTH

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Kuroo could never get use to Underworld’s atmosphere. It is currently his second time visiting this week, it was unsettling. He never visits the Underworld unless it is need to, which is usually once a year.  The air was rotten and stuffy, contrasting to Mt. Olympus’ refreshing winds, it makes it hard to breathe. The acid red-blooded lakes, tall trees without leaves hiding the eerie sinners, and nerve-racking animals who seems to watch his every step. It was a hair-raising place. Although Kuroo can’t lie, it is the perfect abode for evil-doers.  “Where the... Where’s Suna?” Kuroo complains, he’s getting fidgety for standing in one place. Unlike the stares he gets in Mt. Olympus, he doesn’t enjoy this at all. It feels like they’ll eat him alive any time by now. “I’m here.” Suna appeared before his eyes, making Kuroo quiver in fear. Suna snickered, totally enjoying scaring deities off using his helm of invisibility. “Sorry, got caught up with Cerberus.”  “It’s fine. Let’s go to Asami before we leave.” Kuroo suggested. Today was the day where they’ll descend on Earth. Everything feels rushed; they just started discussing this matter three days ago. Kuroo feels like they’re catching time, but he accepts the hurry, after all, Medusa’s daughter is dubbed to be a dangerous goddess.  It took a lot of walking to get to Asami’s ‘prison.’ Oddly enough, it was not placed in Hades’ Palace, but next to Nyx’s cave. He doesn’t really understand why, but it’s probably for the better security, is it not? Nyx is one of the most powerful goddesses, Zeus even feared her himself. Because of her mysterious and dark aura, a lot see her as more of a villain frame than she ever seem to be. She is actually kind and loving, so Kuroo didn’t be inquisitive about it any longer. He sighs. My mind never got to relax in the past three days. As soon as they reached Asami’s (hopefully) temporary accommodation, Suna knocked at the door. Not even a minute passed, Nyx opened the door. It made the two stiffened, totally not expecting to face the goddess of night. “Visiting Asami?” Her voice is low and sinister, terrifying enough to make the two gods rethink their decisions and just run away. She glanced at Kuroo, who just sheepishly smiled at her. The two bowed, saying their greetings. Nyx is actually a respected goddess, a beautiful one, may I add. She made an impact to everyone, whether good or bad.  “Come in, Asami would be happy to see you.” Nyx smiled and made a way for them to enter.  “Thank you, Goddess Nyx.” Kuroo said, the amount of respect he has for her was immeasurable. Despite being portrayed as a dangerous goddess, it was all baseless rumors. If only she’d visit Mt. Olympus, maybe the deities impression of her would’ve been different.

“No worries. I thank you for visiting Asami. Poor girl, really.” She uttered, sorrow all over her voice. The two god could see the sincerity in her face. She really cares. “I’ll be going now. Pay her a visit whenever you please, Akagi will take you here.”  “I could never get use to Nyx’s kindness.” Suna said shortly after Nyx left. Hearing made up stories about her since he was young took a toll on how he sees her, so when he really met her after straying away from Persephone, he was shocked. 

“Yeah. She’s really kind-hearted.” Kuroo admiringly remarked. “Let’s go in, Asami is probably waiting for us.”  Kuroo and Suna entered the dark and strange house, staring at each accessory displayed. Dead flowers in a vase, paintings of Cerberus, Nyx and the Underworld, and the pale walls were not helping. How could one live in this?  “Tetsuro? Rintarou?” The two gods stopped in their tracks and stared at Asami before them. She actually looks good and healthy, a clear evidence that Nyx is taking good care of her. “Asami.” Suna called and stretched out his arms, asking for a hug.  Asami sprinted into Suna’s arms, the tight hug made it evident on how they’ve missed each other. It’s been a rough week for the both of them, oh how they’re glad to see a familiar face again.  “Thank you for visiting.” Asami expressed how happy she’s feeling with a smile. “Kuroo, you’re here again.” Beaming, she hugged Kuroo for a minute, already missed his presence despite the fact that they saw each other yesterday.  “We’re just here to say that..” Kuroo hesitated for a bit, unable to find the right words in such manner where Asami won’t get hurt or worried. “We’re leaving today, after we visit you.”  Silence.  “Oh.” Asami couldn’t hide her disappointment, but it was for the best. Finding the real daughter of her mother.. of Medusa was the top priority. She should still feel glad that they made time for all. Even if she’s just a mere human with no connections to the deities at all. “Oh! I wish you the best of luck.” She says, genuinely  Immediately sensing her dismay, Kuroo held her hand. “It’ll be better soon, Asami. Plus, I told Kenma and the others to visit you often, you won’t be lonely.” He assured her.  “We’ll handle this quickly, Asami. Then you’ll be free to wander around Mt. Olympus again.” Suna added. At the end of the day, Asami is always their top priority. No goddess could absolutely replace her. “I promise we’ll be back as soon as possible,” Kuroo grinned, ruffling Asami’s shining hair in the process. “We’ll chat with you for a while before we leave. But first of all, are you doing well?”  Asami giggled. “I’m doing great because of Nyx. How about the two of you? How is Mount Olympus? How’s my siblings? How’s.. Father?” She was dying to ask these questions, but restrained herself.  “Mount Olympus is fine. The information of Medusa’s.. daughter on Earth is kept within the superior gods, and some of our friends. It’s better that way.” Kuroo answered. It’s supposed to be kept within the superior gods only, but the news spread like a wildfire, until Zeus stepped in. “Your family is good. Shimizu said she’ll make time to visit you soon.” He glanced at Suna, motioning for him to continue.  “Iwaizumi is one of the deities to look for.. her.” Suna awkwardly mentioned, still not used to this whole ‘Asami-is-not-a-deity’ situation. “Kuroo, Suna. They’re already looking for you.” Nyx appeared out of the blue, startling the three of them. Seriously, what’s with the goddesses appearing out of nowhere? “My apologies for interrupting.” “No, not at all, Goddess Nyx.” Kuroo glimpsed at Asami before sighing. “Thank you for informing us. Suna, we better go.”  Suna only nodded, embracing Asami for the last time. “Take good care of yourself.”  They started walking towards the door, when Asami suddenly spoke.  “If you ever find her...” 

Kuroo and Suna looked at her with curious eyes, waiting for her to continue.  “Take good care of her, okay?”  Iwaizumi never felt more uneasy in his whole life. Kuroo and Suna returned from the Underworld a few moments ago, and after what Asami just said? It was upsetting. Asami doesn’t deserve the treatment she’s getting right now. “She’ll be okay.” Oikawa whispered to Iwaizumi. He knows empty words like “she’ll be fine” will not help at all, but at times like this, no one can ever be too sure. “Come on, we all know Asami.”  This at least made Iwaizumi feel a bit better. “I know.” Iwaizumi answered, feeling a bit bummed out that he pitied Asami for a moment. Out of all deities, he should’ve been the first to know that she’s a strong girl.  “The Olympians will arrive soon. We better prepare ourselves.” Kita announced, loud enough to let the other eleven hear. Everyone has been anxious for the past week, all because of the Medusa’s daughter issue. Especially the Twelve Greek Gods who were assigned to find the wanted goddess who’s currently living on Earth.  The wanted goddess who is either aware of who she is or has been raised as a human all her life. A goddess who might probably surpass Zeus’ powers with her ability to stay hidden. Everybody is afraid, no one can tell how things will turn out.  “They’re here.”  Suna sensed the immense ambience coming from the Olympians behind doors. It was powerful, so much energy gathered in one place that could destroy the human world.  The Olympians entered the chambers, all in their glory. Zeus with Hera beside him lead the group, making their way to the long table prepared for them. Their slow walking, in all probability that they’re thinking this as a red carpet, only caused distressed to the other deities present.  After what felt like a whole year, the Olympians finally made their way to their assigned chairs. Their chosen representatives stood before them, just like how they’re asked to. The only ones without someone behind them was Artemis. “Just as planned, what we discussed a few days ago will immediately relied to Sakusa Kiyoomi.” Athena started, a chorus of ‘yes’ was followed. “Do your best, gods. Earth is placed into your hands.”  “Make sure to take care of yourselves.” Hestia worriedly said. “Kunimi, come back right away if something that’s out of your hands happens. I’ll be with you right away.” The representatives’ hearts warmed because of what Hestia said. She truly lives up to her name.  “I forgot to mention.” All eyes were pierced to Zeus in a second. “The deity who’ll get her back here first will be rewarded.”  The representatives frowned. “A.. reward?” Kageyama Tobio, the representative of Aphrodite, asked. He’s unsure if he had heard it right, actually everyone is. He’s a brave soul for asking on behalf of them. Rewards were uncommon for deities, they’re the ones who usually gives rewards to humans. So hearing that is a bit..  “Yes, a reward.” Zeus repeated himself. “I will tell you once things settle down. For now, focus on your quest.” He reminded. His voice was clear and authoritative, it sent shivers to Kageyama’s spine.  Hades (replaced Hephaestus since the god didn’t send any) peeked at his son, both of them sharing a knowing glance at each other. Hades nodded at him before looking away. Even though he, too, doesn’t know what reward Zeus was talking about, he still wants Suna to win it. As long as Suna wins, he’ll be happy.  “As expected, my son, Kuroo, will take the lead.” Hera declared. No one really wants to go against her, so her companions stayed silent, letting her do what she wants.  “Shouldn’t we.. leave now?” Sugawara murmured to Akaashi who has beside him. Every time the Olympians gather was like stepping into Underworld. It is extremely suffocating.  Akaashi looked like he was uncomfortable too. He slowly leaned to Ares’ ear, “Father, you should suggest that we leave now if they want to find her sooner.” He reasoned, hopefully it’ll work on Ares.  Ares cleared his throat after Akaashi finished what he was saying. “My incredibly smart son wants to leave now so the search would be done in a heartbeat.” Ares boasted. Akaashi internally screamed, embarrassed by his father’s actions.  “I suppose you’re right, Keiji.” Aphrodite replied. “Go on now. Kunimi, do your thing.” She added, referring to the portal Kunimi will create in order to get to Earth. Hermes could do it too, but they agreed to let Kunimi practice his abilities.  Kunimi Akira stepped forward, claiming the center. He closed his eyes for better concentration, and slowly moved his hand in a circle motion in order to start the portal. You already practiced this, Kunimi. Calm down.  The blue circle Kunimi was creating gets bigger and bigger, a glimpse of trees is already showing. It is working! His concentration was broke for a bit, but immediately prioritized his attention to the portal he’s making.  A few minutes passed before Kunimi completed making the portal, him sighing in both relief and satisfaction because of what he did. He’s already pretty good at this, he’ll ace it in no time. “Well, it’s time.” Poseidon announced. “Do well, chosen ones.” Each deity entered one by one, from Kunimi to the last one, Iwaizumi. He’s walking towards the portal but didn’t forget to give a glance to his father one last time.  “I’ll bring her back.” 

A/N:  I just edited the previous chapters a while ago, but you don’t have to re-read it! I only added a few more sentences and details (that will be mentioned in the upcoming chapters) here and there, nothing important.  Again, comments, notes, and reblogs are very much appreciated! It motivates me to know that you are enjoying my story :) Forgive me if there are typographical errors in this chapter. :3  Send an ask if you have any questions! I’d be happy to answer them. Thank you so much for reading! I hope everyone stays safe and stay healthy. Take care of yourselves <3

[julemmaes]

Hey, I really enjoy "Love her like she should be loved" and I was wondering if you'll update it soon? Like.. I've been looking at A03 page everyday waiting, no rush tho. Have a good day!

You’re Not Alone (3)

Cassian and Nesta Archeron modern au

A/N: I know yall always tell me not to be sorry, but I AM AND I CAN’T HELP IT. I’m sorry I made you wait sooo fucking long for this, but I’m kinda struggling with things rn and I really hate it so yeah, hope you can understand that.

Also, this didn’t went as good as I thought, but I took inspiration from what I think would go down with people I know in real life in a situation like this and I really hope it makes sense for you too. Enjoy!:)

part one, part two

Word count: 6,665

Nesta had responded to Feyre's message the next morning with a simple 'Okay, we can meet for dinner tonight.' and then invited the entire group to her house.

When she warned Cassian that he would have to go grocery shopping for everyone, he was shocked for a moment, looking at her carefully and trying to figure out if she was joking.

"Are you serious?" he asked her, taking a seat at the table and holding the cup of warm milk in his hands.

Nesta arched an eyebrow, throwing a glance over her shoulder, "What?"

Cassian had to tell himself to calm down, because the anger he had managed to repel all night was surfacing again. Not at Nesta, but at Rhysand, Morrigan. "I understand that you want to settle things with your sisters and..." he stammered, "and the others, but invite them here for dinner. Are you sure it won't end badly and that it won't contaminate this safe space?"

Nesta had stopped washing the dishes and although she had her back turned, he knew that her eyes were closed. Cassian stiffened, ready to stand up in case she needed physical comfort. The girl closed the faucet and turned towards him, taking a deep breath, "Tonight will not be easy," she announced.

Cassian nodded as he finished his breakfast and stood up, "I know it won't be easy, that's why I worry," he moved her from her position in front of the sink and put his cup in it, "If tonight goes poorly and you feel overwhelmed, you won't be able to go back to your house in a quiet and peaceful place and calm down." he took to washing the dishes for her, looking down at her face.

"I know, Cass." she passed her hand through her hair sighing, untangling it. She looked at him in turn, looking for confirmation, "But if I let them in here, maybe they will think that I'm really trying to apologize and that I want things to work out." she took one hand to her lips, biting the edge of her nail.

Cassian put the last cutlery in the dishwasher and took her wrist, taking her hand away from her mouth and bringing it to his, before leaving a kiss on her palm. Nesta smiled at him, but that happiness lasted only a few seconds because she grew grim, closing her eyes, "I'm afraid of messing everything up".

"I know, sweetheart." he whispered to her, "I'm afraid too."

She opened her eyes, frowning.

"I'm afraid that Rhys will be so blinded by hatred that he won't hear anything we say." he began, "I'm afraid that Mor will say things that - even if they are not true - will find a way to get under your skin."

Nesta leaned towards him, taking both hands to his chest, "I'm afraid that Elain will understand and that Feyre won't." she murmured, "I'm afraid that they will fight because of me. I'm terrified that this will affect Rhysand and Feyre's relationship more than I can imagine."

Cassian took a deep breath. He hadn't thought about that.

"Listen to me," he took her face in his hands, Nesta looked him straight in the eye, "both your sisters and my family are adults. We're not talking to children. We're talking to people who can think logically and who know what it means to be mentally ill."

She hesitated for a long moment and then nodded with conviction before shaking her head vehemently. She took a trembling breath and Cassian saw the moment Nesta's insecurities appeared on the surface when her eyes became lucid.

She slipped away from his touch, giving him her shoulders and leaning against the island. She was taking deep and quick breaths.

Cassian knew he didn't have to touch her when she was having an anxiety attack, but that didn't stop him from going near her and trying to calm her down. He spoke to her softly, but firmly, "I know it's scary Nesta. I know it's not easy, but you're not alone." he clenched his hands when her breath broke and the instinct to take her in his arms became overwhelming.

"You are not alone and whatever happens tonight we can stop. Whether it's when they arrive and they're still outside the door or it's halfway through dinner, you can get up and leave the room." she still had her eyes closed and a few tears were streaming down her cheeks. "You just have to look at me and I will understand Nes. I will send them away. You don't have to worry about that."

Nesta put a hand on her chest. "Breathe sweetheart. Focus on my voice."

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

"What if they all start to turn against me?" she asked in a voice so weak that it broke his heart.

Cassian tightened his jaw, knowing full well that this could be one of many options, "If they even dare to gang up on you, I'll take care of it. I'm not lying when I say that you are not alone."

Nesta held her breath, pressing the back of her hand over her cheeks. Then she nodded once and turned towards him. "I am not alone." she repeated like a prayer.

"You are not alone."

He held her in his arms when she threw herself at him and swung into her kitchen for another twenty minutes before they both had to leave to go to class.

During the morning Cassian had tried to concentrate as much as possible on what the teachers had explained, but as he could well imagine, there had been no way to follow a single lesson. Every single thought he had was focused on the dinner that would take place that evening.

Around lunchtime, Nesta had warned him that there would be six of them. Azriel and Amren would not be there.

He hadn't commented on this choice. After all, he knew that it would already be very complicated to talk to her sisters, with the fact that Morrigan and Rhysand would also be there. Cassian felt slightly relieved that they would not have to endure the enigmatic silence of his older brother and the mocking looks of his friend. He would have thought about it another day to set the record straight with the two of them.

He left campus at five o'clock and very slowly walked to his car. He arrived downtown half an hour later and sat in the supermarket parking lot for a long time, his hands tight around the steering wheel and his eyes fixed onto the void, too deep in his thoughts.

He would not have been able to hold back that night, if Rhysand had even tried to say anything negative or if he had tried to minimize Nesta's problems. He did not know if he would be able to stop if he crossed the line.

He ran his hand over his face, taking a deep breath and breaking that trance he had been in for what seemed like centuries.

Luckily he only had to buy a few things. He had almost finished - he was looking for olives for the Greek salad and couldn't find them in any of the aisles - when his phone rang. The ringtone was not the personalized one he used for Nesta and he didn't bother to answer it quickly.

He frowned when he saw that it was Mor, but brought the phone to his ear nonetheless, accepting the call, "Hello?".

"Where are you?"

Cassian looked around confused, "At the mall, why?"

"And are you with Nesta?"

"No, she's home."

He heard Mor mumbling something and then huffing, "Understood, well, couldn't you tell your sweetheart to open the door to the house for us?" she asked exasperated.

The blood froze in Cassian's veins, "Why are you already there?" he asked as he walked towards the cashiers, hurrying up shortly afterwards. He removed the phone from his ear, looking at the time, "Mor, it's half past six, why the hell are you already there?".

He heard his friend's indignation even through the phone, "Don't use that tone with me, I didn't show up here earlier out of spite-" she was interrupted by someone, presumably Rhysand, who warned her by saying her name. She huffed, "Nesta told us to come at this time."

Cassian cursed under his breath and hurried to put all the things on the tape, remaining silent while thinking which way would be the fastest to get to Nesta's house.

"Cassian?”

He passed the money to the cashier, waiting for the change before answering, "Yes, Mor, I'm still here".

"So?"

"Did you ring?" he asked, running towards the parking lot.

"Do you think we are brainless? Of course we rang the doorbell!" Cassian thought at that very moment that if Mor hadn't dropped the attitude by the time dinner arrived, he would have pulled her hair out one by one.

"I'll call you back in ten minutes," he told her, throwing the bags in the back seats and letting the food fall out.

"Ten minutes?" asked the blonde in a distraught tone, "I'm not going to wait that long just because that bitc-" movement was heard through the speaker and Cassian had to refrain from yelling at Morrigan. A few seconds later, he heard Feyre's voice, "No problem Cass, we're going for a drive around here and we'll be back in ten minutes, please text me when you're there."

Cassian thanked her, praying to every god on earth that others would be as forgiving as she was during dinner. He quickly typed in Nesta's number and drove out of the parking lot, focusing more on what he would want to say to Mor than on the street.

She didn't answer immediately and Cassian had to call her back twice, starting to worry that Nesta had changed her mind at last and that something serious had happened. When she answered on the fourth call, he released a relieved laugh.

"What is it Cass? I was taking a shower," she said irritated, "You interrupted the music eighty times," she mumbled annoyed.

Cassian put his hand over his mouth, "Hey baby, listen," he started, going straight to the point, "what time did you say everybody was coming?"

"At 7:30, why?" she asked and he could imagine her naked in the middle of the bathroom with a frown on her face.

"I think you wrote the message with the wrong time then. Mor called me and they are all there already. They buzzed a couple of times, you must not have heard them because of the music."

Silence.

"Nesta?"

"Fuck, no." she breathed through the microphone. "I can't let them up, tell them I'm not at home." she said in a hurry, "I can't be alone with them. I need you here while I do it. I need you here while I'm doing it."

"Calm down Nes, I already asked them to go for a ride. I'm in the car and I'm on my way."

"Are you driving?" she asked in the tone of one who seemed to have forgotten everything that had just happened. He didn't answer, knowing full well that he was going to kick his ass. "God, how many times have I told you not to talk on the phone while driving?"

"We're not having this conversation again." he snorted, turning right to take the highway, "Would you send a message to Feyre saying you made a mistake and the appointment was supposed to be in an hour?"

Nesta hesitated and then asked quietly, "Can't you do it?"

"You just yelled at me because I'm on the phone with you while behind the wheel and you want me to write a message?"

"You could pull over," she asked.

Cassian knew where all that anxiety was coming from and asking her to do something that would stress her even more on a day like this would be bad. He swelled her cheeks and released all the air and then nodded, "Alright, see you in ten."

"Pull over, though, don't text while you're driving."

"Yeah yeah, don't worry."

"I swear Cassian that if they call me from the hospital-"

"They won't," he reassured her, chuckling, "See you in a bit."

He put down the call with Nesta and called Feyre back, warning her that there had been a misunderstanding and that they would not be ready for at least another hour. The girl had reassured him that there were no problems, but despite Feyre's various attempts to mask Mor's offenses, Cassian had heard them anyway.

He arrived at Nesta's apartment in a very short time and as soon as he entered the house, she was all over him. The bags full of food fell from his hands when he had to hold Nesta to his chest to avoid falling backwards.

He breathed in her hair, rubbing his hands on her back in relaxing circles, "Hello beautiful".

"You haven't even looked me in the face yet," she murmured against his chest in a muffled voice. He snickered, "I don't need to see you to know that you are beautiful."

When they broke off to kiss Cassian felt that she was hesitant.

He put his hand on her cheek, "Are you sure you want to do this tonight?"

She closed her eyes, relishing in the moment, "Cassian, as much as I love you, tonight I need you to tell me that I'm ready and not give me a way out every time we talk."

He nodded, frowned and put on a fake tough-guy-expression, imitating the voice of his high school coach, "What are you hugging me for, woman? Tonight you have to be strong and stop feeling sorry for yourself. I should have let your sisters in and let the wolves eat you alive."

Nesta pushed him slightly, with a grimace on her face, "Stupid." she whispered.

He gave her a sincere smile, moving a lock of hair from her face, "What do you say you start cooking something so I can take a shower without the terror of you running away and as soon as I get out of here I help you finish?" he suggested, taking off his jacket and taking the groceries to the kitchen, Nesta just tailed him. She answered affirmatively and after leaving a kiss on her lips, he ran to the bathroom.

When he came out, washed and combed, it was quarter past seven and Nesta had set the table in the small living room. The Greek salad without olives was in the center, next to the keftedes she had prepared during the day. Cassian really did not know with what desire and spirit she had cooked all that good food for people who had always hated her.

He entered the kitchen when Nesta took the moussaka out of the oven, also result of her afternoon spent cooking and Cassian started to cut the bread and put it together with the various cheeses and cold cuts he had bought.

Nesta wasn't talking, but he saw it in the way she was jerking and looking around frantically that her nerves were about to explode. When the oven timer rang, Nesta almost screamed and Cassian had to stop what he was doing and went towards her, grabbing her by the shoulders, "Look at me."

Nesta looked at him immediately.

"Talk to me." he whispered to her.

She remained silent, so he gave her a hand in starting the conversation, "When are you going to tell them?"

"Tonight."

Cassian chuckled, "Obviously," she sighed, "I meant at what point. Before dinner, during, after?" he asked confidently so as to pass on some of that comfort. He also knew that, for her, having a plan of action, whether it was for dinner or a vacation, was very important and took away a lot of the anxiety that these things brought on her.

She straightened her shoulders, "I don't have the slightest idea, I thought doing it before, maybe with a glass of wine, would be better, but then I thought that if it goes wrong they will leave before we can eat and then we would have to eat Greek for days and not that I mind, but I don't think it's the best for our diet, you know. " she looked him dead in the eye while she was blathering on, clasping her hands around his forearms, "Then I thought about doing it during dinner, but if we start yelling at each other-" "They won't go that far, I promise you." "You don't know that. If we start yelling at each other and then someone chokes on the food, we risk one of us suffocating and dying. And I would like to avoid that." Cassian laughed at that point. Nesta looked at him very badly, "And afterwards, we might as well do it, but afterwards they are more likely to leave earlier, because maybe they think they'd done their part and had dinner with me, they apologize, I apologize and then they leave and I don't have time to explain myself."

Cassian raised an eyebrow, "So you want to do it first?"

"I don't want to eat Greek for a week, I've made so much that we could feed an army."

"During dinner seems the best moment honestly." he confessed to her, tearing her hands from his arms, taking the souvlaki and putting them in the oven. Nesta thanked him quietly. "I mean, we could approach the topic at any time, doing it between one piece of spanakotiropita and the other shouldn't be too complicated."

Nesta was about to answer when the doorbell rang and she froze on the spot.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit."

Cassian wanted to open the door and send everyone away, because Nesta had started moving in circles and was waving her hands mid-air. He had seen her anxious about a lot of things, but he knew that this would be a decisive point in her life and the idea of the change it would bring - whether positive or negative it would be - was overwhelming.

"Remember sweetheart, the second you want them to leave, you look at me, you wink at me and I'll let you escape." he reminded her, approaching the front door and pushing a button to open the gate of the building. They would be in the house in less than a minute.

Nesta was torturing her hands, but now she had a hard look on her face, "I'm scared shitless of Morrigan," she whispered. Cassian didn't have time to answer because someone knocked and he was forced to open the door.

Feyre gave him a wide smile that didn't reach her eyes and his gaze went from the two Archeron sisters to Rhysand.

He hadn't heard from him that day and hadn't seen him since the night before, when he had screamed at him.

He smiled at him in a strange way, but the younger one seemed to appreciate the gesture anyway because he gave him a lopsided smile in return.

"Hey Cass." Mor said in a tone that promised trouble, "Are you going to let us in, or are you having serious issues with welcoming people into your house too?"

His jaw hardened and Nesta appeared at his side, placing a hand on his arm. The blonde's eyes snapped to the spot where her hand was clutching the fabric of his shirt, "Sorry Morrigan, I didn't hear the doorbell before and I made a typo, I didn't think your life depended on the hour I made you lose. And I didn't think you'd be interested in coming here and watching me cook, I'll take that into account next time."

Mor nodded once, clutching her hands on the bag. The two women stared into each other's eyes for eternal moments, until Elain cleared her voice, "Hello Nes."

Things seemed to lighten up and when Cassian stepped aside, letting Rhysand and Mor in as the three sisters hugged, the group split up and the tension in the air seemed to get heavier.

Cassian had no idea how he should behave.

"This way." he pointed in the direction of the living room and when he turned to see if they were following him, Rhys handed him a bottle of wine, his lips reduced to a thin line and his shoulders tense.

"Here," he muttered, and Cassian was pleasantly surprised that he wasn't the only one struggling, "Nesta told us not to bring anything, but it looked bad."

"Oh, yes please, open it," said Mor on the other side of the living room, while analyzing the photos on the shelves. Photos of him and Nesta. Photos that his girlfriend had moved every time her sisters had visited in the last few months.

Cassian looked towards the entrance and saw that Nesta and the others were no longer there, they must have gone to the kitchen. He turned to his friend and she was looking over her shoulder at him, "We're going to need it so badly if she's going to keep that attitude all night long".

Rhys sighed, carrying a hand over his face, "Mor, drop it…"

Cassian raised his hand to stop him, without moving his eyes from the blonde, "No, please continue, that's why we are here."

Mor turned completely towards him, grinding her teeth, "I really don't understand how you can be in a relationship with her." Rhysand stiffened beside him, "Did you see how she replied to me before?" she asked, waving one hand towards the door.

"Oh for fuck's sake," whispered Cassian angrily, "you hadn't even entered the house and had already insulted both me and her. You are not the victim here so stop acting like a child and try to understand where all the resentment comes from."

Mor was about to answer, but Elain had just entered the living room and Rhysand had cleared his throat before he took his seat. Mor did the same thing, followed by Elain and Feyre. Cassian shook his head and headed into the kitchen.

Nesta was looking at the pans with the various foods inside, clenching and opening her fists, which made Cassian's chest tighten. He had gone into the room with the intention of telling her that he would not be able to hold back if Mor continued like that, to warn her that if he exploded, it would not be her fault, but now that he saw her so agitated all his attention had turned to her.

"How are you?" he asked her, putting his hand on the small of her back. He kissed her temple.

Nesta turned towards him, taking a deep breath and releasing all the air. She did it one more time. The third time, Cassian breathed with her.

She nodded and took one of the pans, he opened the bottle of wine, took a second pan and returned to the living room.

Elain and Mor sat at the head of the table and Rhysand and Feyre on one of the sides, leaving the seats in front of them free for Cassian and Nesta.

The woman of the house laid the food on the table, asking those present to pass her the plates and what and how much food they wanted. Cassian sat down and poured the wine to Mor, who sat next to him. She gave him a hard smile and thanked him. Then he turned to Feyre and she shook her head, "No, thank you, I would rather not drink tonight."

Elain chuckled, "Wise choice, you were a little out of it this morning."

Rhysand gave her a big smile, "One of the worst hangovers ever, actually."

Nesta stiffened to those words, looking at her younger sister, "Sorry, if I'd known you were sick, I'd have arranged for another night."

Feyre seemed appalled for a moment, but she blinked briefly and was quick to reassure her, "Oh no, don't worry. I've taken something for my headache, and I feel better."

They began to eat in silence and Cassian was too tense and worried not to glance at Mor to really taste the food or start a conversation, but Rhysand seemed to be particularly appreciative, because he was making satisfied noises, "Nesta, this is so good. What is it?" he looked at her face for a moment and Cassian was sure that he was blushing because he bent his head down and kept eating.

"It's moussaka." answered Elain, smiling.

Nesta seemed surprised, "It's a Greek dish, our father loved Greek cuisine and this is one of the recipes he did most often."

"Well, kudos." Rhysand told her, then he turned his glaring gaze to Feyre, "I'm pretty sure you could never cook something like that."

Feyre seemed more uncomfortable than the others, not because of what her boyfriend had said, more because of the situation in general, but she didn't miss an opportunity to brazenly reply, "As if you can do better than me. We both suck and without Elain or Azriel we would have been dead long ago. Probably both buried under boxes and boxes of take-away food."

Elain laughed and Nesta dared what seemed to be a smile.

They joked for a few more minutes and at one point Cassian had relaxed so much that he even managed to laugh at one of Rhysand's jokes. Morrigan seemed to be dead next to him, but he couldn't even look at her and felt her look burn on the skin of his neck.

When the appetizers were finished and the firsts were brushed off the table, the silence spread between the chairs and the tension in the air came back, without announcing its arrival, heavier than before.

"Excuse me," said Mor suddenly, when the silence became too much, she looked at Nesta, "The bathroom?"

Nesta looked at her in turn and Cassian really thought she would not answer her, but then she murmured, "Second door on the right." pointing to the corridor and he relaxed. Mor thanked her, nothing grateful in that tone.

Cassian shifted his gaze to his brother, but Rhysand had his eyes on Nesta. The man cleared his voice, drawing everyone's attention to himself, and narrowed his eyes, "I wanted to apologize, Nesta."

She stopped, placing the fork on the napkin and nodding once.

"I'm..." he coughed, embarrassed, shifting his gaze to Feyre and bringing it back to her immediately afterwards, "I'm sure Cassian told you what happened last night."

Nesta put her hands on her legs and Cassian took the opportunity to hold her hand. The movement did not go unnoticed by the two sisters, who exchanged a glance. "Yes, he told me what happened. Not in detail though."

Rhysand swallowed noisily, "I had no idea you were sick."

So he would have gone straight to the point.

Cassian settled down in the chair, squeezing his fingers around Nesta's.

"You never cared enough about me to ask, it's understandable that you didn't know," she replied, "You never really tried to get to know me."

His tone became harsher, "Considering how you behaved the first times we all went out together and how you always treated everyone in our group, you should not be surprised."

"Rhys." Feyre warned him. He looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"It's true," he said, turning to Nesta, "You've never given me a chance to really get to know you over the years."

Cassian could see how Nesta's walls were coming up faster than ever. The threat now so concrete that even a gust of wind could have knocked them down and made them weak.

"That's because you never tried to understand my motives, but you stopped at the description that my sister probably gave you." Nesta replied, in an equally harsh tone.

Elain seemed to whimper at the head of the table and cast a worried look at Cassian. He told her silently without speaking that they would not intervene.

Feyre leaned forward, her hands intertwined in front of her on the table, "But Nesta, you must understand that you have never really behaved well with me. You've always treated me as if I were worth nothing."

"I never thought that, and I certainly never said that. I think you are one of the most wonderful people in the world and an equally good artist." then she turned to Elain, "The same goes for you."

"And why did you treat me like that all those years after dad died?" insisted Feyre.

A door at the end of the corridor closed, and a few seconds later Mor appeared, sitting with her back upright, sensing the air.

"Because you weren't the only one to lose your parents, Feyre," said Nesta. By now her eyes had become ice. Elain gasped at those words and reached out to her older sister, but she remained hanging mid-air. "You may not remember our mother, but I do. I lost her and I lost dad on the same day," she said, gritting her teeth. "Just because we reacted differently to the mourning doesn't mean I was okay and capable of taking care of you."

Feyre caught her breath and Nesta resumed, "When dad died, there was nothing of the man I had known for half my life, but the loss was double."

"I never knew..." whispered Elain.

Nesta turned to her, "I never wanted to put this burden on you. I could have handled it on my own. Just as I was sure that you too could have done just fine without me," she whispered, "And so it turned out."

Cassian stroked the palm of her hand.

"I'm sorry for giving you the impression that I didn't care about you, for making you believe that you are not a vital part of my life, but I was young and full of anger and rather than dump everything on you I preferred to keep it all inside and maybe I did more damage than good, but my intention was never to hurt you, Feyre, or Elain," said Nesta, with gleaming eyes.

Mor snorted, "You know, people normally go to therapy for these things."

Cassian took a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

Nesta tilted her head to the side, looking at the blonde, "I've been in therapy for months now."

Elain brought a hand to her mouth, looking at Cassian, "You didn't tell us."

He had to clear his voice before he spoke, "It wasn't my place."

Feyre looked at him with her mouth slightly wide open. Rhysand had a thoughtful expression, but he too was staring at his brother.

"And I'd really like to know what your real problem is with me. Because I really can't understand what I've done to you," Nesta asked, looking sincerely confused.

Mor looked at Cassian, looked at his plate, "I don't think you are enough for him."

Cassian couldn't stand it any longer and pulling his hand away from Nesta's grip he turned his whole body to the blonde, "And why should that be any of your business?

Mor gave him a fiery look, "Because I'm your friend and I want what's best for you," she clarified, pointing to Rhysand and Feyre with a painted finger, "When the two of them got together, Feyre was friendly, sociable and never offended anyone in the group-"

"When has Nesta ever directly offended one of you?" Cassian asked exasperatedly, raising his arms to the sky. The girl remained silent, shifting her gaze between the two lovers. Cassian scoffed, "You can't even find an example. God, you're ridiculous." he ran a hand through his hair.

"Ridiculous?" cried Mor, "I'm not the one who has been hiding her relationship for months from her whole family out of fear."

Cassian stood up, raising his voice, "And don't you think that fear is because of the way you are reacting now that I would have preferred to keep it hidden for a longer period of time?!"

Mor was also standing now, "If you had told me before-"

"No!" he shouted, "No! Nothing would have changed. And it's not because you believe that Nesta is a bitch, no! It's because you're always so busy involving everyone in your going-outs and your parties and your bullshit that you don't realize that some people don't like these kinds of pastimes!" he was talking so loud that a vein popped in his neck, "Sometimes I just want to stay home and sleep, but with you it's impossible! Because you always have to force everyone. And now you've finally found someone to stand up to you and say no and you can't stand it."

Mor seemed to be shaking with anger, "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't?" Cassian asked laughing, no trace of amusement in the sound, "Have you ever let Azriel decide whether to stay home or not? Have any of us ever said no to you?"

Mor shook her head, not to answer, but shocked by the turn the conversation had taken, "And why do you think so?"

"Cassian, maybe you should sit and drink some water and calm down," Rhysand suggested, looking him in the eye. He didn't even bother to let him know that he had heard it.

"Nesta doesn't bitch to you and avoid you because she's a bad person, but because talking to you means accepting that you have a busy schedule that you don't want to have for the next two months and instead of saying no every time she prefers not to have connections at all" he concluded sighing and throwing himself in the chair.

Nesta rubbed a hand on his back and he closed his eyes.

Fuck.

He had spoken for her.

He shouldn't have.

They remained silent for a few seconds.

"Mor, I," Cassian resumed, in a much calmer and lower tone than before, "I didn't mean all those things, I'm just angry right now and I exaggerated."

"No, don't worry, I understand what you mean." whispered Mor, passing one hand over her shiny eyes, "I'll try not to invite you anymore when I want to cheer someone up."

Fuck.

Cassian knew very well that Morrigan's festive and witty attitude was the reason why they were all so close. All the adventures, all the laughter and the memories... they owed it to her.

"That's not-" he cursed, looking into her eyes, "I'm just trying to say that you don't have compatible personalities, but just because you like to have fun in a different way doesn't mean that Nesta isn't worthy of me or that she's a bad person just because she never went dancing with you."

Morrigan didn't answer, he stood in front of everyone and, surprising everyone, it was Nesta who resumed the conversation, "I've been really bad in the last few months, Mor."

The blonde sat back down, hands in her lap.

"I've been sick and the only person I had next to me was Cassian. I got to know him in these months, I found out what a great person he is and how much he is willing to give for those he loves," she looked at her sisters and Rhysand, back to Mor, "So I understand you perfectly right now. I understand that you're scared and you think that sooner or later I'm going to do something wrong and hurt him, but even if I do, I can assure you that the person I'm going to hurt the most is going to be me."

Cassian looked at her and the tip of his nose started to pinch. He bit his lip. He would not cry.

"I'm working hard to be a version of myself that doesn't scare me and that my sisters can recognize and I can't blame you if you don't know me, because I don't know myself either." she also turned to Rhysand, to whom she had just told practically the opposite.

"Cassian is my lifeline right now and I am willing to let my guard down for you if you are willing to respect my boundaries." she murmured, "I know this doesn't fix things and that your idea of me is still very confused, but I am really willing to give you some of my time to patch things up."

Feyre sniffed, reaching over the table towards Nesta, "Please forgive me."

Nesta smiled genuinely, "I'm sorry too, Feyre."

The younger sister got up from her chair and went around the table, surprising Cassian when she bent over Nesta to hug her. Elain smiled at her from where she sat and stood up a moment later, joining in the embrace.

"To-" Nesta resumed when Feyre and Elain broke away, "To explain a little bit why I act the way I do. I have problems, serious problems interacting with people," she murmured, picking at her nails, "Sometimes I do things I don't want to do just to regret it right away and I know it's no excuse for all the times I've been grumpy, but that's why it happens."

Rhysand cleared his throat for the ninth time, "I've been in therapy too. For several years," he confessed.

Cassian gave him a grateful smile.

"So, I know you have Cassian, and I'm sure your therapist is more than qualified for this kind of thing, but if you ever need another set of ears, you could..." he backed off, thinking maybe he was crossing one of those boundaries Nesta had just talked about, "I mean, if you need something, you can always ask."

"Same thing." Elain added, approaching her, "I may not understand half of it, but I want to be there if you let me."

Nesta nodded, more serious than ever. "Thank you."

Cassian came forward, "Thank you for talking to us sweetheart."

Mor got up in a flash, "Thank you Nesta. Cassian." she turned to the others. The look lost in the air as she gathered her things, "It was a pleasure, and the food was great."

"Mor..." Cassian stood up, "Wait."

His friend turned to him, clenching her fists, "I think I need some time. These are not things that are quickly assimilated," she told him with all the sincerity of the world.

"I understand that and I don't take it personally Morrigan. I can't assure you I'll be pleasant, but if you have any questions I'll try to answer them." Nesta intercepted, before Cassian could make the situation he had already created with the blonde worse.

Rhysand had got up and stood next to his cousin, "Do you want me to drive you home?"

She shook her head and her eyes became shiny. For Cassian it was like receiving a punch in the chest.

Feyre took a deep breath, "Actually I think we should all go." she murmured, "It's been a heavy conversation and I've learned a lot tonight and I think I need a seven-day nap before I can even have a conversation about art again."

That joke got a light laugh out of the whole group.

"You don't need to come with me, I can go by myself." worried Mor, shaking her head when Elain got up and started to get dressed.

Feyre shook her head in turn, "I repeat, I think I'm going to faint and I really need a few moments alone to think about everything too."

Rhysand put his arm around her waist and squeezed her.

Cassian bid his brother goodnight, hugging him and thanking him from the bottom of his heart for coming and listening without creating too many problems.

As soon as everyone was out of the apartment, Nesta burst into tears and Cassian said nothing as he held her to his chest, stroking her hair.

They hadn't gone into details and maybe they weren't on the same page yet, but they would have worked to get there.

It was a start.

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[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 40)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: The usual, alcohol abuse (sort of)

A/N: Second part of today’s update! It was originally just one chapter, but it fit to put them apart.

You can find the other part of today’s update, Chapter 39, right here

When you go into the main hall later that night, a call of your name in a voice you know by heart diverts your attention from anything else.

You answer Ivar’s call and stand next to him, nodding distractedly at the thrall that offers you wine. She scurries off to fetch you some, and a memory you long since believed lost comes to the front of your mind.

“Drink,” Sieghild tells you, offering you a cup. You take it between shaking fingers, and the shieldmaiden looks back ahead, in the direction of the grave. “That is how we mourn. We drink.”

You cannot keep the snide tone from your voice as you sit next to her, “Ah, you Vikings and your celebration of death.”

“You worship the Gods of the Underworld, little one,” She states without missing a beat, lifting the goblet of wine to her lips. She looks at you out of the corner of her eye, a silent command you do the same. You sip from the sweet drink, but your throat still feels tight, and your hands still shake. Sieghild clears her throat, “We rejoice when someone sups in Valhalla even if that means they aren’t with us, true. But we are people just like yours, little one, we all suffer at the loss of someone we love,” She takes another sip of the wine, green eyes stuck on the hill that now bears the grave of a mother and her child. “Drinking the way we do for those who are gone from our side, it isn’t as a celebration, it is coated in despair, in pain, as much as your own rituals. We drink because we want to…to be…”

“Numb?”

Your mother chuckles, “Maybe, but we are too proud to call it that.”

Still, you don’t feel like mourning, you don’t feel like this is grief. It feels like death, like a descent, like rebirth; but to you none of that means grief.

Ivar distracts you from your morose thoughts with hands on your hips. He looks up at you with a smile that is a tad more vibrant than usual.

“Tell Ubbe about the…the…” His brows furrow in a gesture you cannot help but find utterly adorable. “C-Chi-la…”

Ivar’s eyes search your as if you are supposed to know what he is trying to say.

Your eyes narrow, but you think you know what he means, and try, “Chiliarchiai?”

Ivar nods, smiling up at you as his hand on your waist moves further down and back, almost groping your ass before you stop him with your hand over his and a silent glare of reprimand that he only grins at.

“Tell him about them.” He insists, a liveliness in his voice you heard only scarce times before. Ivar motions with his head towards his brother, making your eyes slowly leave him to focus on Ubbe.

The eldest prince already has eyes on the both of you, and when you look at him, he lingers on looking between you and his brother before giving you his attention, leaning back on his seat.

Taking a seat next to Ivar and hoping you are subtle in the way you press close to him to dispel the cold, you start explaining, gesturing with your hands as you point out the different parts of the Byzantine army, and how they fight back in the Mediterranean.

Ubbe’s eyes stay on yours, and he leans his weight forward, blue eyes piercing as he tries taking in what you are saying. Eventually, he clears his throat to stop you.

“You are using a lot of words, and I don’t know the meaning to most of them.” Ubbe interrupts, a slight apology behind his tone. You nod, eyes searching the nothing ahead as you try putting a definition behind the words in your own tongue.

“The Skoutatoi are…warriors.”

“They all are, love.” Ivar interrupts, a mocking smile that he hides behind the rim of his cup when you turn to glare at him.

Ignoring his words, you explain further, “They carry shields and use either spears or longswords.”

Ubbe lifts a hand to point at you, as if to indicate he’s figured something out.

“Yes, we saw them. You formed a shield wall with warriors with spears in Dublin.”

“Yes, that was a phalanx, but we could never be as efficient as the Byzantines. For the Empire’s armies it is easy to lead and to hold on to plans, but for us…if we didn’t have Narses it wasn’t so easy to hold formations.”

“The commander?” You nod your head, wondering when you stopped feeling the weight of grief and guilt when thinking or talking about him. “They all fight like him in your homeland?”

You chuckle with a shake of your head, noting the awe and wonder in Ubbe’s tone, “No, he is-…he was one of the best.”

“Was he famous?”

“Something like that. It is said he was a descendant of Theseus, one of the greatest heroes in our history.”

“That’s the bride stealer, is it not?” Hvitserk questions, to which you frown. He makes a vague gesture with his hand, and insists, “You told me about him, he stole from one of your Gods.”

“He didn’t steal, he tried to,” You correct, your chest oddly warm at the fact that he remembers. “He tried stealing Lord Hades’ wife, and thus was punished. But no man, not even Theseus, could steal from a God, least of all the King of the Underworld.”

Shortly after the conversation goes on to other topics, topics that do not feel any less yours than those of your Gods and heroes, even if these are of the realms neighboring Kattegat or their plans across the sea.

And as he talks and argues with his brothers, you take to watching the man you married.

He always was an expressive man. With his hands, with his gestures, with his voice. When you first met you were endlessly enthralled by the movements of his hands and the tells of the furrow of his brow or the narrowing of his eyes; and in the months that came after you learned to listen for the cues in the cadence of his voice that gave as much away as his gestures did.

But when Ivar…overindulges, it is much more apparent, and you find yourself unable to look away. His hands gesture much more wildly, every inch of his face gives away more emotion and more expression, and even his voice is much livelier.

And, more than anything, you notice the way he touches you isn’t so laced by the need to show or display something, by the intent to keep up a façade or an act. Instead, it feels much softer, much more honest, much more him; the way he lays a hand on your leg -though you find yourself having to lay yours over it to stop him from trailing too high up-, the way he grasps your hand and plays with your fingers, the way when he talks to you he leans closer than he needs to -and maybe trails his cold nose up the side of your neck, chuckling devilishly when he makes you shiver-.

The night goes on, and you cling to each of these new discoveries you make, to each of these little figments you are allowed to be a witness to.

Later, in the relative privacy you can earn as Hvitserk dozes off against Thora’s shoulder and Ubbe watches raptly as two men partake in that strange game you never had the chance to ask about, where they each have a rope around their heads and tug; Ivar demands your attention with a press of his lips on the fingers of the hand he holds in his.

When you turn to him, his serious expression startles you a bit.

“The Greeks, you said they came here. Why?”

“I don’t know,” You tell him, and at the instinctual way he tenses up, as if ready to accuse you of something he knows you won’t do, you look into his eyes and offer a low murmur of, “I don’t lie to you, Ivar.”

His eyes search yours, earning a defeated edge you thought the drinks had successfully chased away.

“I-…a smart thing to do would be to kill them.”

Your heart feels struck by a pang of cold, and you shake your head, “You don’t mean that.”

“I do,” He doesn’t hesitate to say, “What if they come back here? What if they call for you again?”

“They have called for me, and I am still here.”

“Because Stithulf is alive.”

“No, bec-…” You start, but Ivar interrupts you, stealing your breath with simple words.

“I let him go.”

And gone is cruelty, gone is the mask. And gone is your softness, gone is the resolve.

You can only look back at him with wide eyes, feeling your breath quicken because there’s a part of you desperate to understand why you are, while surprised, not bothered by the revelation.

Relief and guilt clog your throat, and makes your next words a gasp.

“You what?”

“We captured him. And I let him go.” He explains, as if this is what you were asking for.

“W-Why?”

The smile he offers is a little bit mad, a little bit broken, a little bit helpless.

It’s looking back at the manic resolve in the blue eyes of the man that told you the reward for a lifetime of pain was you, it’s looking back at the defeated slump of his shoulders as he replied ‘Who could?’ when you asked him if he believed you couldn’t love him, it’s looking back at the lost and stunned look in his face as you told him the Greeks were alive.

“Why did you stay?” Ivar asks back, an answer in itself.

You want to step back, you want to accuse him of trying to rob you of your choice, but…you had the chance to make your choice, and you made it. Stithulf’s survival didn’t matter, Ivar letting him go doesn’t matter.

It irks you, and he will definitely hear your thoughts on him trying to cheat his way out of the deal you made, when his eyes are less glossy and your chest less tight with the weight of the choice you made.

First you will tell him of your choice, you know you have to.

But for now, with the taste of mead still heavy on his lips and the feel of guilt still heavy on your heart, you will offer the truths that you can.

“I stayed because I love you,” You tell him, “You said it yourself, Ivar, Stithulf-…it was never the deal we made.”

He searches your gaze, giving away more clearly than he usually does how unmoored he is by your reaction, whether because he expected anger or because of your words, you don’t know.

Still a little lost, he mumbles, “I know.”

____

Later that night, alone in the room you share and ready to sleep off the day that has at the same time been familiar and completely new, you walk up to Ivar where he sits on your bed and after he undoes the laces of your dress work the jacket off his shoulders.

“Did you know my whole family is descended from the All-Father?” He asks you, and you only answer with a thoughtful sound as you then focus on the brace of his broken leg, choosing to take it off yourself, certain you’ll be at least partially more careful than him. Ivar continues, “That’s not just my brothers, that’s me too. I am a descendant of Odin.”

You have no idea what brought this on, and so you only offer a noncommittal answer, not really sure about what to say. You don’t doubt it, your mother always spoke of both Ragnar Lothbrok and the Princess that was a daughter to heroes; spoke of them in such manner, as did the travelers that could recount what was happening in Scandinavia, that you don’t doubt they were something more than just humans.

“That’s better than Theseus.” He comments petulantly, and you cannot help but smile.

“It is,” You confirm, when you move back up to be face to face with him not being able to stop yourself from stealing a kiss. It was intended to be soft, but there’s a biting edge to the way you press your lips to his that surprises you. Voice low, you promise, “Even if it weren’t, you are countless times the man Narses ever was.”

“Hm, am I?”

He is blatantly asking for praise, and if you’re honest with yourself you don’t have the slightest problem indulging him.

“No one compares to you in my eyes, you know that. Do you believe I would have let any other man get away with what you have?”

“Get away? Y-…”

You tug lightly on his hair to silence him, and Ivar complies with a breathed laugh.

“I’m not done,” You chastise, before your voice earns a softer tone as you search his gaze, “You are unlike anyone I ever met, you-…Sometimes I wonder if you were right, after all. When you said the Gods intervened so this could happen, so we could meet.”

“So you admit I was right.”

“No. Because if anything, the Gods sent you to me, not the other way around.”

Maybe he intended for his smile to be a grin, for his expression to drip mirth and the teasing edge you have come to know and love; but all that is left behind is this almost-startled softness, this open stance and vulnerable expression as Ivar gazes into your eyes.

And the smile he offers is lovesick and as lost as yours, making you wonder not for the first time if whatever the Gods made you out of is the same that they made him out of, even if the Gods and the realms and even the two of you are so different from one another.

When Ivar brings you closer and claims your mouth in his, you let him, surrendering and answering his call for you to be closer, pressing close to him as he drops on his back on the bed.

His kiss is hungry, reverent in a way you know by now but still makes a pang of heat travel through you, and his hands are insistent and leaving behind a trail of fire wherever they touch.

It doesn’t help that he has long since discarded his shirt, and the feel of his skin against yours, the feel of him under your hands, leaves you drunk and dazed, much more so than if you had been the one to drink the whole night.

Still, when impatient hands insist you lift the nightgown over your head, you pull away, breaths heavy as your brow presses against his.

“No?”

“No,” You confirm, trying your hardest not to betray a fond smile. “You’re drunk, love. Not tonight.”

His brow furrows, “I’m not drunk.”

Moving to settle against him, your body against his and your mouth unable to resist pressing a few kisses over the ink on his chest, you question idly, “What are you, then?”

His smile softens, so much so and so quickly that it takes you by surprise. Ivar chuckles, hand trailing over your loose hair.

“Last time I asked you that you told me-…do you remember what you told me?”

You nod, leaning more of your weight against him and resting your chin on one of your arms that is draped over his broad chest.

“I told you I was happy.”

His eyes fall closed, but you know he’s still alert. He always is, really.

“And you’re still happy, here with me.”

“I am,” You state, fingers tracing the familiar contour of his face, stopping -as they always do- on the scar on his cheekbone before they continue a trail down, exploring leisurely. Your voice is low, almost a whisper, “I love you, Ivar.”

The only answer he offers is a low hum. He does that a lot more when he’s had plenty to drink, you’ve noticed, but not for the life of you would you ever tell him, mostly out of fear of losing those little content sounds he lets out and probably isn’t even aware of.

“You should tell me that more often,” He states without any preamble, startling you into silence. Ivar opens one eye to look at you, “You once told me if you say things you make them real. You should say you love me more often.”

“You don’t believe it’s real?” You ask, a tug of something that makes your chest feel a little tighter.

“I do. I just…” He offers a shrug, lips quirking up in the beginning of a smile.

Your voice earns a teasing edge when you lean closer, lips almost against the skin of his jaw, and ask, “Don’t I make you feel loved?”

And your heart skips a beat at the way you make him shiver.

“Y-You do.” He replies, and it sounds the question surprised him. Or maybe his answer did.

You feel your intent to tease him ebb away, leaving softness and barely anything else behind, and you smile, lips pressing one last kiss against his skin before moving to capture his mouth.

As always, Ivar easily surrenders to the touch of your lips on his, leans into your touch and your kiss with a willingness that sometimes feels jagged with edges of need and desperation.

“I love you,” You promise for good measure, offering a smile and another quick kiss, “Now sleep.”

When you turn around to lay on your side, you feel Ivar do the same, and when you hear him shuffle behind you, you find yourself almost expecting the embrace, or at least the touch of his hand on yours. But no, instead you feel rough fingers running through your hair.

“What are you doing?”

“You should wear braids all the time,” He muses, to himself more than to you, probably. You notice he is parting your hair in three sections, and clumsily braiding it as he lays on his side. Ivar continues, “They make you look like…like you belong here, like you’re mine.”

“I am yours.” You promise, the closest you can get to admitting the truth behind the choice that was never a choice at all, for tonight. When the dust settles you will tell him, but for now, for as long as he is willing to forget spring was ever a possibility, you will indulge, and speak of the passing of the cruel season on another day.

The braid is forgotten for a moment, as Ivar’s hand trails down your side, inching forward at your waist. His fingers stop just shy of between your legs.

“Since you’re mine, I should be allowed to have you.” He teases.

“But you’re also mine.”

His eyes travel to your lips, giving away desire before he even speaks, “Am I?”

“Mhm,” You turn around, seeking his warmth when you nestle closer. You look up at him with a smile that makes his eyes travel to your lips with a want you know well by now, but that still makes your heart quicken. “So, are you saying I too should be allowed to do as I please with you?” You seal your words with a kiss at the place where his collarbones dip, and you barely even have to put any pressure to make Ivar roll on his back once again. Your body pressed against him lets you feel the slight stutter of his breath in each rise and fall of his chest, and it never ceases to make you feel powerful. Keeping your eyes on his, you continue, “Are you saying I too should be allowed to claim what is mine?”

His lips part, eyes widened just slightly, and it is an answer in itself, an answer that makes heat pool low in your belly.

“I am yours.” Is the answer Ivar gives, and you bite your lip to hold back a sound that you are certain would be something between a sigh and a whimper.

“I’ll remember that.” You promise, to which he nods, maybe a little quickly, a little shakily. Settling back against his chest, you close your eyes, and if in your dreams you hear the cry of a hawk, it is quickly chased off by the soothing thrum of his heart under your ear.

____ ____ ____

Thank you so much for reading! Would love to hear your thoughts on this!

Also, I have two things in this chapter that I want to point out: one, the Reader remembers Vikings overindulge in drinking when they mourn, yet she says she doesn’t feel like she lost someone, but the flashback is still there, I wonder why lol (I promise he’ll be less sulky soon); and two, when Ivar replies ‘Why did you stay?’ it could be that she stayed because Stithulf was alive thus his choice to let him go was the right one bc he got to keep her for the winter (which is obviously what he believes), or that his motivation in letting him go was the same as her motivation to tell the Greeks she wouldn’t leave with them, as in, she loves him and wants a life with him (though he has no way of knowing that). There you go, two useless pieces of trivia that aren’t that interesting (or that much of trivia really).

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius @heavenly1927 @toe-vind-ek-jou @xbellaxcarolinax @pieces-by-me @angelofthorr @samsationalwilson @peachyboneless @1950schick @punkrocknpearls @ietss   @itsmysticalmystery @revolution-starter @chibisgotovalhalla @the-a-word-2214​ @fae-sedai​ @crazybunnyladysworld​   @funmadnessandbadassvikings @stupiddarkkside​  

[crash-cinematic-universe]

a sickly satisfaction (ch.1)

pairing: jason dean/reader

summary: high school sucks. jason dean makes it a little better.

warnings: uuhhhh murder, language, suicide discussion

notes: i have every chapter of this written out already, so every wednesday I’ll release a new one <3 in total the story is 7,800 words! but there are some parts that are kind of short, forgive me for those.

            Eyes down. Walk fast. Stay out of their way. Three simple steps to get through the day. They had an iron grip on the school, their perfectly manicured nails digging into the oily skin of the entire student body. High School was a bloody battlefield in the war that is life. However, the epitome of cruelty, the ultimate teenage angst inducing, self-esteem crushing, happiness shattering war machine came in the form of three girls and their weak-willed sidekick. That’s right; my biggest threat in high school is Heather Chandler, Heather McNamara, Heather Duke, and Veronica Sawyer. Veronica at least has some semblance of regret and empathy-- she’s just doing what she needs to survive. Unfortunately, that means the rest of us have to struggle to keep our heads above water. 

            Thankfully, I have a sanctuary. A refrigerator heaven filled with endless isles of roadtrip snacks and hangover remedies. Of course, this junk food Garden of Eden also happens to contain my best friend, Tommy Geller. Tommy is 18, emo, and gay, so naturally we got along pretty well. He sits behind the register and lets me hang around until closing. It’s actually pretty nice-- sometimes he lets me do busywork around the store. Sure, it’s sort of pathetic that Snappy Snack Shack is my main source of serotonin, but you know what? There are worse places to be. 

            “Pop open a bottle of champagne, Tommy, because today is a special day!” I cry, pushing open the small class doors. To my delight, the store is empty. There are no irritating customers there to make me keep my voice down.

            “Oh? And why is that?” Tommy inquires, his jet black hair falling in front of his eyes. He’s tired-- and bored-- and I’m the perfect remedy for that. 

            “Today marks exactly six months since I first stepped foot in this town,” I grin. Tommy’s eyebrows perk up.

            “Really? Congrats, kid,” He’s humoring me a bit, but there is a genuine reaction beneath his sarcastic remarks. 

            “Thanks, Tommy. Y’know, that’s twice as long as my time in New Jersey and three times as long as my run in Nebraska. I have a feeling dear old aunt Maria might actually stay here for good,” I hop over the counter before grabbing a can of Coke out of the fridge. I prop me feet up on the counter, but Tommy knocks them down.

            “You know the rules, kid, no stompy boots on the counter.” I roll my eyes. He wipes off the place where my shoes were before organizing the lotto tickets. “Anything interesting happen at school today?”

            “Eh, same old same old. The Heathers were bitches, Veronica was desperately trying to keep up, and I got tripped in the hallway,” Tommy frowns.

            “God, those girls really need to get humbled,” He spits. 

            “You don’t need to tell me. They constantly act so… self-superior, as if their power doesn’t depend solely on whether or not everyone else hates themselves to believe they’re inferior to three teenage girls who are the definition of ‘peaked in high school’,” I squeeze the soda can in my hand, the metal crunching under the pressure. “They need to be more than humbled. The Heathers deserve to be dealt as much pain as they served,”

            “Watch it, kid, you’re sounding a bit homicidal,” Tommy jokes. If only he knew. 

            “It wouldn’t matter anyway. I don’t think they can die-- they’re like a Hydra. If you kill one of the Heathers, three more will grow in her place,” I sigh. Tommy looks concerned.

            “Y/n, you don’t actually want to kill them, right?” I hesitate. The silence makes Tommy worry.

            “I wouldn’t exactly lose sleep if one of them did die,” I reply nonchalantly. “It would be like a public service. Similar to killing the black mold that grows in the girl’s showers,” Tommy looks at me for a second, his expression unreadable, before turning back to his counter. 

            “That’s morbid,” he says. “You know that? You sound like a killer in the making.”

            “Sometimes bad people deserve bad things.”

            “You’re absolutely not helping your case,” Tommy laughs. I can feel someone watching me. It’s an odd feeling, but I brush it off.

            “New topic?” I ask. Tommy nods.

            A mischievous grin grows on his face. “You got a boyfriend? Girlfriend? Partner? All of the above?” he asks hopefully.

            “No, Tommy, and don’t get your hopes up,” I chuckle, before standing up and admiring the neon sign outside.

            “Oh come on, there has to be someone. You can’t possibly go to that hellhole every day and not see at least one hot person!” Tommy groans.

            “Everyone at Westerburg is either evil or boring. No one interests me and I’m not interesting to anyone. Plus, my attention is mainly focused on getting through the day in one piece, not getting laid.” I neglect to mention the stranger I saw in the Cafe yesterday. He was pretty hot, and didn’t seem to be a douchebag-- in fact, he shot two of the douchiest douchebags with blank bullets. A real rarity at Westerburg.

            “God, you need to get out more. I see some pretty people pass through here occasionally, I’m going to start pawning you off,” he jokes.

            “Oh, god, no,” I joined in on his laughter.

            “Yup, I’m going to give every hot person your photo and your address until you finally score yourself some arm candy,” Tommy can barely form sentences through his laughter.

            “I’m gonna to get murdered if you do that, Tom,” I giggle. 

“             And that would be damn shame,” A voice calls from across the counter. I look up to see the most attractive man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. It’s the same guy from the Cafe-- although in the bright convenience store lighting he looks more like a ghost than a man. His jawline looked sharp enough to slice me in half, his cheekbones high and defined. His hair was gorgeous and his teeth were really, really nice. 

            “Uh, yeah, that would totally s-suck,” I choked. Tommy shot me the most horrified look I’ve ever seen. “I’ve, uh, seen you around. That stunt you pulled in the Cafe was wicked, man, seriously.”

            “Hey, it was a public service,” He smirked. Tommy gave me a ‘holy-shit-I’ll-leave-you-two-alone’ look before disappearing in the isles across the room. I could see him peeking through the cereal boxes. “I’m Jason Dean, but most people call me JD.” He offers his hand for me to shake.

             “Y/n, Y/n Ln,” I grip his hand firmly and try not to have a breakdown over the contact. “Y’know, there are much less extreme ways to get people to fuck off than, well, shooting them.”

              “The extreme always seems to make an impression, though, doesn’t it?” His voice was a little bit lower and he leaned in a little bit closer. Tommy was freaking out across the aisle, his eyes wide as his hand raked through his greasy hair. 

            “That it does,” I grin. “There are quite a few people in that school that deserve certain... extremities,” 

            “I think you’re right,” Jason smirked once again. I kept my composure as best I could. “Speaking of extremities, I saw you and Kurt in the hallway last week,” My face is lit ablaze as I recall the incident. Kurt had been continuously pestering me the entire day, and eventually I reached my limit.

            “I guess they aren’t joking when they say the chin is the knockout button,” Jason seems impressed, although I can’t really tell because looking him in the eyes seems like a death sentence. “Landed me three days detention, though. That sucked. Although I guess it can’t compare to whatever they’re dealing you,” At this point, one of the regulars began approaching the front doors. Tommy sprinted out before they got in, seemingly explaining that my entire love life depends on whether or not I can play it cool.

            “Eh, what can I say. I sort of dug myself a grave there,” I spoke without thinking.

            “The only graves that should’ve been dug are Kurt and Ram’s. My one critique? Use real bullets next time,” I froze. Why the fuck would I say that? I mean, I’m not wrong but I doubt JD would stick around after--

            “I like the way you think,” JD laughs, his ears tinted pink. Jason looks at me, and for a moment, I look right back. There’s something behind his eyes, something festering and enticing. I wonder if my eyes communicate anything. “I’ll see you around, Y/n L/n,” 

            “And I’ll see you, Jason Dean,” With that he winked at me, spun on his heel, and walked out the front door. Tommy practically sprinted across the room as I released every muscle I’d been tensing. I slowly melted onto the floor. Laying on the tile with my eyes trained on the bright lights overhead.

            “Oh my god,” Tommy breathed. “Oh my fucking god that was-- oh my god.”

            “I know,”

             “Did you see him? He’s like a greek god,”

            “I know,”

            “And he was totally into you, like, totally,”

            “I should’ve given him my address. I wouldn’t mind getting murdered by him.” I say breathlessly. Tommy sits on the counter and looks down at me.

            “I think I need to teach you how to talk to boys,” Tommy sighs, shock still lingering on his face.

            “Pssh, I can talk to boys just fine,” I retort.

            “You almost collapsed when you saw him,” he says flatly.

            “That was--”

            “I thought you were going to pass out when he told you his name,”

            “But I--”

            “I genuinely believed you were going to vomit when he shook your hand,”

            “Alright! I give! I can’t talk to boys! You caught me! Lock me up and never let me embarrass myself like that again!” I surrendered, throwing my arms in the air before letting them collapse over my face. “He probably thinks I’m a freak,”

            “Are you joking? He was more smitten than you were!” This caught my attention, and I tore my arms away from my eyes. 

            “Huh? Elaborate!” I snapped.

            “You seriously didn’t notice? He’d been staring at you since you stepped foot in here, didn’t you see him? At first I thought it was weird, but then I realized he was smoking hot so I decided I’d let it slide,” “Comforting,” Sarcasm drips from my words. “Y’know serial killers and stalkers can be hot, too.” I rolled my eyes.

“             I seem to recall you saying something along the lines of ‘I wouldn’t mind getting mur--’,”

            “Alright, Tommy, we get it.” I cut him off in embarrassment. “Please continue.”

            “He comes in here a lot, so I knew he was alright. He was beet red the entire time you were talking. Didn’t you see the way he was in a perpetual state of stupid smiling? Dude, he was definitely into you and really bad at hiding it,” Tommy concluded.

            I smiled a big, dumb smile. I didn’t notice the fact that he was nervous, so he probably didn’t notice that I was dying, right? 

            “Tommy, I think we might have a keeper.”

            “Thank god, I don’t think I could stand to see you go to Prom alone. That would be too depressing, even for me,” Tommy enthused. I propped my feet against the edge of the counter, staring at the tips of my boots. For the first time in a long time, Tommy is silent. I can’t get his eyes out of my head. Then again, I don’t know if I want to. 

_________

[butgilinsky]

the last five years // rc

warning; language, angst if i’ve ever seen it, mentions sex one time

summary; rafe has to decide if the last five years with you is worth saving.

word count; 3k+

i was listening to if i didn’t believe in you from the musical the last five years and got this idea. so you could say it’s inspired by that song but kind of the whole musical? 

“i have to go, y/n!” it was the same argument the two of you had been having for the past year. 

rafe had some event he had to go to, according to him, in order to keep up his image at work. it looked good for business if he was always there, drink in his hand and bright smile adorning his lips. you knew it was truly just him wanting to go to these events rather than staying at home with you, or even going out with you, ditching the tie and blazer for one of his long sleeves and soft hair. 

you had met rafe in college, and it had honestly been a dream. the last five years of your life seemed to revolve around rafe and your relationship with him, and you liked it like that. for four years you had never had a doubt in your mind that you wanted all of rafe, all the time. 

you were fairly young when the tall, broad shouldered boy caught your eye. you had been going shot for shot with one of his fraternity brothers for the past twenty minutes, failing to suppress your drunken giggles for the past ten. 

his friend, admittedly, had no idea about your unusually high tolerance for the amber liquid he’d been pouring out for the both of you. he had no idea that you had three older brothers that had thrown house parties every time your parents went away for the weekend, which was a lot more often than most teenagers experienced. 

you had started drinking regularly with your brothers at an all too young age, finding it funnier now than you did back then. though the boys that protected you at all costs hadn’t peer pressured you into anything, you had made it your life mission to be able to hang with the older crowd that was almost always at your home. 

this did, however, set you up for college quite comfortably. you were never the sloppy one at a tailgate, and you’d never be the one that couldn’t walk home with her friends, no matter the mileage you had to endure. 

rafe had been astonished by the sight of you downing three shots back to back without making a single grimace. you had opened your throat, barely tasting the slight sting as the liquid flowed expertly. you didn’t need a chaser, and even let out a small smirk when the boy across the table from you coughed for someone to hand him anything to wash down the whiskey. 

“holy shit, y/n!” 

y/n. the name echoed in rafe’s mind as he watched the scene in front of him. most people in the house were watching, gathered around the half assed decorated table in the middle of the room. you had a smile spread across your face when your friend, who rafe didn’t know the name of, dropped his hands down on your shoulders and cheered along with your other supporters. 

“y/n has three older brothers, dumbass.” your friend, who rafe had seen a few times (he remembered one of his brothers talking to her at a party a few weeks prior), kissed your cheek drunkenly, which made your laugh fill the air around you. 

rafe was smitten before he even had a chance to introduce himself. though, you didn’t need an introduction. you knew the name, knew the face. you had looked over him a few times before, having been in his house a few times for the parties that were the solution to parties being forbidden in greek village. 

you hadn’t paid much attention to the boy until that night, locking eyes with him more than once. the last time you’d caught his eye without either of you making a move towards one another, still a few yards apart from one another, was when you winked at him from across the room before downing your sixth shot of the night. 

he had never felt his heart beat so fast in his entire life. 

the rest was history. rafe had never let you spend another party without slinging an arm around your shoulder for the majority of it. you’d never spent another night after a long, excruciating day by yourself. you were almost always with one another, and it seemed easy for the longest time. 

you had spent the first year and half of your relationship in college, both graduating together and finding your somewhat dream jobs in the same area. you’d gotten married young, and though none of your friends had been surprised, your family made no attempt to hide their hesitation. 

you knew about rafe’s home life. you didn’t spend much time on the island that rafe had grown up on, much to rafe’s satisfaction. you knew his family well enough, spending a few brunches and quick lunch hours with sarah after you two had grown heavily acquainted with one another. 

ward grew a liking to you, giving rafe proud smiles more often than he ever had before rafe had set off for college. you’d brought a sense of pride back to the forefront of his father’s mind, and for that, he’d be forever in debt to you. 

however, your seemingly picture perfect life didn’t stop the problems from developing. you had done everything you could think of to keep the bright spark between the two of you, but nothing seemed to be playing out in your favor. not after rafe’s company had completed a large merger that had been a turning point in rafe’s career. 

he was thriving, setting plans in stone that would snowball rafe into inevitable success. his large role in the merger had granted him a hefty raise, as well as a guaranteed spot in the company for many years to come. though this was a bright light in both of your lives, it required things from rafe that he had never expected to have to endure. 

he wasn’t home much. whether it was travelling on business trips across the country (sometimes even out of the country), or black tie events, rafe had been flooded with busy hours. hours that used to be dedicated to you, but no longer were. 

while you were happy for rafe in more ways than you could count, it was impossible to ignore the growing tension between the two of you. you hadn’t seen him for more than an hour after he’d arrive back at your shared home, usually opting for a shower before crawling into bed. 

to say it was weighing heavily on you would be an understatement. 

you’d tried to fix it before it got too far out of reach, trying to set up dates or nights in for the two of you to stay up to date with one another. that quickly failed, due to rafe’s required overtime, or intense need for sleep once he got back to the house. 

you had snowballed into a routine. you’d go longer than you’d like without seeing rafe, and while it weighed heavily on you, he had enough of a distraction to not pay much mind to it. and to top it all off, whenever you’d bring up these feelings, rafe would jump to his own defense, claiming that his career needed to be his number one priority. 

“you don’t need to go, rafe. you want to go.” your tone was harsh, but your heart was heavy. you’d felt your husband slipping through your fingers for longer than you’d ever wanted to before, and you were out of solutions. 

“sure, y/n. i want to go, let’s call it that. even if that was the case, it should be enough for you to understand that this means a lot to me. the fact that you can’t see that is a problem within itself.” your eyes focused on the tie he had been tying for the past ten minutes, getting repeatedly frustrated enough to make a wrong knot, or flip the piece of fabric over in the wrong direction. 

you stepped forward, closing teh gap between the two of you and reaching up to fix the knot he’d made. your fingers worked slowly, enough for you o notice the slight tremble in them as you worked the thin piece of silk around his neck. 

“i know it’s important to you. i just wish i was that important to you.” your voice was soft, exhaustion and defeat evident in your tone. 

it wasn’t the rafe didn’t notice that, because he did. despite beginning to slip away from you, he knew you better than anyone else ever had. he knew you better than you knew yourself at times, and barely anything ever slipped by him. he was the most observant person you’d ever met, and it worked to his advantage more than not. 

“you are important to me. you’re the most important thing to me, y/n, but i can’t put my career on pause to eat chinese food with you while we watch a movie we’ve seen a hundred times already.” you chewed on the inside of your cheek, letting your head fall into a slow nod while you smoothed the lapels on his jacket. 

“i’m not the most important think in your life, rafe. i haven’t been for a while, now.” you whispered softly, leaning up to kiss his cheek softly before making a turn towards the stairs leading up to your bedroom. 

“y/n, you don’t actually believe that.” he called after you, watching you pause in stride, sleep shorts riding up your thighs with every step enough to expose more of your legs than he’d seen in weeks. 

your shoulders had fallen, head falling. forward slightly as you let out a sigh through your nose. you turned over your shoulder as you reached out towards the railing up the side of the staircase. 

“if you don’t believe that, rafe, then we’re living in completely different worlds.” rafe shook his head, trying to ignore the worry filling his chest at the sight of you walking away from him to end your night before his even began. 

“baby, just come with me. i’ll stay by your side all night. a few conversations and maybe a couple glasses of champagne and we’ll come back home.” you shook your head, knowing that that had been nothing but an empty promise. 

“that’s not going to happen, rafe. we’re going to show up and you’ll be swept away from me before we can ever say hello to somebody. i’ll be whisked away by other wives and drink wine i don’t even like for hours before i see you again. nothing about this stupid event is different than the last ten we’ve been to.” rafe ran a hand over his face, frustration building back up quickly. 

“you know, i can’t slow down my career just to be in line with yours.” there it is. his go to defense mechanism. 

“i’ve never once asked you to slow down for me. all i ask is that you pay me more than one glance a week. more than one shared affirmation or kiss for days on end. i don’t even remember the last time we had sex, rafe. the last time you kissed me or even hugged me for fuck’s sake.” 

rafe stood there, tongue between his teeth as he tried to filter his thoughts. he didn’t remember, either, if he was being honest. he was exhausted by the time he got home, that he hadn’t even thought about any of those things. 

it was a lazy kiss to the forehead after a shower, before he’d roll over and fall into an easy sleep. a sleep that you couldn’t fall into with him. it was a quick ‘hi’ while you stood at the stove, making something he barely had an appetite for as he slipped into your shared room before changing out of his suit before you could even return the greeting. 

it was the lack of eye contact, or the smiles that were no longer shared between the two of you. it was the fact that the pictures on the wall and the heavy stone on your finger were the only reminders that you were even married to this man. the thought of being the same couple you had been just two years prior so distant that you thought you had dreamt the first three years of your relationship. 

the fourth year had been the transition year to where you had been now. it wasn’t the same high you’d felt back in college, or the first year you’d been married. it wasn’t the same, but it was good enough. the last year, however, had been the recipe for disaster. 

the last twelve months had been your worst nightmare coming to life just before your eyes. you were lost without rafe, truly. you didn’t know what you would do the day that one of you moved out, taking every sign of your relationship with you. the day was bound to come at some point, you were just waiting to see who would be the one that made the move to end this cycle for good. 

you were trying to wait it out, trying to see if he had the guts to pack up and leave. you knew you were a security blanket that rafe would deny having. you brought him a sense of warmth and comfort that he wasn’t sure he’d ever find again. he knew you’d love him endlessly for the rest of your days, even if the two of you split one day down the line. 

he knew that no matter what, he’d come home to a house with the porch light on, along with, at the very least, the stove light turned on so he could navigate the house. there’d be whatever food you’d made and hadn’t eaten yourself sitting in the fridge, plastic wrap over the top of the dish so it was still good by the time rafe got home. 

he knew that you would always set the coffee pot with everything it needed to brew at 5 in the morning, long before you’d wake on your own. rafe knew you’d always be here, and he took it for granted. 

you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to do it on your own. you didn’t have the stomach to pack your things while rafe was at work. you didn’t have the heart to call one of your brothers or parents, asking for help to move your things out of the home you’d bought not that long ago. 

your lives were too entangled together, creating enough ties that you worried about breaking. you were stuck in this life, and you were scared you’d never fall out of it. 

“i’ve never asked you to do that, rafe, and i never will. your career took off far faster than either one of us expected it to, and there’s not another person on this planet that’s happier for you than i am. i love with you my entire being, even if you don’t feel that way anymore.” 

he stepped forward then, walking over to stand in front of you, closer to your height now that you stood on the first step while he was level with the ground of the first story of your house. his hands found your waist, a solemn look on his face before he laid his head in the crook of your neck. 

he pressed a soft kiss to your neck, sighing out and staying still for a moment to soak in the almost unfamiliar feeling. your hand easily threaded into the hair on his head, fingers scratching gently at his scalp while he moved to wrap his arms around you. 

“i love you. i’m sorry you’ve ever had to doubt that.” he pulled his head back, titling it enough to press his lips evenly against yours, reigniting the fire inside of you that you thought might have been gone forever. “i love you more than i’ve loved anything in my entire life.” 

you’d be a fool to fall back into line with him. to ignore the past year as if it had never happened, and to move on without a second thought was a rookie move that you convinced yourself you’d never fall for. 

fortunately for rafe cameron, you were a fool for him. you loved the man so deeply and so absentmindedly that falling back into his embrace and convincing yourself there was still possibilities untouched was easier than breathing for you. 

“i can’t stay in this place forever, rafe. i’m suffocating and if i don’t get to breathe soon, i’m going to fall over the edge.” he nodded slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as he tried to let himself bask in your confession. you weren’t going to stick around forever if nothing changed. 

“i’m going to do better.” 

and though you weren’t sure you believed him, your desire for the simple words to come true was enough for you to sleep that night. it was enough to keep you hoping for weeks to come. 

you’d keep leaving the light on for rafe, even when you fell asleep on the couch accidentally, laptop still open on your lap and a half full cup of coffee sitting on the coffee table. 

except this time, rafe would come home and grab the cup, pouring the brown liquid down the sink and moving your laptop to the table before shutting it closed. he’d throw his jacket onto the back of one of the chairs tucked under the dining room table before looping an arm around your back and another underneath your knees. 

you’d wrap and arm around his neck in your sleep, nuzzling your head into his neck instinctively, though it was enough to bring a soft smile to rafe’s lips as he walked you up the stairs and into your bedroom. 

rafe cameron was going to get it together for you, because the last five years was too important to him to leave it all in his rear view mirror. 

[chrysalizzm]

Do you have fic recs or head canons? please ramble for paragraphs im bored and looking for something to read.

oh boy do i have some fic recs for you (and everyone who sees this), my friend! this one is quite long because there are a lot of fics i like and this isn’t all of them, so if you’d like more, you can check out my bookmarks page ^^

The Run and Go by Numanum 

“That’s not fair,” Bad protests. Dream raises an eyebrow at him and jerks his tied hands in emphasis, clearly saying that none of this is fair.

“Look, you keep running! Who runs if they’re not guilty?” Bad challenges, staring him down with obvious distrust from the generous distance of exactly five feet. It’s fair, as much as Dream hates to admit it; it’s not like he’s been the most honest hostage in the past, with all of his escaping and running and framing himself for his own murder, apparently.

“Only the good die young, and only the guilty run,” Technoblade chimes in, holding his own potato and sitting in the snow like it’s not cold at all.

A hot flash of irritation burns through him.

“Someone being chased?” he counters sarcastically, jerking his tied wrists up again to wave them in front of the group. Sapnap laughs so hard that he almost chokes on his potato, but it dies off when Dream gives him an icy stare.

Or: Dream is having a hard time, and the hunter just want to adopt him like a stray puppy that bites you at every opportunity.

multi-chapter, ongoing.

a manhunt with plot-style fic! exquisitely written, visceral in the emotions it evokes. it’s the kind of fic that makes me feel all shaky with anticipation, the kind that i have a physical reaction to; you can’t put it down.

pain. all-consuming pain. this one feels bad, man

and as he fell (you walked away) by Teahound

Once upon a time, there were three hunters.

They were good at what they did. If you wanted something-- or better yet, someone-- found, discovered, or destroyed, they were the people you asked. They didn’t have much to their name, besides a formidable reputation, but they were a team, and that was enough for them.

Once upon a time, there was a king in the forest.

He wore a mask, but it didn’t matter. That deep in the forest, in a hidden fortress, buried behind leaves and monsters and broken stone, no one could see his face anyway. He had been there a very long time, and he was alone.

Being a king can be a very lonely thing. So one day, the king left the fortress.

A Minecraft manhunt AU, with a fantasy twist. Dream is a cryptid, and Hunters are idiots.

multi-chapter (11), complete.

tea’s fic!! a manhunt-with-plot fic, featuring a forest spirit dream and circumstantial hunters and friendships that feel both intensely real and desperately melancholy because they can’t last.

or can they?

The Real World by Cinammonzoa and Fire_Fly464

"Ten, paces fire!"

Time stopped.

Tommy’s entire body went numb. He tried to open his mouth to say something, but his body was determined to keep him silent. His vision went dark, and he could no longer feel his headphones over his ears. The mouse in his hand. The slight breeze of his ceiling fan. For a few seconds, he couldn’t feel anything.

His senses came back to him all at once. The first thing Tommy noticed was the weight in his right hand -- a bow. His nostrils stung with the lingering scent of gunpowder. In front of him was a masked figure. Their right arm was bent, their elbow by their face. In their left hand was a bow, aiming directly at--

~~~

Aka Dream and Tommy get transported into the SMP world and have no idea what the fuck is happening

multi-chapter (23), complete

you’ve probably seen this one if you haunt the video blogging rpf/minecraft tags of ao3 often! an irl!dream and tommy replace their smp counterparts type of beat, very upbeat in dynamic and fun to keep pace with, great read.

staying alive (though the city is dead) by Alice_Not_In_Wonderland

"Damned if you do, damned if you don't," Schlatt smirks, his words lilting, almost song-like. His eyes seem to glow brighter. "Tell me, Dream, when did you realize that you could talk and talk and talk and no one would ever believe you?"

---

or: if dream's damned to be a villain in every story he's in, then he's going to show them exactly how much of one he can be

one-shot, complete.

the gratuitous greek mythology references are truly everything and this fic is such a good dissection of dream and schlatt’s motivations and how their goals intersect, and dream’s likening to cassandra really hits different 

Green & Gold by HognoseSnake

George’s legs ached.

His lungs felt tight and too small.

His breath was loud in his ears.

His pack bounced uncomfortably on his shoulders.

George, homeless and adrift, is an outlaw of the Mad King's reign. He'd spent the last two months being hunted across the wilderness at the fringe of society by a ruthless killer in a smiling mask and bright green coat. This, he understood.

What he didn't understand is why such a ruthless killer kept letting him go.

multi-chapter (8), complete. sequel ongoing.

a breathtaking pseudo-manhunt-with-plot fic, with george and dream running from a kingdom that wants them dead for perceived transgressions. this shit hurted, and the sequel hurts even worse ;-; snake please i beg

We’re Only Young series by ImperialKatwala

It's easy to forget amid the chaos and bloodshed how similar - and how young - Dream and Technoblade really are.

collection of both one-shots and ongoing multi-chapter fics.

((bangs on table)) please read this series it is dream and techno friendship fics that alternate between lighthearted and heartwrenchingly comforting and imperialkatwala’s characterisation of them and their respective groups of family and friends is so frickin’ good i read this series when i’m not having a good day and it never fails to make me crack a smile

kept promises and old ruins and names carved into stone by verecundiam

"Would you... would you want to stay here?" Bad wrings his hands, looking away. "Like, like actually stay? I know it's not, ah, not exactly comfortable, or all that homey, but I don't want you two to get hurt out there on your own, and I just... I think maybe you could stay? If you want?"

"That sounds nice," Sapnap says, because it does.

(Or: How four kids managed to build a family, against all odds.)

one-shot, complete.

muffinteers found family that makes me want to go to the smp writers and beg it to be made canon. unbelievably soft yet excellent at parsing out the younger counterparts of the four and creating backgrounds that feasibly form them into the people they grow up to be.

in the age of icons by BananasofThorns

“Yeah, keep digging,” Tommy crows.

The pickaxe hesitates on the downswing. The air shifts; Dream’s aura bursts into visibility, brilliant green and jagged. Ozone hums on Techno’s tongue and Bad stutters in the middle of his sentence. Up on the wall, silhouetted by the sun, Dream stands frozen and furious.

L'manberg messes with something it shouldn't. Techno watches the repercussions and tries not to laugh.

one-shot, complete.

i love deity aus (figures, i wrote one myself akjdfh), and this one hits. there’s something exquisitely delicate about how dream and the repercussions his godhood both on himself and on the people who are exposed to him in that moment of unbridled rage.

that's how we keep going (we make the best of things) by lieyuu

[ i can’t decide if this is heaven or hell. the walls keep closing in and we’re running out of space, but you’re pretty cute ]

“So, do you want to build a flower shop, a cottage, or a coffee shop?” Puffy asks, smiling like just Niki’s presence is enough to light up her world.

Niki looks at her, thinks, I want to bend nature to my will and weave tapestries in your name, says, “I think I might like the flower shop best.”

one-shot, complete.

a niki/puffy fic that crushed me in its hands in just six hundred words.  the delicate love and wonder and beauty of this fic killed me softly and i welcomed it. it’s girls in love rendered by lieyuu’s masterful hand, what more could you want

i need it to be known that as i was typing up my thoughts midnight love by girl in red started playing from my playlist if that’s not a shining endorsement i don’t know what is

did i ruin the moment? by itisjosh

Ranboo drags himself through the snow, burn wounds going up and down his body. His suit is crumpled, half of it discarded as he crawls along the ground. His eyes are firmly pressed shut, and he refuses to open them, just in case he sees him, Dream, again. Ranboo sobs as the snow melts on his skin, the water scalding him as it trickles down his arms and chest.

one-shot, complete.

it’s character death, i do need to put it out there because it felt like i was punched in the stomach at the end even though i knew. josh knows exactly how to drag his readers kicking and screaming into angst hell, as always - a ranboo is rescued by phil fic wherein ranboo ends up convincing himself that the only reason for his presence in the nearly-empty anarchist commune is because phil sees him as a placeholder for his sons ;-; pain

Frame The Halves, And Call Them Brothers by MusicallyActive

"Let's go!" Quackity roared. "Let's fucking go!"

The anvil dropped, and Techno reached for his totem of undying. This was going to hurt like a bitch.

Phil screamed something, and instantly a crushing force struck Technoblade's skull. It rattled him to the core, doused his vision in red, and then all he knew was black.

He gasped awake moments later to the sound of his communicator pinging softly at his bedside table, and when Technoblade opened his eyes, New L'manburg was nowhere in sight.

one-shot, complete.

a techno timeloop fic that shows off the unintentional cruelty of the children who run l’manberg and techno’s own inability to allow the people he tries so hard not to love to come to harm. techno’s rendered in painstaking detail; this one was cathartic in the best way.

on i go (move to move) by Aenqa

If you ask someone whether they’ve ever experienced real, severe physical pain, you’ll learn a lot from their response.

Techno knows what it means to be in pain. He’s accepted it as a necessary consequence of keeping his family safe. But when the pain he's experiencing starts to become too much to bear alone, it takes his family to show him what it might mean to feel better.

one-shot, complete.

chronic pain fic featuring sbi!! it’s really good - aenqa wrote chronic pain well, and incorporated respawn mechanics into it well, and the dynamic between sbi is impeccable.

Yellow and Blue and- by nic_takes_Ls (nic_L)

It’s another gorgeous day in New L’Manberg. Tubbo’s stilted streets of deep toned spruce and honey-touched oaks are warm under his feet from the sun, and a sign and a small banner proclaim the country’s name in front of his face. Wilbur is so happy to let the ‘L’ roll of his tongue as he says it, ‘Manberg’ was harsh and too guttural, but the two extra syllables make it something that could fit on a melody, a four-note beat he could set the pace of his unbeating heart to.

The citizens of New L’Manberg track him with cautious eyes at first, until Tubbo changes his eyes to slightly sad ones, listening along to Wilbur’s rambles, warming up to the truly soot-grey sight of his face and sunshine yellow of his ever-present sweater. The rest of the population soon follow, laughing at Wilbur’s strange innocence and telling him what he’s done with only a little bit of spite in a pitying mask and fixing their mouths in a line when he suddenly forgets what he’s doing or stares into space or laughs at nothing.

But all the people who get sad when Wilbur starts laughing after shock-still silence are dumb.

Because Wilbur’s not laughing at nothing.

one-shot, complete.

a ghostbur fic from quite early on! it includes references to wilbur and schlatt’s older videos/smp experiences and has a super interesting take on the nature of wilbur’s amnesia i enjoyed this fic a lot ^^

east of eden series by subwaywalls

Philza protects his home.

(An angel with a singing blade of fire guards the gates to paradise.)

two one-shots, one ongoing multi-chapter fic.

READ IT READ IT READ IT. the eoe series is exquisite in both content and presentation, centering around sbi and the powers they all respectively have but also bringing in people like grian and dream, and subwaywalls is a master of packaging her words ever so delicately to create an experience that is ethereal.