Would you consider writing some bittersweet angsty pining for Eivor? I love your writing so much 🥺
hi nonny, sorry this took so long ♥ but here’s some bittersweet mutual pining with a dash of fluff —inspired by the most recent in-game festival, game glitches, and late-night conversations with @angstygunslinger
m!Eivor x fem!Reader
THERE’S A LOUD thud just outside your small bakery in Fornburg —it’s followed by the wild squawking of a raven. Those two sounds combined tell you all you need to know about the raucous and who’s responsible for it. Sighing, you slide a batch of honey cakes into the stone oven and turn to the door, wiping your hands on the front of a worn apron.
Eivor Wolfsmal is rising from the thick pile of snow beneath the eave —with snow stuck to his short-cropped beard and his golden hair. Glancing up to the ridge of the roof, you find a streak of the wooden shingles visible and Sýnin still croaking madly —it’s not so much an alarmed cry as it is a mocking one. You wish you could say this is the first time Eivor has fallen off the roofs around Ravensthorpe, but it’s not, and knowing him, you doubt it’ll be the last, either. “What are you doing?” You ask, brow raised, and arms crossed.
He smiles, flashing his teeth in a charming, boyish smile —his clear blue eyes focusing on you. “Just wanted to see how much it hurt when you fell from the heavens,” Eivor tells you. You want to scold him for such carelessness —tell him one of these days, he’s going to end up breaking an arm or leg— and for his dowdy attempt at flattery. But you can’t help but laugh at your dear friend, hiding your smile behind your hand.
STIRRING A SWEET glaze of honey and chopped walnuts thinned with mead, you drizzle the mixtures over a fresh, cooled batch of shortcakes. A newer twist on your traditional honey cake recipe —meant to last for sea voyages and long winter days— but these soft and sticky treats aren’t meant to last long, and they never do, especially if Eivor catches a whiff of them. And since he isn’t off to make alliances or do Sigurd’s bidding, it’s only a matter of time before he shows up at the door.
You’re elbow deep in flour —sifting out missed grain hulls and small rocks— when you hear the familiar sound of something heavy thudding against the ground. It's followed by the laughing croaks of a raven and the cracking of a ceramic pot. You lean out of the cutout window, finding Eivor sprawled out on his back with the shards of a red-orange pot strewn around near his head. He groans, sitting up. “Age hasn’t made you any better at falling off roofs,” you remark.
Eivor looks up at you, brushing the dust and dirt from his hands and off his shoulders. “No,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, a flush of shame rising to his cheeks —you’ve scarcely seen Eivor blush like this. “On that, I agree,” he sighs, pushing himself off the ground and looking at the busted pot —he’ll have to find a replacement for that soon. You motion him in the bakery, pointing to the bench at the table still littered with honey cakes.
He sits, eyeing the sweet treat, but lets you look over him for any injury first. He’s certainly not as young as he used to be when he first made it a habit to slide off roofs and fall out of trees —and he’ll feel the ache in his bones come morning. You dip the corner of your apron into a cup of water and scrub the dirt from his scarred cheek before sitting at his side. “Here,” you slide him a honey cake.
“The best medicine,” he smiles, taking a bite —two more bites, and the handheld cake is gone. You've found over the years that all Eivor’s ailments can be cured by honey cakes; even cuts and winter colds could be solved with one —though it’s no small coincidence the kisses you leave on his cheek and forehead help too.
He swipes away the flour dust on your cheek, hand lingering there. You draw in a sharp breath when he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours —hoping he can’t hear how your heart hammers in your chest. “Eivor,” you whisper, voice quivering. His warm breath fans out across your cheek and lips. He’s so close and warm. The wiry hair of his golden beard tickling your chin. All you’d have to do to kiss him is tilt your chin up, but fear grips onto you —unwilling to lose one of your oldest and closest friends over something so silly as a dream.
Eivor lingers there, fighting a war inside him. He’s lost track of how long he’s wanted to kiss you, of how many times he thought about what it would be like to have your lips on his. But there’s a weight on his chest that stops him, and instead, he stays there —one hand on your waist and the other gently holding your neck.
Sýnin croaks from the windowsill, pecking at the crumbs there, and it breaks both of you from the trance. Though before you draw back from him, Eivor presses his lips to your forehead. He laughs when he sees the honey imprint of his cracked lips against your forehead and reaches for your still damp apron to wipe away the mess. You laugh, nudging his side playfully before rising to tend to the loaves of bread in the oven.
THE SIGRBLOT FESTIVAL arrives. With it comes one of the busiest times for the bakery, for not only must there be bread to celebrate, but also cakes and crackers to pack for the planned voyage to Francia. The promise of riches is too much for the settlement’s raider to ignore —as is the call for aid from Sigfred. Tarben mills the flour for fresh bread while you knead and form it into loaves to go into the oven —running day and night. In the early hours of the morning, before the events are to start, you take the time to scrawl a prayer on a piece of parchment and take it to the altar near the waterfall, where others have left their prayers and offering for the gods.
Thyra tells Eivor to go to the shrines and choose an offering to feed the giant howling wolf set aflame to mark the start of Sigrblót. He takes the time to read all the prayers, thinking it may give him insight into what his people need or wish for. He smiles at Petra’s note, make the deer fatter and, we could do with less wolves. Indeed, the number of wolves lingering outside the settlement had seemed to increase with time. Watch over us as we war and guide us to your hall when we fall, Randvi writes, practical as always.
Eivor kneels at the last prayer, pulling the small knife pinning it in place free. He unfolds the piece of parchment and recognizes the practiced script as well as his own hand. His smile and spirit falter as he reads the words. Let the gods protect the one I love when he must away. Unthinking, he crumbles the parchment in his hand and feels his heart grow heavy, sinking to the pits of his stomach. I’ve waited too long, he thinks, running a hand over his face as he glances at the piece of parchment again.
At twilight, you smooth down the front of your dress —a new one for the summer season that Eira and Sylvi had helped you make to practice their weaving and sewing skills. The paths of Ravensthorpe are light by braziers and lanterns hanging from trees and posts, though looming above everything is the bright glow of the raging bonfire. You pass by the longhouse at the same time Eivor is exiting —his leather armor replaced by a simple blue tunic, almost the same shade as your dress. “Eivor!” He turns, lips pressed into a firm line and brows furrowed, a distant look clouding his clear blue eyes. “What?” You ask, linking your arm through his, smiling. “Did you drink soured goat’s milk?”
He shakes his head. “Lost in thought,” Eivor answers, his mind still far away, the despondency apparent in his tone and reluctance to smile.
“I see,” you note, curious as to what is plaguing his thoughts during this time of celebration. You tug him toward the heart of the festival, thinking a cup or two of mead might loosen his tongue. “Come, have a drink with me.” Tekla hands you both a tankard of mead and instead of lingering in the heart of the festivities, you motion to Eivor to follow you to the docks close to the jomsvikings hut, where dozens of small wooden ships and rafts, each holding a lit candle, bobbing down the river like a hundred tiny stars.
Sitting at the edge of the dock, you pull off your slippers, letting your feet sink into the cool water —a pleasant relief to the warm and humid English summer. Eivor sits next to you, nursing his cup of mead, oddly silent. “I wish you wouldn’t hide things from me,” you tell him, eyes downcast. Eivor is your closest friend, has been for many years now, and he always said you were among his closest confidants, always there for him —ready to lend an ear, ease his mind, or labor over the sweets he loved so much.
“I read your prayer,” he admits, and you can hear the hurt in his voice.
Your heart skips a beat, stomach-churning. There’s no turning back now. “You did?”
Eivor nods. He’s spent the day thinking of who the prayer was for —was it Erke, Rollo, Vili, one of his jomsvikings? Regardless, he will guard them, as he will guard your heart. Eivor places his hand on your back and sets his empty cup aside. There’s something in his eyes you’ve never noticed before, and it makes your heart leap and ache. He doesn’t know, you think, he doesn’t know I’ve loved him since we were children. “I’ll do everything I can to ensure the man you love returns safely.” He tells you.
Your look at the water below, hiding your smile but unable to hide your laughter. How can he be so oblivious? Eivor’s brows furrow, confused as to why you laugh at his promise, but none of that matters when you look at him —smile wide and eyes sparkling in the moon and starlight. His breath catches when you shift, hands reaching to cup his face. “Eivor,” you breathe, almost chiding him, “it’s you.” A weight is lifted from your chest at the confession. You see the question forming on his lips, see his eyes widen as the words finally sink in. “I love you,” you tell him, with no hesitancy or uncertainty.
He surges forward without word or warning, both arms wrapping around your middle to draw you closer —nigh across his lap— lips brushing against yours. It’s how he should have kissed you years ago, how he thinks you deserve to be kissed every day. You sigh against his lips, returning his fervor with equal measure, and he takes the chance to part your lips with his tongue, melding together, completely. It's softer than you imagined in dreams, and there’s no sparks like others describe. Your and Eivor's friendship was already slow-burning embers, this only breathed life into the flames.
It ends too soon, but when you both part it’s with soft smiles and flushed cheeks. His eyes flit over you as you comb your fingers through his beard, reaching up to steal another short, sweet kiss. He tries to chase your lips, but you won’t let him, the smile on your lips turning to laughter when your tongue darts out to lick your lips. “You taste like honey,” you tell him. It’s a different sweetness than the mead, something more akin to honey cakes.
Your eyes widen at the realization. You blamed Sylvi and Knud for the sweets that’d gone missing when you and Tarben left to carry baskets of fresh bread to the festival grounds after seeing them smile and giggle in the bushes. The flush on his cheeks deepens, his eyes darting to the river. “I may have stolen a few honey cakes earlier,” Eivor says, rubbing the back of his neck.
He looks like a scolded child. You smile again, tilting his chin up, so he meets your soft, kindly gaze. Following the scar on his cheek with your thumb, you lean in again, intent on kissing his cheek, but he turns his head at the last second, catching your lips with his. When you pull away, you press a quick peck to the tip of his nose, making yourself comfortable in his arms. “Come back to me, and you’ll have all the honey cakes you could ever want,” you assure him.
Eivor nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, arms tightening around you. “Mmm,” he hums, “love you too.” Hearing the words in his low, soothing voice sends shivers down your spine and sets your heart to racing again. Leaning back, Eivor follows your gaze to the clear night sky, seeing a light streak across it. You both share a glance, knowing there’s no point in making a wish, for you both have everything you could ever want in the Nine Realms.
[ taglist: @angstygunslinger @vanillabeanlattes @withered-poppies @ananriel @itseivwhore @maximalblaze @dynamicorbit @theelvenvalkyrie @xxdearlybeloved @elizabethroestone @elluvians @letsloveimagines @finick94 @wallsarecrumbling @kitkitvm @thedragonqueenfan @callmemythicalminx @edelae @darkravenqueen98 @rhienn-lavellan-rutherford @pat-talks ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Eivor taglist, just let me know!
sliding this over the table like it's illegal because look at him
“Lane! Are you kidding?” You hissed at the girl who’d revealed what had been a well kept secret.
“What?”
“I-”
“Oh my god! You told him you threw it away,” she slapped her hand to her mouth and tried to walk away, but wondered whether she should stay and stalled. But one more look at your betrayed expression and she was walking rather hastily across the gym.
You looked back over to Jess who’d been following the conversation between the two of you carefully. His eyes lingered on Lane walking away, but as he leant forward, he turned his attention to you. He looked genuinely taken aback, his features softening as he began to smile lightly but it quickly faded as he realised what it meant.
“So you didn’t throw the book away?” He raised an eyebrow.
“Well I- I only lied because- It’s-” it was humiliating—he knew you had the book he’d gifted to you with precious annotations lining the sides and there was nothing you could do about it.
You’d hurt him when you’d said the book was in the trash outside the school. He’d taken the time to get you something he thought you’d like and even written his inner most thoughts in the margins, but his gesture was ignored most harshly. You were frightened of him, to tell the truth, and you thought quashing encouragement was easier than being honest with him.
“God,” he scoffed, “You’re kind of a b-”
“I know. I shouldn’t have told you I threw it away. I knew what I was doing when I told you that, I’m sorry,” you confessed, feeling gushing heat rising to your cheeks.
“So why, then?” He asked with his eyebrows knitted, standing up to face you.
“Can’t you just accept my apology?”
“No, no I don’t accept. I want to know why.”
“I don’t want to tell you!” You cried, throwing your arms up in the air in defeat.
“Should I tell you what I think is the reason, then?” He asked, not bothering to wait for your answer, “I think you’re too scared to own up to your feelings, and you thought hurting mine would make yours go away.”
You wouldn’t answer him. You couldn’t—he was right and you couldn’t bare to face it. But Jess’ expression softened as he realised how difficult it was for you and he sighed, looking to his right so he couldn’t see your wounded eyes. You could see the gears turning in his head, for your eyes were fixed to him whether you wished it or not.
Jess let his inhibitions fall and forgot for a moment the very reason he had been angry as he stepped forward and cupped your cheeks, pressing his lips firmly to yours. Even as you examined him, you couldn’t have foreseen this turn of events, but it was favourable. And that, you couldn’t deny as your lips moved in sync with his.
“We’ll fix this,” he whispered against your ear as his lips detached from yours and his arms brought you closer.
of all the boys to notice when something is wrong with you, its Benny.
They’re all smart. Intuitive and in touch with subtle shifts of behavior and emotion, but they are also men. Men with their own lives and hang ups that it may take a big to click in their brain that the little joke you made about yourself at lunch was more than you let on. But Benny is the first one, turning his head to you and frowning the moment the soft self-jab leaves your lips.
It’s because he’s the youngest, you think to yourself. Even after years of bonding and being through blood and tears and trauma with one another, there’s still a bit of that fear of being left out. Of just being Will Miller’s Baby brother that he feels the need to overcompensate by being there, by taking note of what upsets who and who likes what.
Which is why he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask whats wrong because he’s noticed you’re getting quiet again and slowly slipping from outings and not texting at much, he simply grabs the house key you gave him and invited himself in with a box of pizza and cheesy garlic bread.
He ignores your complaints that “i had a long day at work” and “I still need to do the dishes” because he’s already setting the box on the kitchen island and putting away plate by your side. “if you wanna get rid of me, it’ll take more than some housework.”
soon after you’re both sat on the couch, watching some movie he insists you’ll love because its stupid, but a funny kind of stupid. The movie drags on and you curl into his side. Neither of you say anything of it.
“You know I love you, right?” He asks softly. You look up and see that look of care and concern that makes you heavy with guilt. “we all do. But, you’re amazing. You need to realize that.”
You don’t trust your voice to not crack. Because everything has just been so much. Work and life and having to look at yourself in the mirror compared to other beautiful women and you just aren’t happy so you just wrap your arms around him tight and he pulls you onto his lap where you stay for the rest of the movie. Eventually you fall asleep, but he gently jostles you awake enough to lead you to your bedroom where you unceremoniously flop onto the mattress, making him laugh. He’s ready to leave until you stretch out a hand and make a grabbing motion toward him. He slips into bed with you, face curling into the crook of you neck and cold hands slipping above the back of your shirt which makes you grouch and grumble, but you keep him close to you nonetheless.
Frankie is next.
You come home to see him in your home. The second overly polite home break-in you’ve had in two weeks.
“You know, I didn’t give you guys keys for this, right?”
He’s in the kitchen, standing over a bubbling pot with a sweet faced little girl straped to his chest, who shrieks with joy and wiggles the moment she sees you.
“Yeah well, somebody wanted to say hello.” His daughter kicks her feet and does her best to escape the contraption keeping her stuck to Francisco’s chest, it isn’t until you unclip it and pull her into your arms that she finally settles. “She wouldn’t even let me drive home, little tyrant.”
You press several loud kisses to her cheek that mage her squeal. “sounds about right.”
He lifts a spoonful from the pot and holds it over to you, where you tentatively sip before humming. “That’s what I thought. Mama Morales’ recipes never fail.” He nods to his daughter, now making herself content with chewing on the collar of your shirt. “Why don’t you go entertain the little trouble maker while I finish up dinner for you? I made enough that you’ll have leftovers for some time.”
You see it again, that look of care and thinly hidden worry in those big brown eyes that make your own begin to tear up. “Frankie, I-”
He shakes his head. “It’s okay, bug.” He tells you softly. “I know.”
You bring his daughter into the living room, where you tickle her tummy and groan dramatically as she slaps you with her little hands until her father calls you in for food.
The warm food makes you comfortable. Sleepy and fuzzy in a way that a soft blanket does, it also makes you honest. As you sit next to Francisco and look at the sleeping little girl in his arms.
“It’s just. Hard lately.” You confess. “And it shouldn’t be. I don’t know why it is and I can’t-”
“It’s alright.” He tells you slowly. “You don’t need a reason for this, bug. God knows I understand. Just…” He looks off for a moment and you wonder if he’s remembering his own. The falls and rises, the dark nights alone where he felt like he would never begin to pull it together because of how fast everything was unraveling.
Maria shifts in his arms, smacking her lips in her sleep before settle again against his chest.
“Don’t try to do this alone, alright?”
You promise him as such.
Will takes you for a drive.
Driving with Will, you gather, is lot like driving with your father. He’s silent. IN the way that even with music playing, you feel like there’s something unspoken that hangs in the air and he’s hoping you head.
When his hand comes out against you as he stops suddenly, you hear it loud enough.
He doesn’t park until the sun is beginning to set and you see no buildings, only wide green fields and the occasional group of cows chewing at the grass without a care in the world.
You slip from the car and walk behind him as he opens the bed of his truck.
“Is this where you finally kill me?”
He scoffs. “God no, if I was gonna kill you it wouldn’t be out in the open, bug. I’m not a fucking amueter.”
You laugh, he laughs as well.
“You wanna talk about it?”
You fall silent for a moment. “no, not yet.”
He nods. The pair of you sit in the bed of his truck, watching the sky bleed orange in a blissful quiet. Will wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close, your head falls onto his shoulder.
“your brother broke into my house last week.” You tell him. Will chuckles in reply.
“I told you giving him a key was a bad idea.”
“I’m starting to think giving all of you a key was a bad idea. I mean honestly, you fuckers stay over at my house more than I do at this point!”
The pair of you melt away into a conversation about just how comfortable your couch is on his back and the prospect of him maybe-maybe getting a dog. On the drive back you ask him if he has any names picked out.
He tells you that he has five.
Santi is the last to say something of it, which isn’t unusual of him. The man is a flurry of pain and ideas that sometimes he can forget the people around him until he realizes that the only person he’s been talking to is himself.
You can sympathize.
He invites you over for dinner. Invites all the boys too. He opens the door to you standing there, holding a case of beer and whistles.
“You look like shit.”
“yeah well you aren’t exactly princess Diana either.”
You smile as he pulls you into his arms. You feel comfortable, safe and wear in your chest when he holds you tight against him. Pope always gave the best hugs. When he pulls away he touches your arm and tilts his head.
“You doin’ alright?”
“No.” You tell him honestly. “But I will be, eventually I think. I’ve got a uh-” You pull at a scab on your hand as you begin to sweat. “Therapy appointment next week. I think…it’ll be good for me.”
Pope nods. Not necessarily happy with your answer but content. He motions behind him. “The guys are out back. Benny is talking about how we should start having movie night at your place now.”
“Oh for fucks sake.”
The night is spent in his backyard, listening as Benny very passionately makes his case that yes. Your house may be smaller than Pope’s but your couch is more comfortable and you aren’t fucking stingy when it comes to ordering food for the group. Will asks if this is why Benny welcomes himself into your home without warning every goddamn week. The younger millers confesses, adding “that and she’s prettier than the rest of you assholes.”
Will is bouncing Maria on his knee, blowing raspberries into her tummy that make her shriek with laughter and her father smile from across the lawn.
The entire night they all subtly check on you. Each bringing you a plate of food after the other, a small hand squeezing yours or a soft “you okay?” asked so softly you could cry.
A group of soldiers, all tittering around you like a bunch of mother hens without any chicks of their own to look after.
But you can’t complain. Of their little pricks and prods because its all done out of good intentions. Of care and concern and love for you.
Love.
You smile into your beer as you lift it up to your lips. An argument between Benny and Pope rings in the background, something about who Mari’s favorite uncle truly is, as you sit back and feel at peace, if only for a moment.
It was easy to forget, you probably would again. But your boys would always be there to remind you of just how much love they had for you.
switched it up & wrote something about carmen berzatto 🐻 enjoy! don’t forget to let me know what you thought!
——
Romanticism has never been one of the flourishing facets of Carmen Berzatto’s life.
His fundamentalist resembles a warm slice of oozing cherry pie. The golden crust, buttered and flaky, epitomizes what keeps him grounded: his kitchen family. Admittedly, they are all guilty of spreading too thin at times, including Carmen. But a snappish reminder for everyone to chill always seems to temporarily patch the breakage. No matter the chaotic and clashing blend of personalities running around, there is an unspoken level of respect, and if one were to peel back the layers of crispy pastry flakes, a sense of deep love present between the chefs would reveal itself.
And, of course, a crust is not thought to be perfect without adding a teaspoon of Sugar.
The thick filling, syrupy and tart, represents the heart of what Carmen does: cooking. It’s his identity. From a young boy making hodgepodge recipes with his brother Mikey, to working his way up the ranks until he was honored with a prestigious James Beard award for his excellence in the culinary arts at one of the best restaurants in the world. He’d beg to differ that last part based on his degrading and mentally taxing experience being chef de cuisine there, but he tries not to dwell on the past. Everything has led him to where he is now, managing his dead brother’s sandwich shop, The Original Beef of Chicagoland, and ardently attempting to keep it afloat even when the crew is drowning. Hell, every part of the place is being sucked into the depths of despair.
The intricate topping, latticed and bursting, symbolizes the woven pathways of Carmen’s grief. Anger, anxiety, fear, and guilt all cross over one another like a mesh pattern of his torment, the sour cherries of his gashed heart desperately rupturing through the barrier. Mikey’s suicide set up roadblocks that Carmen had never encountered before. The pain of his grief manifests itself in physical pain. Surreal nightmares jolt him from his sleep. Most noticeable is his repressed rage. It cuts loose at work, often unannounced and uncontrollable. Yelling, swears aplenty. Throwing objects, from pens to pots. He doesn’t mean to outpour his anger onto other people, but it’s busting at the seams.
bit self indulgent… but “is it getting bad again?” with frank 🥺
Hi Rhi, my love <3 I hope you're doing alright, and I hope this cheers you up a bit. Sending you all of my love.
Join us at the cafe!!!
The tears weren’t meant to fall, not when you’d spent the entire walk home obsessively blinking them back, but the second you stepped through the door and Frank’s face lit up from where he sat on the couch, sipping coffee, your resolve crumbled.
Instantly, before the first tear could drip from your chin, Frank was in front of you, wiping them away with the pad of his thumb.
“Hey, sweet girl,” he soothed, leading you back to the couch where he draped a blanket over your knees and handed you his half-empty mug of coffee. The porcelain was hot to the point of tingling pain, but it warmed your palms and distracted you from the headache starting to form, so you held on for dear life.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“Can I just—” you sniffled, taking a sip of bitter liquid then setting the mug on the coffee table, “can you hold me for a minute?”
Frank nodded immediately, reaching out to pull you into his lap, your knees on either side of his hips, your chest pressed against his own. Resting your head on his sternum, listening to the soft, constant thud of his heart, your tears soaked into the fabric of his grey pullover.
“It wasn’t any particular moment, it’s just everything, everywhere, all of the time. It’s like, I don't know, someone’s overturned a chessboard in my head. Now all those moves I’d calculated for my eventual success mean absolutely nothing, and I’m scrambling to reset the board and keep playing but I can’t remember where I put my pieces. It’s stupid, I know, but—”
“Don’t say that,” Frank said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Don’t talk like that. It’s not stupid.”
Pulling back, you gazed into his dark eyes, at the concern in them. Resting your forehead against his, you leaned in for a kiss. It was tender and gentle and reassuring, and his hand came up to cup the back of your neck, bringing you closer.
“Is it getting bad again, Frank?” The question was a mumble against his lips, and as you said it, you’d hoped he’d miss it.
It was Frank’s turn to pull back. Cupping your face, he ran his thumbs over your cheeks, wiping away any traces of tears.
“I can’t be the one to answer that question,” he whispered, placing another delicate kiss to your lips, “but I can be the one to help you through this, if you want me to.”
Can I request one with either remus or Peter where you’re overworking yourself at work and he tries to gently tell you to take it easy but you’re stubborn af and overdo it and you end up fainting from exhaustion and you’re embarrassed but he takes care of you?
hi thanks so much for your request this is so sweet! hope this is alright xx
"Hey baby," Peter says, answering your call with a confused happiness. "You finished already?"
"Is this Peter? Y/N's boyfriend?"
Ice in his veins. He kicks his board into his hands and takes the cell phone from where it's wedged between his ear and his shoulder.
"That's me," he says quickly.
"I'm calling because she fainted. Um, she's okay, she's sitting up now, but. I wanted to call an ambulance."
His ears are ringing so loudly he worries he might go deaf. Then, straining, he can hear your voice in the background.
"Dora, why would you tell him that? Let me speak to him." You sound bone tired and maybe a little out of it.
"You might fall over."
"On the phone? Dora!"
A shuffling sound as the phone is passed. He's already back on his board, skating so hard the tracks wobble. He presses his cell closer to his ear as your voice grows louder.
"Pete?" you ask, voice small.
"I told you, babe."
You both laugh, yours resigned and his relieved that you seem to be in okay spirits. "I know," you say regretfully. "Where are you?"
"Five minutes and I'm there."
"Okay," you say.
There's a stretch of quiet where he navigates a busy sidewalk and has to step off, half-shoving suits and maneuvering around old women. He's calmed by your soft breathing, your huffing exhales.
"Peter?" you ask softly.
"What? Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, just… I feel like I should say sorry.” Your voice turns to a sheepish whisper. ”I’m so embarrassed."
"Bub, don't worry about it. Come on."
You hum. He pushes open the door to your small coffee shop and hangs up, finds you sitting in a leather brown chair by the window looking positively miserable.
With his skateboard tucked under his arm he leans into your space, checking you over methodically. You brighten when you notice he's arrived, eyes gaining some of their lightness, slack shoulders rising.
"You hit your head?" he asks.
You shake your head. Your smile is slow but full of fondness. "Dora caught me."
He spies Dora over your shoulder and gives her a grateful smile. The woman in question does an awkward thumbs up.
He returns his attention to you, tucking his fingers behind your ear, palm cradling your cheek. You turn your tired face into his touch and sigh.
"I'm tired," you tell him.
"I know," he murmurs. "You had something sugary?"
"Yeah, I'm all topped up."
"Alright. Let's get you home, huh?"
You smile with your eyes closed and nod into his hand. He dots a kiss on your forehead. "Okay," he says. He pulls you up and lets you lean the majority of your weight into him and leads you out of the coffee shop, juggling your weight and his skateboard deftly under his arms.
"You wanna sit on the board? I'll wheel you home."
"Shut up, Peter."
"I know I'm a broken record, but you really have to slow down, bub. I mean it."
Your head flops back against his shoulder, eyes finding his. You look apologetic. "I will. Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Just need you to take care of my girl."
You blink, a shy smile on your lips. "I will,” you repeat.
His hand squeezes your waist. "Thank you. Do me a favour?”
“What?”
“Hail a cab? My hands are full of precious cargo.”
CW: PTSD, depression, chronic illness, disability, implied sexual intimacy
Ao3 Link
★★★★★★★★
You can’t remember the last time the pain was this bad—full-body exhausted, every joint in your body buzzing with discomfort. You got dressed today, went to your favorite caf bar, did a little bit of work only to receive a series of obnoxious messages from your new boss before turning off your datapad and going home—where you immediately got into bed. Arseven, your support droid, has done her best, bringing you heat wraps and bacta spray and meds. But you can sense her distress at her inability to fix everything for you. Because it’s not just that your whole body is sore, but you are bone-tired, aching not just from your chronic condition but from the emotional distress that finally peaked today.
When Cassian comes home—earlier than expected—you hear him in the kitchen telling Kay to give him some time with you. “My com has been too quiet today. You know I usually get a few little texts at least—I think something’s really wrong.”
Kay starts with “Organics—” but Cassian cuts him off.
“Not now, Kay. Seven pinged me and I need you to, I don’t know, maybe go for a walk.”
“A walk?” Kay scoffs. Cassian must be giving him a look because immediately Kay corrects himself. “Right. Okay. But I’m taking Seven.”
“Good idea. She said she had an errand to run.”
You hear Cassian’s shoulder bag fall heavy to the kitchen floor, his boots being tossed into the front hallway, his jacket hitting and then sliding off the back of the couch. And finally he’s climbing into bed behind you, pulling you close, your back pressed to his warm chest, his hair tickling your skin as he kisses your neck.
“My heart,” he says. “Talk to me. What do you need?”
When you break down in tears he squeezes you tight, and whispers in your ear. “Whatever it is, I want to make it right.”
You turn to face him, and he brushes your tears away with his thumbs. “It’s a lot,” you say.
“If it’s anything I did, I need you to tell me.”
“It’s not you,” you say. “It’s…I’m just completely overwhelmed.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes,” is all you can manage to get out.
“And Seven told me there was something with work today.”
You give him the short version of what your boss said to you today. Cassian knows that in recent months things had turned sour at your part-time job. And when he hears the whole story from this week, he doesn’t even bother to conceal his frustration.
“You know what I think of that man,” he says. “And I am not going to tell you what to do. But we have more than enough money for you to never work another day in your life if that is a choice you want to make.”
You nod, swallowing, trying to take a deep breath. Cassian caresses your cheek, his hand soft against your skin. And in his beautiful eyes, a knowing—he sees you so wholly and honestly and in this moment you have never been more grateful for him.
“Just hold me,” you ask. “Please.”
And he does. He kisses your forehead, cradles your face against his shoulder, rubs your back, his hands knowing exactly where and how to touch as you weep softly. And you let the closeness of his body and the warm scent of him calm you, his kind voice whispering to you that everything will be all right.
“My heart, you are enough,” he says. “Just you, being here. That’s enough. Please tell me you know that.”
author’s note: literally just a mish-mash of random headcanons + little phrases i think this man would say/do ; if my feeble brain allows i’ll make a part 2 🤷🏾♀️
"honey, that knife is really fuckin' sharp. be careful, yeah?"
never even considered or cared about quitting smoking until he met you. after your first date he went to his local bodega and started buying packs of nicotine patches and gum
"shit. are we outta onions?"
so we all know that carmy would usually hate it when people bug him while he's in the zone and he's cooking, right? okay but picture this. you're over at his place. he's making pasta sauce and he just looks so peaceful and before you even know what you're doing you walk over and wrap your arms from behind him and you kinda just rest your head against him. he's taken aback at first. yes you two started dating but... physical touch? he kinda tenses up a little.
"is this okay?' you ask cautiously.
a beat. "yeah... it's great," he says with a little smile, turning back to look at you. now he can't cook at home without you hugging him :,)
you once tried to convince him to let you sit on his head and tug on his hair while he was cooking
"like the rat in ratatouille!" you had said excitedly. he looked lost. "you know... the movie? ratatouille? isn't that... like... required reading for chefs?"
apparently he had never even seen it which made you shed a tear for his childhood
of course you had made him watch it with you that very night. he mumbled something about health codes and about how anton ego's assholery reminded him of his old boss but he thought the movie was pretty cute. a rat that could cook? he would have to remember to text richie later that he had found a biopic that was based on his life story
"soooo?" you said expectantly when the credits started rolling. again, he looked lost. "will you let me be the rat?" you say with feigned seriousness.
"absolutely not."
he drinks his coffee black. when i say black i mean black black. only occasionally does he get it with two sugars if he really feels like it. when he tried that shaken oatmilk espresso brown sugar or something (he could never remember the name) that you always get from starbucks, the sweetness of it had him shocked
"honey, this is like... 5% coffee and 95% milk ಠ_ಠ"
you two have made it a tradition where you'll go over to his place and dust off one of his dozens of cookbooks, flip to a random page, and make what's on it. sometimes it comes out absolutely awful, but you've found some real gems, too. you two's favorite ravioli recipe had come from a weathered cookbook that was at the bottom of one of his piles
farmers market dates are a given
he likes to knock on coconuts to see if they’re “ready” (michael taught him this)
on the rare occasion he drinks, he goes for white wine. the drier, the better.
i know i said he's not big into physical touch, but i'd like to think that if he drank enough of that aforementioned wine, he would become super touchy. drunk carmy (and sleepy carmy) just would not be able to keeps his hands off you (and it's kinda hot)
“does this need more salt, hon?”
i feel like this man either has a shit ton of aprons at home or he has only one that he has used to absolute death; no in between
his favorite candy is any flavor salt water taffy (except banana) or super dark chocolate (i’m talking 70% cacao content or more) with carmel inside
i feel like his receiving love language would be words of affirmation. he loves being assured, even if he doesn't quite believe you. he's a sucker for a good old-fashioned "i'm proud of you". in terms of giving, his love language is definitely acts of service. you have some dry cleaning ready? no problem he'll pick it up for you on the way back from work. you have a stomachache? don't worry, his mom has a recipe for that and he'll whip it right up for you. had a bad day at work? he's already on his way to get you your favorite thai food, even if it's out of his way. this man lives to please you :,)
an. well. what can i say. white boy of the month :/ porn without plot :/ an absolute thirst post of epic proportions :/ the bear is tv at it’s finest and while this is literally filth, i cradle the show like a baby bird and give it sweet kisses. i dont know if anyone is going to read, but if you do, pls comment and reblog if u liked<3 (@ohcapfics for my latest fic updates)
synopsis. you didn’t think he’d enjoy it that much. didn’t think he’d want more, too.
warnings. 18+ ONLY. you copy my shit, i’ll find out. female receiving oral and fingering, semi public sex, hair pulling, spit as lube and mentions of panic attacks.
maybe reader who has trouble sleeping and james helping her fall asleep? please feel free to ignore this have a wonderful day/night!! <3
tysm for your request! hope you're having a good day/night too!
"This feels silly," you mutter, your face hidden in the crook of James' neck.
He stops rubbing circles into your back. "Does it?" he asks genuinely.
You pout into his skin. "I'm not a baby. I shouldn't need help."
"You think we stop needing help as we get older? I'd say we need more help."
You pry open your aching eyes and shift back to look at his pretty face. The irises of his eyes are dark; they're almost black, fading into his pupils seamlessly. You raise your hand and drag the pad of your finger over rough stubble and the soft of his cheek until yout reach his eyelashes, teasing them with the pad of your pinky finger carefully.
"More help?" you ask.
"Definitely." He starts to soothe your back again, circles with a deep pressure. "When I was a kid I wasn't scared of anything."
You wait for him to continue and he doesn't.
"But now?" you ask.
He drops his chin to his chest and smiles at you as your hand cradles his cheek. "Now I'm still entirely fearless," he says, rushed with a faked ease that lets you know he's stretching the truth. "But… I don't know. I'm scared of a thousand tiny things. Like, what if the dishes don't get done tonight and I have to do them tomorrow? Or, what if I forgot to lock the car? What if my beautiful girlfriend doesn't get any rest tonight and has the aches tomorrow?"
You roll your eyes at him with little malice and he tugs you closer, his hand a sinking warmth over your shoulder blades.
"I don't remember being scared of stuff like that when I was a kid," he continues.
"I was scared of everything."
"Yeah?" he asks. He's whispering, the quiet of your room hard to disturb.
You hum. "Mh-hm. Spiders. Caterpillars and snails. Frogs. The moon following me in the car. Broccoli."
"Real things."
"I was scared of ghosts too," you say.
"Ghosts are real."
His incredulous tone gives you a terrible case of the giggles. James presses a smiling kiss to your crown and starts to pat your back, evidently pleased with your amusement. A steady, light rhythm.
Your giggles drift into silence and he adjusts his grip to hike up your shirt and slide his hands underneath, massaging the curved plane of your back in two great palms. You feel suddenly heavy where you lay on top of him, your limbs slackening.
"Needing help is a good thing," he says, words dulcet and sticky as thick honey. "If you didn't need help falling asleep, I wouldn't get to hold you like this, would I? It's only the same as when I forget my lunch at work and you bring it for me. You know what I mean?"
You're more than half asleep by now, but you do. Needing help gives someone the opportunity to provide it.
"I love you," you say instead of answering, hand twitching where it rests over his chest.
"I love you too. Goodnight," James whispers.
You mumble something unintelligible meant to sound like a goodnight in return and finally fall asleep.
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