𝐛𝐢𝐛𝐢 🍉: 𝟐𝟏. 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐨-𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧. 𝐬𝐡𝐞/𝐡𝐞𝐫. some dark stuff, virgil van dijk and drew starkey
128 posts
Latest Posts by kellhems - Page 2
black vampires + witches
akasha, queen of the damned (2002)
louis & claudia, interview with the vampire (2022-)
tara thorton, true blood (2008-2014)
blade, blade (1998)
marcel gerard, the originals (2013-2018)
sarah fox, my babysitter's a vampire (2011-2012)
alex & camryn, twitches (2005)
rochelle zimmerman, the craft (1996)
bonnie bennett, the vampire diaries (2009-2017)
vincent griffith, the originals (2013-2018)
marie laveau, american horror story (2011-)
macy vaughn, charmed (2018-2022)
SAM REID as Father Ignatius in Lambs of God (2019)
for @aemondtargeryen
when she says she doesn’t send nudes
Stand for ALL black women
- College Educated black women
- Street Educated black women
- Poor black women
- rich black women
- Gay black women
- Trans black women
- Queer black women
- Imprisoned black women
- criminal-past black women
- mentally ill black women
- sex working black women
- disabled black women
- old black women
-young black women
- loud black women
- quiet black women
- dark-skinned black women
- Light-skinned black women
- fat, skinny, curvy, muscular, athletic black women
- agnostic, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, Wiccan, Pagan, Bruja black women
- black women that are artists
- black women that cosplay
- black women that feel out of place
- black women out of work
- black women on welfare
- black women working two jobs
- black mothers
- black sisters
- black women choosing to exist in a world that doesn’t care if they exist.
All black women.
Thank God she now has Sarah and Calliope or she would be easily swallowed, even the queen is distilling poison against her. Waiting for Sarah to highlight this jewel for her only son 🤭
upon his grace 2
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, bullying, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You are called to court after the end of the civil war, but find yourself facing many challenges, expected and not. (fantasy medieval au)
Characters: king!Steve Rogers
Note: friday!
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
You are summoned to the queen’s chambers shortly after your arrival. You come together with the other young ladies from courtyard in the corridor just before a set of painted doors. Within, Queen Margaret keeps court with her ladies, of whom you are to be one of. The thought alone has you devilishly unnerved.
The guards in their livery greet you with dull eyes. The groom announces your purpose and receives little in return aside from the one soldier’s lazy reach to tap upon the door. He lifts the lever and eases a space between the wood.
“Your highness, you’ve some ladies requesting an audience,” he drones through.
There is some movement from within. A lady servant appears in her white cap and beckons you inward. You are further intimidated by the formality of it all. Marcia and Marigold rush ahead to be first and the three earls’ daughters from the White Plans take up their train. You glance over at Calliope and trail after her.
The doors shut at your back and the lady maid retreats, her soles scuffing amid the murmur around you. You look around the skirts of the other debuts and see women in recline, others perched upon cushions and stools, all at leisure with needle, book, or frame. There is another at the window, sat between two ladies on the bench, the late afternoon breeze stirring the long waves that hang around her face, the rest of her chestnut hair twisted up behind her hood.
The lady maid stands at the wall in deference, “your highness.”
The brunette raises her chin and her eyes narrow at the lot of you. You can barely see much past the shoulders of the twins and the other ladies clustered closely in shared apprehension. Still, the twins stand tall and the other ladies hardly seem as wrought as you in the ceremony of it all.
“The twins of...Mawsley, is it?” The queen declares, “yes, your father proved himself a valuable asset, didn’t he?”
“Your highness,” the twins recite in unison and bow, “Marcia,” the first introduces herself, “Marigold, the second adds.
“How keen,” the queen chimes, “you look as the same person. How amusing.”
“Thank you, your highness,” the sisters chirp.
“And those gowns, wonderful. I may have to ask after your tailor,” Queen Margaret preens, “and where is the Countess’ daughter? I recall I met you once when you were still a child.”
Calliope steps dutifully, “my mother sends her regards.”
“Oh, yes, that poor widow,” the queen bemoans, “she is ever steadfast despite her plight.” She takes pause as you sway to see her, “and the rest of you, forgive me, these last days have been a whirlwind and I’ve heard an endless slew of names one after another.
“Lady Selene,” the very lady proclaims.
“Lady Ameri,” she bows in quick succession.
“Lady Dorida,” the last shows her courtesy in an elegant bend.
As you come forward, the twins push their arms together as if to block you out with their sleeves. You sidle side to side and sweep around their skirts with an ungraceful stumble, “your highness,” you greet as if you have something stuck in your throat. You swallow before you can muster your own name and title.
“Woodsdam,” the queen tilts her head and looks from the lady at her left shoulder to the one on her right, “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Neither have I,” the leftmost agrees.
“Farmland,” the right says.
“Yes, your highness, my father is a farmer, but an earl as well,” you supply.
“Mm,” the queen looks down her nose as her lips thin, “it appears the Woodsdam style is much... defined. I don’t think I’ve seen that style gown since my grandmother was still on earth.”
You look down at your modest cotton. The square cut of your bodice is much different than the other ladies’ rounded collars. Your mother crafted the dress from pieces and the seams are tidy, yet it does lack a similar flair to the others around the chamber. You raise your eyes and keep your composure as best you can.
“Many thanks, your highness.”
The queen scoffs, “quaint, indeed.” She sits straighter though her posture is already unyieldingly staunch, “ladies, please acquaint yourself. And be certain to pay heed to these ladies who know well the ways of court. For all that’s changed in these past years, we will retain as ever our elegance and our etiquette.”
You peer around, uncertain what comes next. A lady stands and calls to Calliope, “Lady, it is me, Gwendolyn, of the Spades. Near Clovers, you will know it?”
Calliope accepts the initiation and there is a swift storm of voices swirling around the lot of you. You flutter hopefully that someone might think of Woodsdam or might’ve been to the waterfall near Aquil, not far from your father’s hold. The twins confer still with the queen and her ladies, trilling and giggling, as Serena and Dorida marvel over another ladies’ sewing frame, and Ameri is overly familiar with a lady swollen with child.
You drift away from the centre of the chamber, trying not to draw unwarranted attention. It would do little for any to note your insignificance. You’ve all to soon faded into obscurity. No one cares for a farmer’s daughter.
“Eh, do you read?” The question startles you and has you spinning to face its speaker. She looks as she sounds; squawkish. Birdlike. Her blond waves are woven with strands of silver and her hooked nose is not unbecoming.
“Yes, lady, I do,” you answer, uncertain if she is genuine or she means it as jab.
“Have you read Corswin? He wrote a fair tale about a shepherdess.”
“I’ve not heard of him,” you recover your confidence at her interest. It is clear she humours you, that she is speaking to only keep you from floundering.
“I must lend you a book or two,” she insists, “come sit with me. These old hens grow tiresome.”
“Many thanks, my lady,” you accept and claim the stool next to her, shifting it closer.
“Sarah,” she gives her name, “Woodsdam. I’ve never been. I hate the swamps.”
“Oh,” you nod, “yes, it isn’t very swampy. Only in the rainy seasons but we get the sun.”
“Mm, still, I’ve been down Ashton and I hated the place. My horses caught some sickness there,” she gripes, “perhaps though, your home is more pleasant. A woman old as me, though, I don’t venture far as it is.” She tuts and taps her oval nails on the book in her lap, “if my son wasn’t so foolish as to take up his sword, I’d still be in my library, hidden away from these chits.”
You clasp your hands together and smile. She’s amicable and you wouldn’t want to bother too much. She flutters the pages of her book and huffs. You look around, sensing some intrigue from the other ladies though they do their best not to let their flitting eyes be caught.
“All these birds know how to do is cloister themselves up like nuns,” she bemoans, “I’d as soon be out in the sunlight. If I were home, I’d be in my courtyard with a better book than this,” she wags the volume in agitation, “and you, lady? What is it you do on the farmstead? Chase hens?”
“We have geese,” you say, “though they aren’t truly kept. They sort’ve linger around. And some cattle.”
“It does sound rather bucolic, this must be all so drab to you, castle walls and dusty tapestries.”
“Oh, it’s all so wonderful,” you expound.
“It is?” She drawls tritely, “aren’t these ladies of ours so polite? The way they whisper about our hems and our titles. Don’t let yourself be fooled, though I suppose that should be as good a warning against myself. Ladies of the court are like crows; the like shiny things and the hold grudges, and sometimes, they needn’t even a reason to peck your eyes out.”
You close your lips and swallow. Her tidings only underline the unwelcome forged in the queen’s introduction. All you might forgive is at least she seems genuine in her girding. You look down at your skirts and run your fingers down a crease.
“The dress is not so hideous,” she assures gently, “some of the ladies do forget we did just fight a war. There are those without silks and without food in their bellies. They should weigh their fortune that they are still alive and well.”
Your eyes meet and she looks a little less stony. She turns her head to the window and her gaze drifts into the distance. You follow them with a sense of solemnity. Again, you snare a few glances from the others. Many men died, women and children too. It wouldn’t do to care so much for what people think of your wardrobe.
👑
Your first day at the castle ends in a fine supper of freshly baked bread, beef with gravy, and seasoned scallions, onions, and sweet herbs. It is not so hearty as your mother’s stew which you share as often with the servants nor so delicious. It’s a different sort of taste but not unpleasant.
You retire at the queen’s behest. She declares she must see to her husband and several of the other ladies claim the same of their own. You rise and wait courteously to tail after other ladies, not wanting to get underfoot as you so often did on the farm. As you stand aside, Lady Sarah swats you with her book.
Skirts swish against the rows of chairs and benches that line the long table. The dining chamber is set with the portrait of peregrine and similarly hawkish depictions woven into tapestry and tablecloth alike. Despite the uniform decor, the furniture is mismatched and the hews of wood and metal alternate with each piece.
“Don’t fear the stampede, little calf, run with it,” she chides, “ah, I’ve decades upon these sows and they plod like heifers.”
He uncouth words draw your surprise. She laughs at the look you send her and waves you off with the hardcover. She shoulders past you without pause.
“One day you will see, it is better to speak the truth than let it shred up your soul,” she tosses over her shoulder. “Ah, naivete, how entertaining you are.”
Her voice carries and you notice how the other women shy away from her. There’s a glint of deference to the tilt in their chins as they part for her like a like drawn in the sand with a stick. You wonder how she can be so bold and why the other might tolerate it. As Queen Margaret girded, you are to maintain propriety. Sarah seems to carry the same manners as any farmhand you’d known.
You hurry to meet Calliope near the door as she departs. She seems the tamest of the lot thus far. Sharp-witted but not needlessly cruel. She turns her head slightly in acknowledgement of your presence.
“There you are,” she mutters.
“Did you enjoy the afternoon?” You ask brightly.
“Enjoy? I tempered it,” she retorts, “I’ve the measure of most ladies.”
“The measure? They were all quite friendly.”
“You are too friendly,” she admonishes, “this is court, you cannot be so simple. Each lady is attached to a lord, thus they work upon his purposes. Her ears are always listening, eyes always seeing.”
“What do you mean?”
“You represent your father and though mine may be in the ground, I carry his mantle all the same. We are our houses, not ourselves here,” she keeps her voice low and slows markedly to keep away from the others, “you should count yourself fortunate for my wise counsel, lady, for no other would give it.”
You chew on her words, tasting their bitterness, “so why do you, Lady Calliope?”
“For I despise those twins and I know they aren’t so keen on you,” she sighs, “and I saw you as any other did with the dowager.”
“The dowager?” You echo.
“The king’s mother, Lady Sarah,” she sends you a sharp look, “don’t tell me you didn’t realise?”
“Oh? No? She spoke of books and her gardens, she didn’t mention...” you peter off and snap your mouth shut. But she had, she did say her son ran off to war. “Oh!”
“Oh! Indeed,” Calliope mocks and shakes her head. “Look, I’ve not the patience for these women, but you’re not so bad. You don’t speak without meaning. Shall we be companions?”
“Pardon?” You let your surprise bleed through.
“I need at least one person I might stomach, how about you? I don’t think the others are so eager to be friends. Marcia did say how you look like a peasant.”
“She did?” You frown.
“Hm, you need me,” she insists, “you can’t let yourself be so whimsical. Never mind what they say or think. What do they care so much for anyhow? They are a duke’s daughters, they will do well enough.”
You carry on next to her. You feel as if you’re being pulled in all different directions though all tell you just the same. Be wary
I want to die in love, they are SO cute together. 😭 i don't remember the last time i shipped two people this hard, but here i am. Thor is so sweet, careful and attentive. I can't help with a god being such a familiar, perfect man and with his little dog on his lap, That's why I notice Bones opening little by little and i'm so happy for her, I hope she regains her confidence and realizes that she can be loved and that Steve was just a rock in her life.
The invitation to swim in the river is closer than far!
Someone New 7
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor
Note: I am queuing this so who knows if Im still suffering.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
The morning is going splendid. You spilled your coffee and the tea you packed in a thermos, you left on your counter. The realisation doesn’t hit you until you pull up to the site. You huff and hang your head, gripping the steering wheel as you brace yourself for your caffeine withdrawal.
At least it’s dry. Mostly. As Thor forecast, the rain didn’t come until the night. The steady patter kept you awake, along with that lingering displacement that never quite leaves you. Fatigue is another constant. Your new normal; sleepless nights and sleepy days.
You get out and set to work. It’s all you can do. It’s all you’ve been doing. Just keep going. It doesn’t matter how, just get it done, get through the day.
You yawn at your task, brushing digging, oh so gently wiggling the little form. It’s almost out. Almost free. In your eagerness for some progress, you get careless. Your hand slips and the spearhead grazes our palm. Is isn’t until the stinging splits your skin that you realise it’s a slash.
Damn it, you didn’t put your damned gloves on.
Great, with the luck you’re having, you’ve just contracted some ancient virus. You hiss and grip your wrist. Your adrenaline triggers your heart. You take a few breaths to stay calm as you watch the blood bead to the surface.
You curse and stagger to your feet. You grab the rag from your back pocket and clutch it in your injured hand. You grip it tight as you cross the site, careful not to tread to heavily, and you angle the fencing to sidle between two panels.
You clumsily pull open the car door and reach under the seat. You always keep an emergency with you. It’s a rule of thumb for your sort of work. You never know what might happen. Bug spray, sunscreen, bandages, swabs, a hole trove of supplies.
You shake as the pain intensifies, thrumming through your palm. You come out and rest the plastic tote on the hood and sift through with your single hand. This is going to be awkward as hell. While you enjoy your solitary, it can sometimes be unsettling. What if something worse happened?
“Ruff, ruff, rrrrruffffff,” the growlish yet high-pitched barking comes from up the mountain road.
You pause as he peek under the rag and peer up as gravel mulches. Another visit? Your work is so boring, you wouldn’t expect him again. Thor appears as Thunder hops before him, spastic as she sniffs the ground in circles. He smiles and waves but you can only manage a grimace before you look back to your wound.
“Morning,” he booms as he scoops up the small dog and nears the other side of the car, “it’ll be a sunny one.”
“You sure?” You look up at the greyish blue skies, than at him. Hm, the hue of above is rather similar to his eyes.
“I know so,” he assures you and tilts his head curiously, “why are you so grim?”
You show him your hand as you lift the cloth from it. He lets out a sympathetic hum and sets Thunder on the ground. She runs over to inspect the fence as he rounds the hood towards you. As he gets closer, his size is even more obvious. He’s well-built, you can see it even at a distance, but up close and personal, he’s almost inhuman in stature.
“Yikes,” he offers his hand, “may I?”
“Really, it’s not—I can handle it.”
“I’m certain you can. Only the bravest woman would come to these grey lands and sit alone in the dirt,” he jokes. “Please, it’ll be easier with two hands.”
You relent, a tinge of embarrassment hot in your cheeks, and peel the rag away. You hold your hand out to him and he brings one of his large ones to cradle it. Wow. He’s massive. The difference in your hands is startling.
“Nasty cut,” he muses as he reaches over for the swabs you’ve piled out on the metal, “but it shouldn’t need more than a snug wrap.”
“Thanks,” you look away, eyeing the dirt as his proximity makes you squirm.
You can’t remember the last time a man touched you, especially a handsome one. Well, aside from Sam and Bucky but those were just hugs and usually ended in them arguing anyway. You’ve never been the most popular girl in the world and those men you managed to reel in didn’t stay on the hook very long. You never really tried to keep them. You were always too distracted.
You wince as he wipes the cut with the alcoholic cloth. He softens his touch but holds your hand firm from beneath. He offers a rumbling apology as he focuses on tending to you. His intent is new to you. The way he looks at your palm holds more than any look you’ve ever gotten from a man. Or anyone.
He crumples up the used wipe and takes another. He’s thorough. You feel a shiver roll through you despite the warmth in the air. He trades the wipe for the roll of gauze and wraps the strip around your hand, hooking over your thumb and looping your wrist. He uses the little metal clip to pin it then turns your hand over, brushing his own over it as he grins.
“Good as new,” he announces, “though I recommend you not use it too much. And perhaps a pair of gloves.”
“Yeah, I forgot. Long day.”
“It’s nine in the morning?” He chuckles.
“Yep,” you agree dryly.
“Hopefully it gets better,” he says.
“Yeah, maybe,” you agree dully and toss the things back in the tote.
He picks it up before you can and keeps it from your reach, “like I said, you should take it easy.”
“Well, there’s work to be done,” you say as he moves to the open door and slides the tote inside. “What are you doing back here?”
“Ah, I let the queen lead the way,” he stands straight and closes the car door. He looks past you and your head perks up. Thunder is very quiet. “As ever, she does not tread with caution.”
You turn to find the chihuahua inside the fence. You jump in place and sprint over, clattering between the panels as you call after her. “No, no, sweetie, be careful!”
You chase her around where you were digging as you sense Thor watching from without. Great! You hope she didn’t pee anywhere.
A sharp whistle pierces the air and Thunder stops. She sits in place, still wiggling, but doesn’t move. You peek back at Thor and he nods. You near her and pick her up.
“Sorry about her, she is a free spirit,” he tuts as you cross back to him. “I will be certain she does not stray again. My apologies.”
You’re taken aback by his sincerity. You try to remember the last time someone apologised to you and sounded like they meant it. Hell, when’s the last time you even got an apology. You dip out between the grating and hold out the dog.
“I would hate to get in your way any more than we already have,” he hugs her with one arm and spreads his other hand over his chest, “we will be on our way. I do hope the sunshine brings some brightness to your day.”
“Um, thanks,” you shift on your feet and hide your twiddling fingers. “You too.”
“I’ve already found my sunlight,” he grins even wider and blinks, “now, Thunder, let’s go make a storm somewhere else.” He twists on his heel and lumbers off, “perhaps mother might put up with you for a time.”
You stand just outside the fence and watch him go. A lock of his golden hair hangs loosely form his bun, dangling down his back, wagging almost like the dog’s little tail. He bounds over the lumpy ground and disappears behind the rock face. You look down and smile.
Not everything is so bad and you can see the amber ribbon limning the clouds. The sun will be there soon. Just like he promised.
💟
Thor comes back again.
It’s a week since you cut your hand. Like before, you can’t predict him. You don’t hear him approach as he’s alone. You only notice him as he clangs something on the fence and lets out an ‘oops’. You pop your head up and look over at him through squinting eyes. Your forehead hurts from the expression.
You smooth out your face and stand, facing him. He wiggles a metal canister in his hand. The wind sweeps the strands around his square jaw as the sky pulses in shades of gray behind him.
“Thought you might like some hot tea,” he holds up the thermos.
“Oh, uh... you didn’t have to...” you look at the sky and its quivering blanket. You’ve been pondering packing up for the last hour. “Thanks.”
“Not to worry, I was restless.”
“And you always go walking through the mountains when you’re bored?” You wonder as you step around the markers in the dirt.
“I live here, there isn’t very much else to do and it isn’t a good day for swimming.”
“Swimming?” You nod and click your tongue. “Sounds like the life to me.”
“Mm, it can be rather languid when there isn’t work to do,” he turns the thermos in his hands as he talks, “Have you tried cloudberry?”
“Cloudberry? Never heard of it.”
He pokes the thermos between the panels and you take it. He pushes the barrier back into place between you, hooking his fingers into the links. You feel the warmth through the copper-coloured metal.
“You didn’t have to come all this way for tea,” you laugh.
“I wanted to ask after your hand. See how it’s healing,” he says.
“Oh, uh,” you open and close your gloved hand, “just a scab now. I’m all good.”
He smiles and keeps himself from leaning to heavily as the fence dips towards you. He coughs and realigns his feet, brushing back the looses strands around his face with a flick. He pushes his shoulders back and drops his hand.
“So uh, you should try the tea. I put together the herbs myself, steeped it...” he bounces on his heels, “I suppose it’s not that impressive but it is good. Antioxidants, anti-inflammatory.”
“Wow, sounds like one of those superfoods,” you scoffs as you pull of your glove and tuck it into your work belt. You untwist the cap and steam wisps out. You smell the tea and blow over it. You look up and find him watching you. “You’re starting to make me nervous, what’s in it?”
“Just tea,” he assures. “I can’t lie to you, though. It wasn’t my idea. My mother suggested it. She’s very interested to see what you’re digging up but I’m afraid she can’t do much at the moment.”
“Oh, your mother? Is she sick?”
“She is in perfect health aside from her dislocated knee. She went rock climbing and well, accidents happen, eh?”
“Yeah, sure do,” you show him your cut. “But they get better.”
A lull rises as you take a dainty sip. The tartness tweaks your cheeks and you scrunch up your nose.
“You don’t like it?”
“It’s... different but not bad,” you say. “So, your parents live up here too?”
“Mm, yes. I’m afraid I’m occupying their attic at the moment. I sold my home in Oslo, it was much too... cold.”
You can’t help but snort, “it’s Norway.”
“Ah, so it is. I should be used to it,” he agrees. “And how are you faring here? Have you adjusted to these dour lands?”
“Eh, I’m trying,” you put the lid back on and turn it until tight. “Thanks for the tea.”
“My pleasure,” he assures you. “Seems lonely work.”
“I don’t mind it,” you shrug and cross your arms, tucking the thermos beneath one arm.
“Interesting though. Have you found very much?”
“Ugh, a spearhead and some pieces of the shaft. A vase, cracked though. Some beads.”
“Beads,” he echoes thoughtfully, “is this all confidential?”
“Not really, you wanna see?”
“Very much so,” he says.
“Right, uh, let me just...”
You go back to where you were sat and plant the thermos in the dirt. You scurry around, overly aware of his observation, and go to the pin of your catalogued items. You find the bone beads and brings the little dish of them over to the fence. You hold them up as he peers between the links.
“They have runes,” he intones.
“Yeah, I’ve got the meaning of all of them except, er...” you pull out the single bead made of jade, “this one.”
He hums and considers it closely, leaning in.
“Not a rune. That’s a family symbol.”
“Oh?”
“My family’s.”
“Wow, uh,” you lower your chin, “that’s... I... kinda feel like a thief.”
“Can’t have cared very much about it if it’s down there,” he remarks, “you know, my father has mapped out much of our genealogy. As much as he can. He might be able to assist with your research, if he can find the time. Bit of a hermit these days.”
“Oh, uh maybe, I’d hate to bother,” you smile sheepishly, “erm...” you look around, “where’s Thunder? Awful quiet without her.”
“She’s keeping mother company. I’ve told her not to be too much of an imp, can’t have her making it worse,” he shakes his head. “The two of them are both stubborn as the other.”
You can’t help the twitch in your eye. All this talk of your family has you suddenly homesick. You fight not to crack and swallow tightly.
“Anyway, thanks again for the tea.”
“Your parents must miss you,” he says abruptly.
“Erm, yeah, my mom calls now and then but she’s better as an empty nester. Dad’s got his head under a hood most days so...”
“Friends? Boyfriend?” He wonders.
You arch a brow. He’s not very subtle and yet his inquiry can’t be anything but innocent, right? You’re still strangers. He can’t be into you. Not someone who looks like him. How long did you pray for Steve to even see you like that? This man is definitely not going to.
“Friends. Sam likes to pester me when I should be sleeping and Bucky... they’re funny.” You sniff and gaze past him. You won’t mention that giant elephant in your head. The one you think about at night.
“Lots to miss back home, it sounds like,” he breaks the silence before it can settle.
“Yeah, but not every day you get to travel.”
“And to a beautiful land,” Thor declares, “I hope one day you’ll come out of the dirt and see more of it. You’ll be surprised what lays further up the mountain.”
You smile and look down, “yeah, maybe one day.”
“Until then,” he backs up on his heel, “I won’t distract you any further. Enjoy your tea.” He turns and strides away, pausing halfway as you linger by the fence, “the rain will be here around five so I would leave early, otherwise you’ll be driving through it.”
“Right,” your chest deflates just a little. You don’t know what you wanted him to say but you’re disappointed, “thanks.”
CHRIS HEMSWORTH Marvel Studios' Assembled The Making of Thor: Love and Thunder
(requested by anonymous)
I'M SO HAPPY THAT THERE'S A NEW CHAPTER! I woke up and was going to go back to sleep, but when i saw the notification i decided to stay awake to read it.
I'm so happy that Thor finally showed up, even more in love with the gentle giant and his restless little pet. Like we have a history lover meeting an archaeologist in the middle of an excavation, how could we have anything wrong? I can't wait to have him introduce her to places she never even thought of exploring 🤭 As I said before, only Thor would know how to value a woman willing to get dirty at work, he loves his Valkyries
I also like that she is willing to make new colleagues and create a routine, even if she is not completely happy with her current situation, but i think a blondie will change that.
Someone New 6
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You’ve had a crush on your best friend for years, but you’re slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor
Note: Thanks as usual for reading.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
Things don’t become comfortable, but familiar. You get into a routine, one which smears the days and nights into the other. The landscape helps with that. The sun is fleeting, even in July. The days are longer but it’s not anywhere as stifling or humid as New York. Like everything else, it’s different.
The man at the fish place, Frederik, knows your name. His wife, Inga too. When you walk in the door, they put your order to fry before you even get to the counter. They’re friendly and warm. It’s nice to have some smiling faces when you can hardly muster the same.
They like to ask you about New York; they’re finally planning a big trip to America after twenty-five years together. They remind you of Marigold and her bakery. You long for one of her eclairs and her chatty demeanour. Just another thing to miss.
As you sit down at a table near the window to eat in, your phone goes off. You answer as you read Sam’s name across the screen. He’s the only one you’ve talked to in the last month. Nearly two now. August is close.
“Yo, yo, girly pop,” he sings from the other end.
“Girly pop? Sam,” you chide as you hover a thick cut fry before your mouth.
“Chicky poo, nope. Girly pop, nope. I’ll get there,” he teases, “finally got a hold of you.”
“Uh, yeah, the site is far. No signal,” you shrug and take a bite.
“I know, I'm just needy,” he kids. “So, you hitting the spa? Summer’s going fast.”
“Not yet,” you swallow. “Sam, there’s a lot of work here and it’s just me. The only help I get is from a local student volunteer and they do three hours a week.”
“Oof, why does your work sound so boring?” He groans
“Hey!”
“Well, I mean, digging up dirt all day, tell me you’re not going mad. You making friends? No one to cool, I hope. I’m still your number one guy.”
“Not really. It’s tough. Long hours. I don’t know,” you stare out the window as you toy with the bamboo fork.
“If you were going to hide all day in a hovel, you could’ve stayed in New York,” he sighs.
“Sam, I’m trying. Really. It’s... It’s going to take some time.”
“Right,” he agrees grimly. “Time. A year is not that long.”
You hum and lean back in the chair. You’re not as hungry as you were. You close up the container and stand.
“I know, alright?” You sniff as you tidy the table and grab your food, “but this isn’t a vacation.”
“It’s also not a missionary trip,” he retorts. “I’m not tryna be a dick here, I’m helping. You need this.”
You push out into the street and cluck. Silence. You don’t know what to say. He’s right and just like ever day, the conversation is the same. Over and over. It’s going to drive you crazy.
“More sunlight this time of year, good for work--”
“No more work talk,” he interjects, “if you don’t got anything fun going on, I'll just have to make you jealous. Some good old fashioned FOMO. Hm, me and Bucky went to Jersey.”
“Jersey? Why?” You take the bait, happy for the distraction.
“Oh, yeah, I told him there was a vintage bike for sale there.”
“You told him that but...”
“There wasn’t. I just wanted to see him interact with the locals. The old ladies love him but the men... well, I think he might have a warrant out now.”
“No, Sam, what the hell?” You exclaim as you stroll along. “Are you trying to get him killed?”
“Hey, I got his back. Just like I got yours. It was just a prank.”
“Wait, Sam, where exactly did you take him in Jersey?”
“Some cribbage club, I don’t know. I saw a page for it online. Thought he’d fit in--”
“They were old?”
“They match his energy,” he snorts.
You can’t help but laugh. It feels good. Just that little bit of home. Your amusement is dampened as your heart sinks. You really were so stupid. You didn’t see what you had all around you; Bucky, Sam, more than just Steve. Now it’s all behind you and going back won’t be the same as before.
💟
There’s tension in the air. It’s going to rain. You suspect your day will be cut short by the gathering clouds but your persist. No use in running. Again.
The last time you left in fear of a storm, it waited until the next day. So you sit, boots set in the dirty, hunched over as you carefully trace out the strange lump. It’s more than sediment. Bone but not a skeleton. Likely animal and bent into some tool. You have to be delicate. It’s not like the movies, you can’t just dig your hand in and rip it out.
Your earbud drones as a retro R&B playlist keeps your mind at focus. You wipe your forehead with the back of your glove, feeling the flecks of dirt cling to your skin. You ignore it and press on. Just a little more, a little more.
It’s bigger than you expect. Just as you think it might come free, you find it goes further down. You can make out the jagged break and the hide wrapping at it’s base. A spear of some sort.
You roll your shoulders out and put your tools down on the open role. You peel of the gloves and reach for the tall insulated bottle of water. You gulp, your throat cooling nicely at the flow. You cap the bottle and clear your throat, listening to the silence of the mountain.
Yet it isn’t quiet. You glance around at the subtle scratching, a strange tapping across the ground. It could be vermin. It’s not unusual to disturb a nest of one thing or another on a dig but they usually leave early on.
You put the bottle down and shove your hand back into a glove. A puffy breath comes over the scratching. Several breaths in quick succession, as if there’s something sniff. You keep your other glove in your grip and stand. Your legs are so cramped that your steps are stiff and stunted.
As you search for the source, there’s a yipe and a fuzzy shape catches your eye. You tilt your head, thoroughly confused at the barking beast. You’re not certain that chihuahuas are native to Norway. At least, you wouldn’t assume so.
The ashy blond dog has longer fur along its ears and chest and a white bolt down its chest. You can tell it isn’t wild despite its behaviour as it is finely groomed and wears a bright red collar. You approach the fence as it hops, stopping only to try to dig beneath with its dirtied paws.
“Hi, buddy,” you near the eager dog, “how’d you get up here?”
You stop just across from the dog and poke your fingers through the fence. It stops, you think a ‘he’, and sniffs your fingers. His cold nose tickles you and you wiggle until you can pet his head. The little thunderbolt emblem on hiss collar peeks through his mane. There might be some information there.
“Thunder!” The booming voice sounds like the very thing it decries, “Thunder, you pest, where’re you off too?”
There’s a crunching of soil and rock along the mountain pass as the dog growls and barks again, turning to face the skewing of a towering shadow. You watch in shock at the approach. You didn’t think there was life so far up. That or someone has chosen a rather treacherous hiking trail.
The dog, you assume ‘Thunder’, bounces back and forth in anticipation of his own, calling to him with his pitchy yaps. The man appears around the jagged rock and you feel the air knocked from your chest. You slowly reach to take out your earbud and tuck it in a pocket.
Wow. You blink to make sure it’s real. To be certain this isn’t some trick of the mind or this ancient land. Maybe the gods are real here.
He’s tall and broad and handsome. His canvas jacket does little to conceal his muscular build as his jeans are snug to his thick thighs. You think he’s even bigger than Steve. You wince at the reminder of the man but it quickly flits away. You can’t ignore the man before you with his golden tresses twisted back into a low bun, stray strands wisping forward to frame his stony jaw and stormy blue eyes.
You stand gaping through the fence as the man flinches in fright. His gaze meet yours and his cheeks tinge pink as he gives a crooked grin, “ah, Thunder, my darling, you’ve found a friend.”
He whistles and the dog lunges forward. He picks up the chihuahua, their size difference almost comical as he cradles him in one arm. You can’t think of a thing to say. You can barely think.
You snap your mouth shut and clear your throat. Work. That’s what you should be doing.
“Hello,” the man nears the other side of the fence before you can move away, “I’ve been wondering what this is all about. The signs...” he points with his thumb over his shoulder.
“Oh, uh,” you peer around as if lost. You sort of are. “A dig. Er. Grant,” you stammer out. You take a breath and still your mind, “I work with an archeological society in New York. We’ve been sponsored by your national board to exhume this site.”
“Ah, yes, makes sense,” he lowers his brows thoughtfully as the dog squirms in his hold, yiping and biting at his sleeve. “Forgive me, she is rather uncouth.” He raises the dog higher and she wiggles in his arm. You see it now, definitely a pampered girl. “This is Thunder. She lives up to her namesake, eh?”
“Uh, yeah,” you give a brittle smile, unsure.
“Thor,” he dips his chin down, “I live just up the pass.”
“You do?” You wonder curiously. “All the way up here?”
“Oh yes, if you saw the old haunt, you might just want to dig that up too,” he jokes. “We usually go up the pass, towards the river.”
“The river?”
“Yes, you mustn’t stray far from here,” he remarks as he raises a hand to lean on the fence, only to nearly tip the unanchored grating. “Oooh, apologies,” he rights himself with a laugh, “anyhow, it is nice to see a new face around here. Better to have a name for it.”
“Right, uh,” you offer your name and giggle nervously, “it’s just me on-site, guess I forget my manners.”
“Not to worry. As the resident mountain man, my etiquette does lack,” he winces as Thunder chomps on his thumb knuckle, “eh, you monster, alright.” He holds her up and she pokes her nose through the fence, “she loves new people. Not so keen on the old.”
“She's cute,” you scratch her nose and she licks your fingers. “Not exactly a native species.”
“Who knows where she came from? Found the little dragon in the woods. Suppose someone left her there. She was covered in mud, so small I though she was a bloody toad,” he muses as he brings her back against his chest and rocks her, “it was only her thunderous barks which told me otherwise, isn’t that right, darling?”
He makes a kissy noise at her and her fluffy tail wags wildly against him. You smile more genuinely. It is nice to have another living thing around after digging up the broken and dead for so long.
“So you’re from New York?” He asks abruptly, his blue eyes rolling over you like a tide.
“Yeah,” you utter breathily, “yes, New York.”
“You’ve been here a while?”
“Couple months,” you shift and twist your glove.
“Wonderful, and you’ve done much exploring? You must live in town.”
“About three hours,” you point towards the gravelly road, “haven’t had much time for sightseeing but I found a good fish shop.”
“A shop? That’s no good. We catch our own fish, fry ‘em up over the pit,” he says, “that’s the way we do it up here.”
You nod, “sounds fun. Well, er,” you turn halfway and look around, your eyes skimming up to the cloudy sky, “I should probably hustle. Looks like rain.”
“That it does but it won’t be ‘til midnight,” he assures.
“You think it’ll hold out?”
“I know so,” he affirms and lingers by the fence, trying to see past you, “what exactly are you uncovering over there?”
“Not much so far,” you pull on your loose glove.
“You must know what this place was. A raider’s camp.”
“Is that so?”
“Mm, yes, the raiders would camp upon the pass away from those who might come ashore, then go off themselves to find a coast to reap,” he explains.
“And how do you know all that?” You ask as you tramp back to your place in the dirt.
“Suppose some of my ancestors camped here with them,” he offers casually, “for so long as we’ve been up here. Once the viking scamps settled, they had to find a home somewhere. Some fellow named Agmundr or another built a stone house further up.”
“Admundr? Family?” You prompt.
“Distant,” he assures, “been some time and that stone house is now a foundation.”
You get down to your knees as you grab your brush and peek over at him, “thanks for the information. I’ll have to add it to the land report. Have them crosscheck in the archives.”
“Not at all. You won’t find it all on your paper, you know? We carry or history on our tongues here.”
“Sure,” you say as you bend over the spearhead and start again.
“You don’t mind if I watch? I always did love history and I’ve never seen a proper dig before.”
“Not much going on, I’m afraid,” you shrug, “but if you want.”
“Thunder will have a tantrum if I go,” he chuckles, “she likes you.”
“Hm,” you scoff, “she is very outspoken.”
You set your eyes on your task but can’t shake the awareness of your audience. It’s not too unusual. There were a few digs you did early on in the heart of the city and people loved to ogle you. This is different. Just the two of you. A stranger even. Friendly as he is, you’re happy for the fence, even if it is rather flimsy.
“Those bones aren’t for you,” he says to the dog as she wriggles in his grasp. “Let’s find a stick then, you little pest.”
How can Peggy be hateable in all universes? Jesus Christ! Steve and her are two idiots, they don't deserve the reader in their lives. ANYWAYS fuck them, let's go to Norway!
Someone New 1
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings: this fic will include angst, pining, romcom tropes, and some darker elements later in the series. Some triggers may not be specifically tagged. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This fic will contain explicit content. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: You've had a crush on your best friend for years, but you're slapped in the face with reality when he takes things to the next level with his girlfriend.
Characters: Steve Rogers, Thor
Note: please enjoy the first chapter!
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖
“No, no, not the pink, red,” you cup your hand over your ear pod, “exactly what it says on the order sheet.”
Were anyone to see you, sitting in the dirt, with a brush in hand, all alone, they might think you’re a bit out there. You, talking to the air, dusting off a clump of soil, orchestrating your own voice with the bristles. You dip your head as you focus on what the voice in your ear is saying.
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” you argue, “I put in the order weeks ago. A red bow. I have the receipt– I mean sure, pink or red doesn’t matter to me but it’s not my birthday.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” the woman relents. It’s not exactly a triumph but as close to as you can hope. If it’s pink, you’ll just have to take the fall. The damn fondant will be devoured by the night’s end anyhow.
You hang up with a double tap on the ear pod and your playlist resumes. You go back to trying to uncover the shape caked in layers of muck, turning the brush to chip away the rougher bits with the pointed tip. The work is tedious but it has to be. You can’t risk damaging the relic nestled inside.
The abrupt chiming of your ringtone once more sounds through the bluetooth earpiece. You huff and hit the pod with the heel of your hand. You greet the call with only your name.
“Are you still on site?” Your boss, Arturo asks.
“Yep, still here,” you still your hand and twist your arm, pulling back the end of your glove to see your watch, “just a bit longer. You know I have that thing tonight.”
“Uh, yes, I recall,” he says dully as you hear paper shuffling, “you got time to chat?”
“Sure,” you keep the cluster of dirt and the brush in one hand and use your other to push yourself to your feet, “I just gotta catalogue this before I finish the day.”
“Well, I have good news and bad news,” he begins as you carefully walk between the cordoned off patches. The whole place is a maze of where and where not to step. You go into the tent and put down the half uncovered idol. It’s brittle, made of hide and yew, with a bit of bone. “Lucia is pregnant.”
“Oh? That’s great,” you furrow your brow, wondering what that has to do with you.
“Means she can’t travel for a while. She’s adverse to long term commitments at the moment so…”
“So…” you trail off as you label the mound of dirt and make notes for the next day.
“So, you want her assignment?”
“Which one?” You peel off your gloves and shake off the excess filth.
“Norway. It can be a bit dingy but the landscape is nice.”
“Norway? For how long?” You close up the ledger and tuck it away on the shelf. You pass between the tables of artifacts as you pull out your phone.
“Could be a while but I figured you never get to go very far. You’ve been pent up in-state for so long, you could use the vacation.”
“Oh? Well, I…” you scroll through your phone and see the notifications. Emails confirming delivery, messages asking if everything is sorted. “I’d have to think about it…”
It’s evasion more than indecision. You know you don’t want to go. You can’t go. Your whole life is here. You have an apartment and friends and… Steve. Your best friend.
“Make sure you do think about it. It’s a great opportunity. Especially for a junior anthropologist. Lucia won’t be on leave forever.”
“I know. I’ll think about it.”
You hang up and pluck the earbud out. Ugh, you’re covered in dirt and dust. You don’t have time to go home and shower. You knew you wouldn’t. You have to be at the venue before everyone else. You can change there and try to wash up in the sink. Whatever, no one’s going to be looking at you anyway. It’s Peggy’s night. Yay.
You lock the fence and tug one last time to make sure it’s secure. You drag your boots across the thinning grass to your car parked on a stretch of gravel. You drop inside and hit start. You connect to the bluetooth and get some tunes going. You buckle your seat belt as you check the mirrors. You’re probably going to have to speed there.
You back out as the music blares from the speakers. It’s not loud enough to drown out your thoughts. Why did you agree to this? Peggy doesn’t even like you. Oh, but she likes Steve. She is his girlfriend and you are only his best friend. You’re supportive. You keep your mouth shut and smile.
Ugh. You squeeze the wheel until your knuckles hurt. You know why you offered to help plan the surprise. You’re pathetic but you’re not delusional. It meant you got more time with him. There hasn’t been much of that since Peggy came along, not just the two of you.
Classic, isn’t it? In love with your best friend. Friends since college. Friends forever, you vowed naively, thinking that forever would never come. Nothing lasts that long, you can only hope to outlast Peggy.
And if you don’t, maybe this crush will finally run its course.
💟
Red and white streamers decorate a long table set with trays. There’s a banner over it that reads ‘Happy Birthday, Peggy’, and a stack of gifts already forming in the corner. Guests drift in with anticipation as you hurry around to check off all the items on your list.
You fix a small vase of flowers, trying to hide the droopy one in the back, and tug a wrinkle out of a tablecloth. You smile and wave at those who are early as you weave between them. You pull out your phone and lean it on the clipboard angle in the crook of your elbow. They’re on their way, okay. Keep it cool.
As you come to the kitchen door, you nearly collide with someone else. Sam touches your arm gently as he keeps you from tripping backward. You gasp and hug the clipboard with a wobbly grin.
“Hey,” you greet breathily, “you’re here.”
You look down at the guest list and check him off.
“Ah, figured I’d make an appearance,” he kids, “Rogers would take it pretty rough if his best pal wasn’t here.”
“Please, don’t start that with Bucky again,” you warn as you point the pen in his direction, “the two of you, in fact, are seated separately.”
“No fun!” He whines dramatically.
You scrunch your lips at him and peer around. Yes, none of this has been fun. Caterers, servers, tables, space, food! Yes, you were going to check on the cake. Your sole squeaks as you twist sharply and go to slam your hand into the door.
“Hey,” Sam blocks your way with his arm, “before you disappear, you’re still wearing your boots.” He points to your feet, “in case you’re wondering about the snail trail.”
He sweeps his finger up in a gesture alluding to your previous path. You glance over at the dirt littered in your stead then down at your dusty boots. You sigh and hang your head back.
“Fuck!” You snarl.
“Don’t worry, I’ll find a broom,” he assures you, “while you take a breath. You need it.”
“I can’t, Sam, they’re already on their way. I still have to get everyone in their place and… quiet,” you scowl, “ugh, this is gonna be so bad. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“So… why’d you do it?” He asks as he drags his hand away from the doorframe. You look at him and blink slowly. You shrug.
“I’m a good friend,” you insist.
He gives a skeptical hum and nods, “sure are,” he grumbles, “too good, if you ask me.”
You throw up your hand before turning into the kitchen. You don’t have time to worry about him. Is he jealous that you’re helping Steve so much? Or does he know something else? You don’t let the seed sprout as you nearly cry out at the sight of the cake.
A pink bow. Jeez. Of course. You check the cake off your list, nearly tearing through the paper. It’s better than nothing, even if Peggy never settles for less than the best.
There’s no time to complain or send it back. Your phone vibrates again. Five minutes. Your heart is racing. Why? This isn’t even your party. You just want it to be perfect for Steve. You hate to disappoint him. Ever.
You really shouldn’t care that much but you do. Like so many other things in your life.
💟
The crowd can't keep quiet. There's a low buzz that ripples through the guests. A wave of anticipation that's spread like a deadly virus.
You feel a nudge in your side and peek over as Bucky sends Sam a sneer and wriggles in place. Those two never let up. You hiss at them to quit and they look as guilty as a pair of unruly children.
"He keeps tickling me," Bucky whispers.
"No, I'm tryna fix his hair, look at this mess," Sam flicks a strand away from Bucky's cheek, "this is a nice event, Buck, not your living room."
"Both of you," you warn.
"You're bitching at me when Indiana Jones here brought the dig with her," Bucky mutters.
You look down. Dammit. You still didn't change out of your boots. You roll your eyes. It's not about you. It's Steve's night. Er, Peggy's.
You shake out your nerves and shake your head, "you two," you step behind Bucky and insert yourself between the men, "behave."
"Yes, mom," Sam snickers as Bucky groans and tries to smooth the few shanks that have slipped free of his low ponytail.
You exhale and give an exasperated look to the door. You really can't handle them on top of everything else. You just want this night to end already. All your hard work and you won't even get to enjoy any of it.
"Everybody," Natasha hisses as she runs away from the doorway, "they're coming."
The group quiets, as much as they can, a collective bated breath as you wait and listen. The lull is unbearable as the heat of the bodies around you pricks sweat down your neck and across your scalp. The door begins to open, almost as if in slow motion, and as the guest of honour is revealed, you cry out.
"SURPRISE!" The eruption of the chorus has your head spinning as Peggy gives a melodramatic swoon, grabbing at Steve's arm as she leans on him heavily.
She parts only to fan her eyes and squeal. "Oh my god, you guys!"
She teeters on her heels as people holler happy birthday and her group of girlfriends flutter over to wrap her up in a cacophony of giggles and preening. You smile, a bittersweet twitch in your cheek as you watch her spin back to Steve and pull him into a kiss.
You're happy for them really, proud to see all your effort come to fruition, but you just feel so hollow. For an instant, you think it should be you right there, gushing in glee over the celebration of another year, with Steve beside you.
You gulp down the jealousy and wiggle your nose to ward away the tears. That's a stupid thought. If it hasn't happened in more than a decade, it's not going to happen now.
💟
As the guests disperse into their own conversations, you finally manage to wade through to the happy couple. You approach with a small wave at Steve. He doesn't see you, he's watching Peggy as she chats with Natasha.
"Hi," you call above the din, "so, you like it?"
Steve turns to you, confusion stitching his forehead before he registers your questions. He nods and gives a smile, "it's amazing, you did so good!"
The sparkle in his eyes, the perfect line of his jaw, the way he's looking at you, it makes your heart rend. You tilt your head and dig your toe into the floor bashfully, "thanks. I'm so happy to see it come together."
"Um, the cake," he brings his index finger up, "I was hoping to bring it out soon."
"Er, yeah, it's back in the kitchen. About that–"
"Great," he claps your shoulder and brushes by you, "just gonna put the finishing touches on it."
"Hm, what do you–"
He's gone before you can finish your question. You deflate just a little, setting your feet flat as you sway aimlessly. The motion hooks Peggy's attention. You give a sheepish smile as you wring your hands.
"Oh, uh, just came over to wish you a happy birthday," you chirp, "are you enjoying it?"
"Ah, I didn't see you here, I thought maybe you were busy…" she gives a pointed look to your boots, "working."
"Um, yeah, no," you fidget, "always happy to come support you two."
"Where is Steve?" She gazes past you, shouldering by dismissively, "he was just…."
Right. You nod and flit away in embarrassment. You can't say you ever got along with Peggy. Where you're accommodating, she's a bit too demanding. Different people, but you don't dislike her. You just don't mesh. Or perhaps it's just that you don't get what Steve sees in her. Especially when you're right there.
Enough. This isn't about you or your stupid dumb heart. Just smile and go with it.
The kitchen door swings open, a noise barely discernible above the hue, and the rattling wheels of a cart underline the steady drone. A lull washes over the crowd as they part. You move with the tide and face the sudden divide.
A hush falls over the room as Steve pushes the cake across the floor. He stops before Peggy as she faces him, another feigned pout of surprise. He grins proudly at her as you stare curiously at the top of the cake.
"Oh, pink?" She comments on the fondant bow as her eyes flick over to you. She quickly corrects herself an admires the double tiered dessert, "Steve, it's so pretty."
You know she hates the colour. You recall the one time you wore a pink bow in your hair and she made a similar comment. Cute, she remarked in her roundabout way in her oh so sophisticated accent.
You manufacture a smile and step closer as Steve beckons to the guest. Tension stills the air, almost paralyzing the crowd. You squint at the heart shaped box perched atop the bow.
"Is this for me?" Peggy asks if it's not obvious.
Steve nods, his cheeks tinting pink, as you notice how he wipes his palms on his pants. Peggy delicately takes the box from the pedestal of fondant and your ribs ache from the pounding of your heart. You curl your fingers until your nails dig into your skin as you watch him kneel beside her.
She doesn't notice as she opens the box on its hinges. Her lips part and she stares at the contents. She looks over at Steve to find him on his knee and she claps her hand over her mouth. Her eyes gleam as she whimpers his name through her fingers.
The scene hazes behind your tears as you stare wide eyed. Your ears ring as Steve's voice is dulled by your shock.
"Margaret Elizabeth Carter," Steve's timbre warble just a bit, "will you make me the happiest man on earth?"
You don't wait for her answer. You already know it. It's the very same you give in every outlandish dream you've ever had of your happy ending. You spin and storm through the crowd, blind with horror and self-pity.
Surprise! Your whole world is crashing into pieces.
THIS! Like, I know he leads his career in a more professional way, but his lack of charisma on social media is ridiculous! him being spontaneous and so funny really wins over when he decides to get out of robotic mode in interviews. I wish his media team knew how to be creative. They are very square and harm an online future. Even if it were to make him talk more about video games, that would bring him closer to the younger audience. You see other players his age always trying to have their own/personal tone on their social media and then we have Virgil
The way Virgil(‘s media team) is always posting until he loses a game is so fucking hilarious, man. Idk who handles his social media but it genuinely needs a revamp in so many ways. Aside from the fact that it’s robotic and soulless (like people who bother following you in person aren’t here for freaking official training pics we can get that anywhere), the whole mostly disappearing when you lose thing screams scared/shying/avoiding people’s comments. I’ve always had that impression about him anyways and the fact that he completely left the platform after he had a single bad season where he got shat on on twitter a lot really sealed it for me. Obviously he can do whatever makes him comfortable and isn’t obligated to give anyone anything, but if you want to be smart about your media presence and set yourself up for your post-playing career, whatever you got going right now AIN’T it.
Ayo Edebiri as Sydney Adamu The Bear (2022-present) costume design by Courtney Wheeler
"Cut, Casper. That's a wrap." — SCREAM (1996) dir. Wes Craven
CHRIS EVANS as STEVE ROGERS Captain America: The Winter Soldier (2014)
Brother May I Masterlist
summary: Sarah was the sister he resented, Wheezie was the sister he adored, but even after years in the Cameron household, you still didn’t know how Rafe felt about you.
Keep reading
I want this thor in my life
Shameless
Sequel to Graceless
Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, dejection, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: The reader attempts to move past her ruination, but is reminded of her tarnish conscience at every turn. (Regency AU, tall!reader)
Character: Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson
Note: Here we are. The sequel but not the end.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)
Love you like I love coffee and that’s a lot and probably unhealthy. Take care. 💖
The string of the glove’s seam trails loosely from the thumb. You twist the thread, playing with it, but doing little to mend it. Even with a needle in hand, you have no whim to darn. There are many things in life that cannot be repaired no matter how you try. Occurrences which cannot be taken back.
You pull at the seam until a hole forms in it. You poke your finger through with no heed for the glove’s integrity. You detest that pair anyhow. The very same you wore… that day.
Albina lays at the foot of the bed, her head bent back over the edge as she peruses one of her novellas. Hannah and Cora disappeared ages ago and you only just heard them through the windows. They are likely causing chaos in the gardens. You hope your mother finds them and issues a reprimand for their immaturity.
The autumn thins the air as it creeps in around the window frame and you smell that discerning scent of dirt and leaves. Only a week and it feels as if the whole world has changed seasons. Your world has transformed irrevocably.
There’s a clatter and you glance over as Albina rolls onto her side. She’s always hated to be disturbed amid her stories. She huffs and falls onto her back to begin again, but the door bursts open, your two other sisters tromping through with excitement.
Albina shuts her book loudly and sighs as she sits up. You go back to your exploration of the glove, watching the thread stretch along the seam as you tug. If only that were Cora. If only you could rent her pretty hair from her pretty head. Or in the least, swat the smug grin from her lips.
You can’t even look at her. It just makes you think of him. Of how stupid you’d been. You believed his promises were meant for you but it’s only as you relive that haunting episode every night that you realise, he never proclaimed his intent for you, only alluded to a vague offer. Another mean trick.
“Lord Rogers has sent a gift,” Cora trills as she stands at the vanity, shuffling something unseen before her. Hannah stands at her side, bouncing with anticipation.
“Oh, what do you think it is?” Hannah chimes.
“Could you not unveil it in the sunroom, where there is no one reading?” Albina says as she drags herself to the edge of the bed, resting her book on her skirts.
“Could you not get your head out of those ridiculous fancies,” Cora retorts over her shoulder, “if you ever do for long enough, you might just find a husband too.”
You don’t look up. You refuse to give her the satisfaction. You haven’t missed her wandering glances, how she taunts you without even a word. She turns back to her gift and rustles beneath the thick paper.
“Oh, heavens,” she swoons and spins, “isn’t it beautiful?”
“Are those rubies?” Hannah preens.
“I think.”
“Garnet?” Albina suggests.
“No, no, surely they are rubies,” Cora insists. “Do you see?” She swirls around the room closer to you, “I must find the perfect gown to wear with this. Oh, he would fawn to see me in his ribbon, wouldn’t he, sister?”
You grip the glove tight as her figure looms over you. With your other hand, you clutch the needle, letting it jab into your palm until your eyes prick. You nod, “very beautiful.”
You stand the moment you get the words free of your dry throat. You try to smile but can only muster a strained grimace. You try to step past Cora but she moves with you.
“You’ve not even looked,” she says, “how would know how beautiful it is?”
“Cora, please.”
“No, no, have a look. It’s so elegant, isn’t it?”
You clamp your lips together. Your insides tangle painfully. Even as the tenderness leaves the bruises in your thighs, you swear they hurt just as much as the day after. You sniff.
“Please, move out of my way,” you beg.
“Oh, sister, why must you be so dour? Is that jealousy I sense?”
“No,” you snarl. Jealousy. Oh, something much deeper, something agonizing. “I said move.”
“Move? Well, it looks like I am the first to wear a title so it is me who should be issuing the orders, don’t you think?”
“Oh, Cor, you are not duchess yet,” Albina reproaches, “let her pass.”
The heat rises up your back and crawls onto your neck. You feel like you’re suffocating. You feel like the walls are closer together, as if the world is hewn in fire. It is all burning down around you.
“She is being a sour little brat about it, Al,” Cora snaps, “it isn’t fair of her to ruin my engagement. I don’t know where she ever got the idea that Lord Rogers had any mind for h–”
You don’t think. You need to get out of here. You shove Cora out of your way and stomp past her as she gasps. You drop the glove as the needle sinks further into your palm. You sweep out of the door and hurry down the corridor. You hear her, whining pitifully as you flee.
“She shoved me! She–”
“Oh, you did goad her,” Albina’s quiet scolding follows you to the stairs, “put that ribbon away, you’ll only ruin it.”
Ruin…
The word clings to you as you barrel down the stairs, as if running from your own shame and anger. You love your sister, you would never wish anything horrid on her, but you can’t help that small whisper in your mind that suggests that Lord Rogers may just treat her as cruelly as he has done you.
💙
The autumn continues its slow advance, nipping in the air and at the foliage alike. You smell the crispness as it wafts through the open window of the carriage, cooling the cluster of bodies within. Your father rides with the driver, guffawing loudly with the clop of hooves. Your mother fans herself as she needles away with her relentless critique.
…Albina, push your shoulders back; Hannah, keep your lips shut tight, you don’t need horseflies wandering in; You, fix your bonnet, it is dipping at the front; Oh, Cora, isn’t that a lovely ribbon…
You try not to mope. The more you do, the more pleasure Cora takes in her victory. You will forget it, you will go on as you’ve ever done. Dejected. You fold one hand around the other, your palm tender from the bite of the needle still wrought into your flesh.
You look up as the carriage slows. The lush green of the promenade tinges with edges of russet and patches of goldenrod. Lords and ladies stroll along the brickwork walkway, skirts swishing around languid steps, arms hooked in one another, others perched upon benches or huddled around the grand fountain at the center.
Your father climbs down as the driver unlatches the door. Your mother emerges first, her fan clapping shut sharply and knocking against the frame. Cora is second, then Albina, Hannah, and yourself. You come out behind them and feel your height all the more. You hunch and grip your wrist tight.
“Do not slouch,” your mother looks back and raps your arm with her fan, “no lord wants to walk alongside a hobbling giant.”
“Yes, mother,” you correct yourself and let your vision drift off into a vacant blur.
“Ladies,” a familiar timbre approaches with a pair of footsteps, “you’ve arrived.”
You refuse to look at Lord Rogers as he stands just along your peripheral. He greets your mother with a cordial bow of his head and shakes your father’s hand. At last, he addresses his betrothed as she wiggles in her skirts and nearly squeaks.
“Lord Rogers,” she drawls, “I wore the rubies.”
“Beautiful,” he praises, “my lady, might I request a stroll upon the promenade?”
“Aye, you may,” your father answers, volunteering himself as escort.
“Sir,” Rogers accepts elegantly and offers his arm to Cora, “and perhaps a few more daughters might care to join us?”
“They will remain with me,” your mother insists, “we would like to see the roses.”
You wait until they’ve departed to dare a peek at them. Lord Rogers struts away confidently with his arm through Cora’s. Your father trails them with his brass-tipped cane. Your ribs rack as if they might collapse in on themselves.
“Come girls, the autumn will wilt away the roses,” your mother declares, “let us make our rounds, perhaps we might have two engagements this season, hm?”
You linger behind the others. You keep your head down as you watch the toes of your boots poke out from beneath your skirts with each step. Your led by the hem of your sisters ahead of you.
As you approach the hoop of rose bushes, there is an unexpected furor. Voices trill and flutter, a booming laugh that rolls like thunder. You raise your eyes and see a blond head above a cluster of hats. You don't recognise the lord amid the clan of amused men.
"How rowdy," your mother remarks in her curmudgeon way.
She ignores the pluck of glee for the thorny tangles. Hannah and Albina give longing looks to the uproar but dutifully accompany your mother to the hedges. The eldest of your quartet pets the paling pink petals and grieves the browning at the edges.
The dullness of that moment feels like a promise. This is how life will always be for someone like you. You will never know excitement, you will only ever be a witness, a scrap of collateral left to squander.
You pretend to admire the greenery. The colours are faded and worn. Just like everything since that night. As you are.
You smell the leaves and the pollen and you're taken back to that moonlit moment. The cool air on your skin, the friction of his figure, his weight trapping you on the stone.
The leaves mesh together in a tapestry of swirling hues. You quickly dab your eyes before your tears can spill over. Those bouts come suddenly and dry up just as soon. You cannot let it take you here.
An emptiness enshrines you and you peer over to find yourself all alone. Your sisters and your mother have left you, forgotten you. Not such an unexpected plight but painful nonetheless. You turn in search of them and nearly collide with another.
You press yourself to the bushes behind you and swallow a gasp, creaking out an apology.
"Apologies, my lord, I did not see you–"
"Lady," the man greets with a courteous dip of his chin, looking down at you. Down! He is even taller than you.
The same lord with the blond hair who had a crowd raucous. You do not know him. He is rather older than any courtly debut.
"You mustn't catch yourself," he reaches around you delicately and untangles a fold of your skirt from the thorny vines, "it is too fine a dress to tarnish."
"Thank you, sir, it seems I am a bit obtuse at the moment," you force a smile.
He is very handsome. He eyes a brighter shade than even Lord Rogers and his hair even more golden. That comparison urges you back to the ground. You are still you and you cannot be so foolish as to let yourself believe contrary ever again.
"Might I–"
"I spy–"
You speak at the same time and both correct yourself. You defer and touch your lips in embarrassment, "apologies, once more, I keep treading on your toes."
"I have tough toes," he japes, "I meant to ask if I might have your name."
"Oh, yes, sir," you give him your name, "I admit I am ignorant of your own identity."
"Ah, yes, I have come from far," he grins, "Lord Thor Odinson, of Asgard."
"Asgard, why that is very far," you comment, "well, sir, it was a delight to meet you. Welcome to our homeland."
"A privilege," he returns, "if I might be so forward, as I am a stranger to this land, I would extend to you an invitation to dinner as I acquaint myself with your country. Would that be too improper?"
"Sir," you flutter your fingers at your side as you stand awkwardly before him, "I would needs ask my father."
"Yes, certainly you would, as you are unwed," he says as if untwining a riddle, "I do hope you will be permitted."
"My lord," you bow your head, "my mother…"
You look past him to your mother's fan as she beckons to you with it. Lord Odinson steps aside and extends his arm in gallant dismissal. You shift to move past him.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Allow me to thank you, lady, for entertaining my tedious conversation," he counters and you quickly flit away.
You near your mother as your other sisters crowd her. She is jibbering behind her fan, "...an ambassador," she says and snaps together the folds, "I hope you did not spoil our welcome."
"Mother?" You look at her in confusion, your cheek hot and tingling still.
"With that Lord, he did invite us to a dinner," she explains, "it would be very important for your father."
You shake your head. You don't argue. Ah, but the invitation was extended to all. Are you so foolish to think otherwise? You must shield yourself in the harsh lesson you've been taught. You are not and can never be special.
💙
The night of Lord Odinson's dinner arrives. You wear a gown of black patterned with deep green vines. Plain attire in contrast to Cora's shining scarlet silk, Alvina's buoyant blue bodice, and Hannah's deep rose sleeves. You add a simple beaded ribbon around your head, and a string of pearls around your neck.
"Dour," your mother remarks as she emerges in a tangerine satin, "ah, Cora, my darling, you look splendid. And to think, now that your engagement is public, you will be a pretty ornament on Lord Rogers' arm."
"Mother," she preens, averting her eyes in feigned modesty.
You clutch your reticule tight and glance over as you hear the approach of hooves. It is Lord Rogers' coach. The vehicle bustles towards the gates, open in expectation of him, and you look away. You can hardly bear the sight of red paint that decorates the doors.
His driver slows and breaks in the dirt. He greets your father as ever, gallant and proper. You put your teeth over your lower lip and peek up, catching the glint of Rogers' sapphire irises. His cheek dimples as his brows twitch. You swiftly rescind your gaze, favouring the dust on your slippers to him. He is as handsome as ever but to you, he is a vile cad. A demon clothed in cravat and vest.
He helps your mother first into the coach, then Cora, Hannah, Alvina, and finally yourself. He extends his gloved hand to you and you stare at his palm with disgust. You put your hand in his and step up into the vehicle. He squeezes before he lets go, a subtle tug on your skirt as you duck inside.
You sit on the bench between Albina and Hannah. You play with the strap of your reticule, focusing on it as you coil it like a snake. You only need to survive the journey to lord's manor. You've survived worse, and all at his hand.
💙
The manor is called The Nine Pillars, a rather strange name for a house, but referenced by the columns set into the stone walls. Each is topped with the facsimile of a different beast's head; a lion, a boar, a bear, a wolf, a falcon, a stallion, a bull, a viper, and an elephant. You lean over Albina to take it in, only to be nudged back to the middle.
You sigh and trail the part from the court. Attendants await your arrival at the broad steps of the manor house, the style much unlike that of the other courtly homes. The peak of the house resembles a warship overturned and the walls are without the typical white wash. It is very antiquated yet refined.
You enter the glowing hall, the glass lamps hung from the walls lit in an illuminating speckle. Voices carry from the drawing room where other guests gather and the bustle of the house staff flutters around the corridors and clamours from the kitchen. Your stole is taken by a groom and you nod in acknowledgement at his diligence. Your stomach swirls nervously.
The drawing room is a cluster of swishing skirts, flapping fans, and waggling coat tails. Your mother and father greet another older couple as your sisters disperse; Cora to show off her betrothed, Albina to whisper to Maria about her novels, and Hannah to gossip about the newest debuts. You find yourself lost before the sea of elegant figures.
You wade towards them, weaving between the bodies, looking around for any sense of welcome. Those who do see you, turn away quickly, as others pretend not to notice your towering form. You will find a place on the wall as you ever do.
"Lady," a deep voice calls but you don't bother to hear it. It cannot possibly be directed at you. It calls again, several times, before pronouncing your name. You spin to face Lord Odinson before you can retreat to your setinel against the wallpaper.
"My Lord," you greet him, "pardon me, there is much going on, I mustn't have heard you calling."
"Ah, but forgive me, it is rather uncouth to be shouting," he stops before you, "my mother always said I did blow in like a storm."
"Oh," you nod politely. You're not used to someone looking you in the eye, not without having to awkwardly contort your posture.
"She would like you, very much, I think."
"Why would you think that, my lord? You hardly know me."
"But I see you, a strong woman, built like a valkyrie. You are resilient and might I so forwardly say, resplendent."
"Sir?" You peer around, looking for an audience, for someone in collusion taking amusement from his false interest. It is always a trick.
"Again, I am the tempest, I cannot be subtle, not with a lady so stunning. Awe-inspiring. If I am the storm, you must be the sky," he remarks boldly.
You face him, a frown.
"Lady, it is a compliment," his face turns sober, "I hope I didn't overstep--"
"It is a joke. Who do you make laugh? For who am I the farce tonight?"
"Joke? Not at all. Never," he glances around the room. He is quiet as he takes in those around him. As he sees their elusive eyes and cold shoulders. "They cannot see what is right in front of them. A goddess--"
"No," you nearly sob, "no. I am not goddess." You bow your head, as you hear that same word from enough, a memory; Athena. "No sir," you put your chin up defiantly, "I will not be fooled by you."
"Fooled, my lady--"
"Excuse me," you shuffle away from him, "I need air..."
"Lady," he calls again but you elude him, delving into the crowd, marching away with head and shoulders down.
As you near the door, you hear a familiar laugh. You look to find Lord Rogers with Cora on his arm, his golden hair shining, her locks perfectly spiraled and set. He tilts his head towards her, "I call her my Athena," he says loudly, as if he knows you are listening, "for I worship her."
His eyes flick up and meet yours. You recoil and spin on your heel. Scalded, you flee into the hall and huddle into an alcove. No one would notice if you stayed out here all night.
💙
You sit among the guests at the table. The women chatter as the men speak in low voices about their business or some writ tabled in session that morning. You do neither as you're isolated in the fervor. As sherry and wine flows generously, you partake only of lemon water and loneliness.
You peer down the table and find yourself drawn to a pair of eyes. Lord Odinson. Where you expect tension or disappointment, you find only an amiable smile. He is almost dreamy as he watches you. You turn in your seat and look at Albina next to you, she's bent so far toward Hannah in her whispering that he likely cannot even see you.
You keep your gaze on the table. You will not encourage him. Lord Rogers taught you caution, he taught you your worth and not to think yourself above it. You feel suddenly sick, as if you could spew onto the table.
There is the clink of glass and someone clears their throat. The buzz around you hushes and all turn to the head of the table. You look over reluctantly. It is Lord Odinson, the host, about to make his toast. He stands, a crystal glass in hand.
"Welcome and thank you all for attending. You've all made me feel rather at home," he raises his glass and the guests mirror him. You lift yours a few seconds too late. He sets down the flute and continues, "and while you've all ingratiated me so kindly, I hope you might tolerate a little piece of my homeland."
He pauses and gestures to someone you can't see. A servant comes forward, holding a wooden box carved with symbols you don't recognise. Runes, perhaps.
"In my faith, there are the Valkyrie. They are the embodiment of female power and prestige and thus they are the keeper of our culture, of our ways. They are fertile and beautiful. So it is that each season, one lady is crowned as Valkyrie. I understand that I've come late but I am honoured to spend the season here, in your society. Thus, tonight has been more than a dinner..."
He stops as the servant opens the box. He takes out a crown of daisies wrought in gold and silver. He presents it to the room with a smile.
Cora leans forward as her eyes round in greed and the other women sit up, admiring the piece of jewelry and peeking at each other. You don't move, you stare at the wall and wait. You wonder who it will be. Maybe Cora or Maybelle and her doe eyes.
There is another lull, swollen with anticipation and intrigue. Lord Odinson gives a soft chuckle before he declares his valkyrie. No one speaks, none says a word. You blink. He speaks again.
You feel a nudge on your elbow as Albina leans towards you and whispers, "it's you."
You glance at her, then along the table. Cora's eyes are narrowed at you and Lord Rogers looks like he's chewing his own tongue. You turn your attention to Lord Odinson, trapped in surprise and disbelief.
"Yes, lady, please, come and claim your crown."
You grasp the arms of the chair and push it out as you rise. You walk stiffly, keenly aware of those watching you. You stride down the long table and near Lord Odinson. He faces you and hovers the crown over your head. You bow and he lowers it on, wiggling it to be sure it's firmly in place.
"It is I who shoulder defer to you, sweet lady," he lowers himself to a knee and bows his head, "our valkyrie."
The silence looms. You refuse to look back. You feel the stare, the disapproval, and disappointment. There's a clap and you flinch. Then another, and slowly the applause build.
Lord Odinson stands again and takes your hand, placing a kiss on your fingers. You meet his eyes, so intense you could melt.
"As I said," he keeps his timbre low, "it was not a joke."
💙
"Can I see it?" Albina asks as you go to set the crown on the narrow table.
"Oh, certainly," you turn to her. You're still burning with excitement. It's only one night, it doesn't mean anything, but it is a good night.
You hand her the crown and she takes it, admiring the craftwork with aw and showing it to Hannah as she nears. She places it on her head and rocks her shoulders.
"I am the valkyrie," she japes.
"No, I am the valkyrie," Hannah snatches the crown and dawns it.
"You are both children," Cora sneers as she shoves her ribbon of rubies into her jewelry box, "please, that lord is only here to pander to our king on his family's behalf. Nothing else."
"You're only jealous," Hannah rebukes.
"Am not," Cora stomps up and swipes the crown of daisies, "what would I need with a meaningless thing like this. Queen of what? The chimera? You don't even know what a valkyrie is."
"Nor do you," Hannah retorts.
"I do," Albina asserts, "they are an army of female warriors who lead the dead--"
"I do not give a fig," Cora flings the crown so it hits the bedframe and bounces off, "we don't believe in them here. That man is a fool."
"Oh, I saw you fawning over him, Cor," Albina goads, "don't lie. Rogers himself looked concerned."
"Fawning? Don't be silly."
You don't say a word as you go to fetch the crown from where it's fallen. You notice that one of the petals is bent out of shape. Oh, no.
"It's fine. She's right, it's just a silly crown."
"You all need to grow up," Cora insists, "as a woman soon to be married, I can see now how juvenile you lot are."
"Not married yet," Hannah snaps, "sooner the better if it means you're off."
"Charming, Hannah, I wonder why you've not had a proposal yet?"
Hannah waves her off with her hand and goes to Albina, "I'm tired. Help me out of my dress."
You turn away and set the crown on top of your own jewelry box. You take your time undoing the ribbon on your head and unclasping your pearls. You peel off your gloves and as you face the bed, you see Cora's hot glare.
"You'll see. That Lord Odinson will leave you behind and next season, you'll be on your way to a convent."
You swallow down her bitter words. Deep down, you don't doubt it. She is likely right but less than clairvoyant. You know better than any what your fate will be.
💙
You watch from the window as Cora walks in the gardens with Lord Rogers. Albina is in bed, moaning and rubbing her pelvis, as Hannah is downstairs with your mother stitching at her frame. The winds of autumn rattle the window frame and you back away, nervous to be caught observing.
You sit on the mattress and lean back against the pillow. Albina curls up on her side and faces you. You offer your hand and she latches on, squeezing. Her cramps have struck and she's already stained several shifts. Her blood has her in agony.
You don't mind keeping her company. Your own was due a week ago. You know because you've not stopped counting the days since... since Lord Rogers' proposal.
"I should hate to miss the promenade..." she mourns.
"You shouldn't miss very much," you assure her.
"Yes, but it will be cold soon. Too cold and it will snow and I will hate to go," she utters, "will you go?"
"Perhaps," you answer.
"And walk with Lord Odinson again?"
"If he wishes."
"I am certain he does. He is very friendly. Last night, when he told us of his families stronghold. About the mountains and the crossing rivers..."
"He has many stories," you agree, "and he tells them well."
"Oh, he does. He tells them for you."
"Pardon?" You nearly laugh.
"Sister, don't act clueless. He gave you his crown--"
"It was only a game."
"I do not think he plays."
"Why..."
"He always finds us on the promenade, doesn't he?"
"He is polite."
"Oh, you are stubborn."
You puff but don't argue further. She's wrong but she can't realise she is. She doesn't know what's happened, how you know for certain that he has no true intentions. That he cannot be any different than Lord Rogers.
💙
The hedges along the promenade are thinning. The roses have wilted away and the greenery curls and recedes. You wear a pair of lambskin gloves and an unlined cloak. It isn’t cold enough yet for fur.
As he does most days, Lord Rogers approaches to greet your family. Your mother and father bow to him briefly and bid their best before strolling off to meet with their peers. The betrothed couple will lead the way, as you walk behind with Hannah. Albina remains abed at home, her presence sorely missed as Hannah yawns and makes faces at the duke and his engaged.
You resist the urge to look around, to search for the man who crowned you valkyrie, the same who appeared at your side nearly every day. You restrained yourself from depending on his presence, from longing for it. He is a fleeting acquaintance, destined to return to Asgard one day. You shouldn't think so much of him.
“I wish we could have a summer wedding,” Lord Rogers declares, his voice raised loud enough for you to hear.
“But, my lord, that is so far away,” Cora protests, “so long as we wed before the snows, I will be content.”
“You, content. I am not mistaken, I know the sort of wife I’ve chosen,” he chides, “you only relish in that you might wear velvet.”
“Not at all my lord. I relish that I should marry you,” she preens, her arm hooked in his firmly.
You stare at the linking of their bodies. You remember the way he held you down, the way he cooed and coaxed, how he so softly coerced you. You should fear for your own sister, yet their misconceptions may be mutual.
“My ladies,” Lord Odinson’s voice precedes him and he steps up beside you, “and my lord. You are ashen, does the cold not agree with you?”
Lord Rogers glances over his shoulder, an edge in his jaw, “I handle it finely.”
You don’t mention he was only just longing for the summer. It isn’t any of your concern and you don’t very much care. Or you try not to.
“In Asgard, the winters, ah, they are splendid,” Odinson begins vibrantly, “there are days when the snow builds walls on its own and the next, they blow over to rippling oceans of frost. Endless and powdery.”
“Oh, we do not get so much snow here,” Hannah comments, “I don’t think I would survive such winters.”
You nod, listening intently as you picture the swirling snow and white dunes. It reminds you of a fairytale or a scene from one of Albina’s novels. Otherworldly and fantastical. Something entirely new and wonderful, but terrifying.
“And you, my valkyrie, would you face the blizzards?” Odinson challenges.
You hum thoughtfully. You know he is looking at you but you are too shy, too wary to return his gaze.
“I suppose with the proper cloak and a thick pair of boots, I might make it through, sir.”
“A coach and a horse, and any lady would say the same,” Rogers scoffs back at you, “girls hardly know the truth in matters of spirit. They can be overly presumptuous upon their own abilities.”
Odinson pushes his jacket back, hooking his finger in the pocket of his vest, “women are strong in ways men can never be. They carry lives, they bear the burden of the world, they maintain a grace lost on most men.”
“And the demure to the strength of men, to the wisdom they can never possess,” Rogers snaps back, laughing cruelly, “it is in the vows they take, is it not?”
“Only the strongest man can see the strength of women,” Odinson dismisses calmly, “my own mother keeps a pack of snow wolves. She goes out in the winter storms and reins her own sleigh. All while my father sits warm before his hearth. Her victories are not his losses.”
“Sounds rather quaint, Lord Odinson,” Rogers clucks, “your country strikes me as lacking civility.”
“Uncivil is a boring way of saying lively, and I promise, my home is much and more,” Odinson affirms, “but I think that fate has a way of placing us all where we belong, wouldn’t you agree?”
Rogers is quiet for a moment, his steps heavy as he strides on. He turns his head, his eye flicking between Odinson and yourself. He snorts and turns forward again.
“We must all take as we earn, accept what we do and do not get,” he says tritely, speaking animatedly with his hand in the air, “more often than not, we have only ourselves to thank… or blame.”
As cryptic as his words are, they are plain to you. That night with him was not unearned. Your foolishness bought your destruction. You must now live out your sentence of watching him walk arm in arm with another woman, your sister, everyday. You must accept that what he took can never be reclaimed.
💙
You sit in the garden, wrapped in a shawl as autumn breezes around the table. Your mother has a fur on her shoulders and your sisters chatter their teeth as they sip their tea. You rub your hands together, your gloves doing little against the crisp air. You suspect the days of dining without are close to done.
As you watch a leaf drift down from a branch, the hinges whine, and your father emerges from within. He gives an emphatic shiver as he claps his hands together. He seems rather pleases as he has his shoulders pushed back and his hat on a tilt.
"Daughters, my lovely wife, it is a beautiful day, is it not?"
You wonder at his uncharacteristic glee. Your father is ever practical and serious, on all matters. More so, he confounds as through the mutter of responses, he looks to you. You nod and agree with his sentiment softly.
"My daughter, my eldest, you... have a visitor."
You blink and withhold a grimace. He hates when you make faces. You force a smile and your voice crackles as you muster your voice.
"A visitor, father?"
"He is inside, he cannot have his tea alone," he says as if you should know who he alludes to.
You stand as Cora rolls her eyes, "who could be here for her?"
You notice how Albina and Hannah share a look. You cannot determine whether it is at your expense or Cora's.
"Daughter," your father drawls, "do not be sour that your betrothed eludes you."
"He does not--"
"So be happy for your sister and enjoy your tea."
She huffs and reaches for her cup. You step around her chair and approach your father. He smiles and as you near, he puts his hands on your arms. He is smiling. Genuinely.
"He has my blessing, of course, I will need accompany you to maintain propriety," he speaks quietly, "come."
You dip your chin down and meekly follow him inside. A servant pulls the door closed behind you. Your steps echo down the corridor as your father leads you to the sunroom. As you enter, there is some rustling and a subtle creak.
You peek up to find Lord Odinson standing with a hand on his vest. He bows to you and your father. You stop in the archway.
Your father proceeds, unaffected, and sits in the cushioned chair nearest the fireplace. He slaps his thighs as he splays his legs and grunts.
"Well, then, get on with it," your father grumbles.
Lord Odinson straightens his posture and gulps. He reaches up and toys with his cravat, the starch fabric already askew. He smiles, his cheeks reddening. He sways and looks between your father and yourself.
"I thought it very difficult to put this in ink but now I am here, I find the same is true of words," he says, laughing at his own joke, "so, lady, I trust this isn't very surprising to you. I've made my intentions clear and I've made your father a proposal, which he has graciously approved. Thus I put to you the question..." he twists his cravat, stops himself, then grips his jacket lapel, "would I be a fair husband to you? Er, or rather, would you... would you... honour me as a wife?"
The air stills and the chill that trailed you in dissipates. You blink dumbly and let your mouth fall open. You glance at your father. You understand his happiness now and yet you cannot believe it.
Your stomach churns and you clamp your mouth shut. The silence turns unbearable. You notice how Lord Odinson's cheek spasms and his complexion drains.
"Yes, sir, I... suppose... rather, I would..." you feel as if you're choking, "is it true? A marriage?"
"You wouldn't have to leave your homeland forever. I have some months ahead of me and my holdings here. We could visit--"
"Yes, yes, I will marry you," you murmur.
You hold your breath. Waiting. For one of them to break. For a peel of laughter between them. For it all to be another trick.
"Glory," Odinson exclaims as he proffers his hand, "shall we sit for tea, then, my valkyrie?"
You nod, unable to speak for fear of croaking. It is real. This man is real but you worry, his attention may yet prove false.
I love men who moan, men who whimper unashamedly in your ear. Men who sob, men who cry, men who bite your neck, your shoulder because you feel so good they can't help but drool a little, men who beg "Please baby, you feel so good", their pretty eyes crystallize, men who like to overstimulate themselves by continuing to come in and out of you, with broken grunts and a scratchy throat.
1/? Kloppo farewell posts | Believe "A message to the Liverpool supporters?! We have to change – from doubters to believers." (2015) // "And since today I'm one of you and I keep believing in you. I'll stay a believer - one hundred percent!" (2024)