Chapter Text
It starts with what Atreus would define, in hindsight, a pretty dumb discussion with Heimdall. It is not surprising: most of the mistakes Atreus has committed in the past two years have had, as point of origin, something ‘dumb’ associated with Heimdall.
The discussion happens at Heimdall’s apartment, as they stream another episode of the TV series Atreus has personally picked out two weeks before to occupy their laziest, lowest-effort ‘Netflix & Chill’ nights.
The choice of show is generally a grievous process. Firstly, because Atreus always has to fight tooth and nails to not succumb to Heimdall’s demand for the umpteenth, depressing Game of Thrones fac-simile that ends with most characters dead. Secondly, because the only rule they’ve set to this ritual is to pick something new to watch together, and finding a series Atreus hasn’t already binged in the spare time of their differing schedules has proven to be quite difficult.
Thankfully, this time around, the sudden appearance of a new urban fantasy series with werewolves has turned Atreus’ choice into a speedy matter. The fact that Heimdall would have not approached the show with a ten-foot pool were he not bodily forced, was not taken too strongly into consideration.
On the coziest couch that was ever created, Atreus lies, cuddled up with his head on Heimdall’s thigh and Heimdall’s normal hand resting warmly on the curve of his waist.
Remnants of the takeout he has bought on his way to the flat litter the coffee-turned-dinner table, blocking his view of one corner of the screen. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to subject himself to, in order to preserve his comfortable nest against Heimdall.
“Well, that was real dumb. Why would she tell the truth about it,” he pipes up as the characters react to the latest reveal with a distressed hand through their hair.
He isn’t a quiet TV watcher, but in his defense, the show is the kind that requires commentary.
Even Heimdall, who has physically threatened strangers for chatting during a movie projection, has surrendered to giving his input at least every three minutes.
“Well we’ve seen how she lies,” he says on cue, “Her honesty is sparing us the second-hand embarrassment—Ah, as expected, the vibrator face again.”
Filling the frame, the protagonist bites her lip in what the narration suggests is indecisiveness, but actually looks a lot more like constipation or, as Heimdall has been advocating since episode one, the ‘face of someone who hurriedly snuck a vibrator up their ass’. Atreus wouldn’t know, but he’s taken to chuckle every time Heimdall comments on it, in the same way Heimdall snorts every time he excitedly says “Wolves!” at a werewolf transformation.
“Always pulling it around the vampire,” Atreus points out slyly. “It’s so obvious that they’re getting together by the final episode.”
“That’s not gonna happen,” Heimdall says absently.
At that, Atreus frowns, turning on his back to look up at Heimdall.
“Why do you say that?” he asks, equally puzzled and displeased.
Stopping short of tilting the wine glass to his mouth, Heimdall looks down at him. His face and bionic hand are bathed in the flickering glow of the TV light as he lowers the glass and uses Atreus’ forehead as his personal tray.
“Because this is a love triangle that also includes a cute fox guy, with whom she’s spent the past two episodes building sooo many sweet memories with,” he says, tone heavy with sarcasm. “I’m sorry, but your werewolf girl isn’t gonna end up with the dark, sexy vampire. Who, I must remind you, literally just betrayed her.”
Trying not to take the words as a direct offense to good and adventurous taste, Atreus scrunches up his nose in disapproval.
“He’s not dark and sexy, he’s… he obviously has a good heart. He betrayed her because he was conditioned to. He just got some issues to work through.”
“What a healthy view to carry in your life,” Heimdall mocks. “Nonetheless, I don’t think the writers will take your bleeding heart into account.”
“Why would they miss such a chance to tell an interesting story,” Atreus says critically. “It’s already clear they’re setting up the scene for him to realize his mistake and return to her.”
“That may happen, but even then she’d still have all the reasons to drop him.”
“He deserves a second chance is all I’m saying,” he stubbornly objects, curling up on his side again.
Heimdall huffs above him. “Don’t get fussy on me for a TV show. You’re the one who keeps choosing feel-good, happy-ending stuff to watch. That’s not where you’ll find your kinky romances.”
“It would be a feel-good ending to me,” he protests. “I bet they’re gonna be the endgame couple. Just you watch.”
After a moment of quiet, Heimdall says, “Alright, place your bet if you care so much.”
Pressing the pause button on the remote, Atreus uncurls a little, to glance at Heimdall with confusion. “Like, actual bet?”
Heimdall shrugs. “Why not?”
“Okay…” Atreus ponders over it for a second. “If I’m right, I get to choose the next show again.”
“Fine. If I’m right, I choose one day to use a vibrator on you. I get to say when and how.”
For a long moment, Atreus blinks, trying to assimilate Heimdall’s words. Then he frowns. “That sounds like an unbalanced bet.”
“Is it?” Heimdall smiles daringly. “Do you want to up your bet?”
“Yes,” Atreus says, but has no idea what to ask. He didn’t realize sex was on the table. “I choose… one day for you to do everything I say.”
This way, he can keep his options open to new ideas. And even if he won’t come up with anything creative, the simple prospect of ordering Heimdall around for an entire day makes him heady, like dancing too close to the edge of a cliff.
Heimdall’s smirk sharpens, in a way that momentarily makes Atreus doubt this is a good idea. “Is that your darkest, wettest dream? For me to be your obedient little pet? How controlling… And here I just wanted to find out what kind of face you make when a dildo is vibrating in your ass.”
As the bottom of the wine glass is lifted to Heimdall’s lips once more, Atreus immediately misses its cool touch on his warming skin.
So what if he does lose? He’s never used a vibrator in his life, but now that the idea has been planted into his brain…
With a flush spreading higher on his face, he glances away.
“We’ll see if you get to find out. Otherwise, it’s behaving time for you.” Feigning nonchalance, he rolls back into place, cheek pressing decisively against the fabric of Heimdall’s trousers. With an odd restlessness powering his limbs, he even finds the strength to nudge the problematic takeaway box out of his screen view.
Slid over his stomach, Heimdall’s normal hand doesn’t move back to his waist. Instead, it snakes down and under his sweatshirt, where it stays, drawing slow circles on the skin with his thumb.
“We’ll see indeed,” Heimdall says, and the trepidation dripping from his voice, as if he had already collected victory in his pocket, might as well be one more spoken word. “Let’s watch another episode after this, shall we?”
The thought of opposing the idea weighs for a few seconds on Atreus’s mind, as Heimdall’s hand splayed wide on his lower belly tempts him to propose other activities for the night.
But then he says, “Sure,” and presses Play.
The more they watch, the faster the bet’s results will come in.
And all in all, however it goes, it shouldn’t be too bad for him, right?
*
Wrong. It is bad.
Atreus should have known better: Heimdall is no lying trickster, but he certainly has a penchant for pulling promises out of him that he will come to regret.
When Heimdall had spoken of vibrators, Atreus had, with some bashful excitement, imagined a nicely sized dildo to be used specifically in the confines of Heimdall’s bedroom – because god knows Atreus wasn’t going to risk that level of experimenting under the same roof of his father.
He hadn’t quite predicted that Heimdall’s own idea for the bet would involve a remotely controlled vibrator and a shit-eating grin as he instructs Atreus to bring it home and wear it the next day for his university classes.
“This isn’t what I agreed to,” Atreus says, temporarily setting aside his curiosity for the relatively small, oval-shaped device dangling from his hand by its thin black string.
“Oh no no, this is most certainly what you agreed to. I’m choosing the day, the when and how,” Heimdall says. “The when is tomorrow afternoon and the how is, in your ass and under my control until I say so. You only have a few classes anyway, right? Of course, if you don’t think you can uphold your end of the bargain… A punishment—”
“Whatever,” Atreus interrupts him, if only to save Heimdall’s cheeks from being cut open on the sharpness of his smirk. “I’ll do it.”
So the next day, not only he has to keep mourning the fact that his favorite couple in the show did not hook up, but he also has to prepare for his afternoon at the university by locking himself in his bathroom and working the lubed up device inside him until only a couple of inches of black string remains visible.
After pulling up his pants and taking a few experimental, nervous steps, he takes out his phone to type a quick ‘Done’ to Heimdall, who promptly types back ‘Leaving?’.
‘Yeah’, Atreus writes picking up the backpack with his other hand.
He promptly stops when the vibrator comes to sudden life in hiccups, going up and down in intensity as if, right out of the gate, Heimdall had surrendered the remote controller to a playful cat.
He stalls at his bedroom door, squirming on the spot, and waiting – hoping – for Heimdall to get bored with it.
With such random highs and lows, it’s weirder than it is pleasant. Maybe it would also be funnier, if it weren’t for his father loitering in the living room. Will he notice anything if Atreus walks by? The vibrator’s shape is a solid presence he can feel with every step, but it’s not big enough to force him into a weird walk. Or so he hopes.
Perhaps it’s simply the idea of seeing his father while there’s a vibrator going off inside him that is truly making him consider exiting from his bedroom window.
Heimdall, of course, does not get bored.
‘Having fun?’ Atreus types out.
‘ :) ’
‘I need to leave the house.’
‘No one is holding you back.’
Resisting the urge to crumple the phone in his hands, Atreus takes a deep breath and decides to powerwalk all the way to the entrance door.
Or that’s the plan anyway.
“Atreus,” Father predictably calls. “About the dinner with Mimir.”
“Sorry, can we talk later? I’m super late,” he replies, dodging his three overexcited huskies with a complicated dance between their wagging tails.
Despite his father’s lack of expressivity, Atreus can tell he’s taken aback by his atypically quick dismissal of the dogs. Being very familiar with his father’s penchant for worry, he knows better than to go on his way without receiving at least a nod of approval.
Thankfully, Father does grunt in assent, but before Atreus can sprint away, he grumbles, “Are you alright, Atreus? Your face is red.”
“I’m good!” Atreus cuts short, already halfway out the door. “I feel great. Bye! Love you!”
In the – arguable – safety of the outside world, he lets out a relieved sigh, trying not to dwell too much on the fact that this is only the beginning.
‘You’re a dick’ he messages Heimdall for good measure.
And Heimdall, as confirmation of being an absolute dick, only then switches the vibrator off.
*
The vibrator remains dead silent for all the ride to the university. Rather than being thankful for it, Atreus can’t help but be on edge. He tries to distract himself with a book, a phone game, some music – but in the end, however still, the vibrator seems to pull all his thoughts back to it and to Heimdall’s unknown plans for him. He has no idea how he’s ever going to focus on his classes today.
When it switches on while heading to his first class with Skjoldr, its vibrations are regular and subdued. A bewildering kindness coming from Heimdall, but one he definitely appreciates: the curious new feeling isn’t bad at all, but most importantly it is manageable. While half-listening to the anthropology professor’s lecture, Atreus grows convinced that he can actually come out of this ordeal on top.
He’s not quite of the same opinion after two hours and a half of steady, unrelenting rhythm.
The linguistics professor’s words have been fully lost to a blur, and his notes haven’t fared any better in the past half hour.
The last time the vibrator went down to almost stillness – leaving him stranded once again between gratefulness and misery – must have been twenty minutes ago; now, Atreus is on edge, foot tapping restlessly on the floor as he boils with a shaky energy that has no way to go but to the front of his pants.
One too many times he has passed a sweaty hand through his hair or caught himself mindlessly humping his own arm between his legs. Any subtle attempt to squirm in his seat and escape at least some of the sensations the vibrator is mercilessly inciting, only seems to spark a worse effect. Atreus’ lower muscles feel like mush, fluttering and clenching weakly around the toy, and completely out of his control.
Something is coiling tight in his belly, threatening to crest, and Atreus may be just about to scream.
Leaning forward on the desk, he concentrates on his phone screen, where his chat with Heimdall is open on a one-directional conversation.
Please turn it down
[15:54 ✓✓]
I am talking to someone!!
[15:56 ✓✓]
Can you turn it down just a little
[16:08 ✓✓]
I have general linguistics now. I love this class, please
[16:11 ✓✓]
HEIMDALL
[16:38 ✓✓]
I hate you
[16:42 ✓✓]
come ON
[16:45 ✓✓]
Each message left on read, in the app as well as in practice.
“Did you and Heimdall fight?” Skjoldr whispers, and when Atreus drags his eyes away from the chat, he’s almost surprised to find him there. To find anyone beside him, for that matter. Perhaps his brain is growing a little too hazy.
“Hm?”
When Skjoldr’s concerned question registers, he tries to school his expression into something that hopefully looks less dazed. With the wary way his friend keeps eyeing him, he can’t tell if he’s managed.
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ve been glaring at your phone a lot.”
“Ah. Well.” Atreus presses his lips together, swallowing back a compromising noise that shoots up his throat when he accidentally shifts in his seat. “No, everything’s fine. He’s just being infuriating.”
“Okay, good! It’s terrible when you guys fight. Like, Ragnarök, end-of-the-world kind of stuff. No one’s safe, haha.”
“What? That’s not true.”
“I mean, isn’t that the reason why he started calling you ‘Loki’?”
“No, he calls me ‘Loki’ because he says I’m—”
A buzz – thankfully one out of him – and his phone lights up with the first notification from Heimdall in more than an hour. His fingers rush to open the chat.
I can’t find my black hoodie. Did you take it?
[16:48]
Seriously. Atreus is currently dying in a university classroom, and this is what Heimdall is concerned about?
Sure, he’s wearing that exact hoodie because he deemed it big enough to fully cover his groin in case of need – and he’s very glad to have had that foresight, because otherwise he’d be in a much worse situation now. But can’t Heimdall make an effort to acknowledge the torture he’s been dishing out?
Atreus starts to type furiously—then stops.
If Heimdall wants to ghost him, he can get a taste of his own medicine.
Slowly deleting the message, he lingers on the open chat for a few more seconds, to enjoy Heimdall’s expectant ‘online’ status. Then he locks the screen again.
“We, wh… What was I saying?”
“That you’re definitely not fighting.”
“Yes.” A necessary, hitched pause as his hips wriggle involuntarily. “Correct.”
“Alright… If you say so. Then why infuriating?”
“He’s just. Not answering my texts on, ah, purpose. But it’s nothing.”
“Gooot it. Then, about Friday night, Thrud and I are going to meet at—”
Atreus’ forehead slams loudly against the desk, as the vibrations peak at a new intensity against the quivering walls of his ass.
The professor’s speech, a background noise in his ringing, burning ears, falters for a moment before picking up again.
“Are you okay?!” Skjoldr shout-whispers.
The courage to raise his head and find out exactly how many people are looking confusedly in his direction doesn’t come right away. When he finds it, he has to push the words out carefully, so that no moan replaces them without permission.
“A-Actually, I don’t—” His brain freezes, forgetting the purpose of the sentence as his squirming legs manage to press the vibrator further into his prostate. “Don’t think I ah—m.”
In a moment of sudden clarity amidst the clouding pleasure, he realizes he has to go, or he’ll cum in his pants, in the middle of the classroom and completely unable to do it quietly.
“Yeah buddy, I think you have a fever. You look a little constipated,” Skjoldr says unhelpfully. “Do you want me to come with—”
“No, no, I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll.” Atreus can’t go on, and hopes his hand gesture can cover for the lack of an end to the sentence. He choppily shoves his belongings into his backpack and manages to grit out, “Talk later, okay?”
He doesn’t wait for an answer. Pulling the hem of his hoodie low over his crotch, he shuffles between the rows of sitting students – pressing his lips into a shaky line every time his front accidentally rubs against a chair – and sprints out of the room as fast as his wobbly legs allow him.
First stop, the restroom.
He slams its doors open, and makes a quick check of the stalls – all empty, thank god – then proceeds to lock himself into the farthest one. Trying to even out his irregular breathing to not sound as pathetic, he pulls out his phone and dials a familiar number.
Heimdall picks up on the fourth ring, which somehow feels deliberately slow.
“Hey.”
“You’re an asshole, you know?”
“And you’re a dirty little thief,” Heimdall says. “Did you call just to insult me? It takes me zero effort to hang up.”
“I’m calling to tell you I’m aah, taking it out.”
He actually doesn’t know why he called. His fingers moved on their own, but now that he’s said it aloud, it does sound like a reasonable idea.
“That’s breaking the rules though,” Heimdall says calmly. There’s a weird whirring coming from his end of the call, but Atreus has no attention to spare to it.
“I kept it for a-ahlmost three hours.”
“And yet I haven’t said you can take it out.”
“Well you can’t stop me now, can you.”
“I cannot,” Heimdall sighs pensively. “How about this. You keep it in, and you can skip the rest of your class and come to my house. I know you like the couch because you find it kinkier—”
“It’s just very cozy,” Atreus defends himself between heavy breaths.
“And I will fuck you on my very cozy couch as soon as you get here. Then, after you’ve rested, I will order dinner at that Greek restaurant you like. Then we will watch a movie neither of us really cares about, so that if you were to decide you want to make out, I won’t have a good reason to stop you.”
Grasping the metal coat hanger above him like he’s trying to rip it off its hinges, Atreus sifts through Heimdall’s proposal, looking for hidden tricks that may get him in an even worse position. Because it is very odd for Heimdall to concede so much despite having won a bet fair and square.
But he can’t find any, and hopes it’s not because he’s too distracted by the thought of Heimdall’s dick hammering his tired insides rather than a small, vibrating toy.
Huffing in frustration, he asks, just to be thorough, “And if I take it out?”
“Hm. I guess you can finish your classes and then go home to your dear daddy, deeply unsatisfied and without me. I don’t want any promise-breaker in my house.”
It’s objectively annoying how easily Heimdall can play him. He must find a way to get back to him soon, but right now, he only has enough power to say, “Do we cuddle after the couch thing?”
A snort, that mellows into an exasperated sigh. “Yes, yes. Ten minutes of cuddling.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty or you’re gonna have to beg your dad for any.”
Twenty is fine. Atreus is confident he can stretch it. With that settled, though, his biggest issue and concern remains floating in the air, making him a little more than antsy.
Awkwardly, he murmurs, “I’m not sure I can reach your apartment like this.”
Heimdall lets out a chuckle that reverberates low in his belly.
“Where are you?”
“Uhh. Restroom stall, at the university.”
“Alright then, why don’t you take some of the edge off, before taking your leave.”
Blinking dumbly at the toilet in front of him, Atreus stays still, waiting for any noise to make him jump out of his skin and send him scuttling. But no one has entered the restroom, or he’d have heard it.
A rush of adrenaline sends his head swimming.
Is he really going to do this?
Heimdall’s house is about twenty minutes away. It’s not far, but he’s been edging for almost two hours now, and if Heimdall won’t turn the vibrator down, Atreus isn’t going to be able to walk normally with how hard his dick is straining in his pants.
Moving into action before he can change his mind, he places his phone at the crook of his neck and starts unbuttoning his pants with shaky fingers.
Pulling his zip and waistband down is enough to make him sigh in relief. The moment his dick is granted some space, it springs up, making a visible tent in his underwear. Precum already wets the stretched fabric, so Atreus wastes no time in shoving it down his hips and spitting into his hand.
With a low, satisfied groan, he palms himself slowly as he leans against the stall door, taking a second to enjoy the sensation after so many hours of pent-up urges.
“So you are doing it. Huh, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. If anything, it’s a miracle you didn’t pull your pants down in the classroom.”
A loud moan escapes his lips before he can think better of it, and he slaps his other hand on his mouth. His surroundings fade away so rapidly with Heimdall’s voice pressed right to his ear, casual and unaffected, but as taunting as it would be in the bedroom.
“If I’d been there, I don’t doubt you would have begged me to jerk you off under the desk.”
“I wouldn’t… ah, have let you,” he breathes out raggedly.
“Is that so? But you would love it if I was with you in the stall right now, wouldn’t you?”
He clenches his jaw tightly, throat working around every small gasp he cannot stop; but Heimdall doesn’t need his reply.
“You would rather be fucking into my hand than yours.”
Heimdall’s hands are bigger than his. When he holds Atreus’ dick, his hand is wide enough to envelop most of it in a hot, firm grip that sometimes moves at its own devilish pace around him, and other times lets him chase his orgasm without restraint.
“And while you do, I would be bending you over the toilet seat, to pull out your little toy, so that I can make space for myself.”
Rather than the cold flat door, it’s so easy to imagine Heimdall’s chest pressing at his back. His clothed crotch pushing and rutting against his ass as he pumps his dick in rough, tight strokes. Atreus struggles with his breathing as he works himself faster, thumbing at his slit and smearing the precum onto his increasingly sensitive head.
“I bet you’re missing the feeling of something stretching your rim, hm? You miss clenching down on my fingers as I prepare you for my cock. I’ll admit, I bought that toy hoping you would spend your lectures struggling over the lack of something keeping you wide open.” Heimdall hums thoughtfully. “Perhaps next time I’ll be kinder and get you an actual dildo.”
His hips snap into his fist in twitching jerks. God, it’s not even been a minute and he’s about to explode.
He hadn’t planned to, but Heimdall’s words push his other hand lower, pressing down on his taint for a thrilling second before moving further to take hold of the thin string hanging out of him.
He hadn’t thought much about it when he put it in, but now even this detail, the tale-telling sign of the toy hidden deep into his ass for anyone to notice if he were to pull his underwear down, seems to add to his excitement.
His fingers brush against his rim and he can’t help but moan at the feeling, tempted to slip them inside and follow Heimdall’s suggestion. But the position isn’t quite comfortable enough, so he simply pulls at the string, bringing the vibrator lower, until it slowly presses at his rim from the inside. Imagining Heimdall doing it in his stead, playing with it again and again, stretching him open around it only to push it back it with his fingers.
His face and ears feel like they’re on fire. He’s sweating profusely in his hoodie, and the sudden recollection that it’s Heimdall’s hoodie makes him groan out something not even he understands.
“Of course, if I was there, the first thing I’d do would be to clamp my hand over your mouth and stop the ruckus you’re making. God, it’s as if you want everyone to hear you, brat. To know how well you’re getting fucked in a restroom stall. But I’m not there, so it’s probably best I just switch off the toy.”
Atreus’ eyes fly open, realizing what Heimdall’s saying – how much noise he’s making. He tries to pay attention to the outside, for any voice he may have missed while he was being distracted.
But the restroom seems as quiet as ever, enough to make his panting sound deafening to his ears.
The vibrator has gone silent too.
To be fair, he could come without it. He’s strung up so tight that his shoulders are cramping, his thighs tired from the constant jolting of his hips. But after so, so much of the toy’s edging presence, Atreus fiercely craves that additional push.
“Hei—” Atreus swallows mid-word, eyes fluttering closed again. “Heimdall. Please.”
“Please what? You need something?”
He needs Heimdall to materialize in front of him and touch him, fuck him against the door and make him come all over himself. He needs to touch Heimdall just as much, run his hands all over his body and dishevel him until Heimdall is moaning his name just as loudly.
But none of that is possible. He only has his hand, a vibrator messing up his ass and Heimdall’s voice in his ear. He wants anything Heimdall can give him right now.
“You know I can’t read minds. If you want something from me, you’ll have to use that pretty mouth of yours and tell me.”
Atreus huffs, ears hot as he murmurs into the phone mic, “Turn it on.”
“What?”
“Turn the vibrator on.”
“To think you wanted it out only minutes ago.”
“I want it on,” he gasps out. “Please.”
“Hmm. Good boy.”
Atreus doesn’t know what’s the last straw – the vibrator switching from zero to maximum intensity, his hand’s tightening grip offering a makeshift hole to fuck into, or Heimdall’s words.
Whichever it is, the back of his head bangs against the restroom door as he comes into his fist so hard his knees wobble dangerously under him. With his other hand flying frantically to the coat hanger for some semblance of balance, he chokes down groan after groan, throat exposed for no one to bite into as his muscles convulse and clench around the toy inside him, pressing it viciously against his prostate and prolonging the shocks of pleasure sweeping over his body. Shivering through it all, he milks his orgasm until he has nothing left to give, and his own touch is more hurtful than enjoyable.
There’s a weird noise in the restroom, so foreign that only when his mind resurfaces from the thick fog of bliss, he recognizes as his own whimpering.
He leans heavily against the door, panting hard as he stares up at the light bulb of the stall with glazed eyes, until the stark, uncomfortable feeling of being alone catches up to him.
That’s when he notices his phone is not at his ear anymore, but lying on the ground.
Fighting with his pants halfway down impeding his movements, he scrambles to pick it up and bring it to his ear.
“Sorry. I dropped you.”
“I figured,” Heimdall’s voice returns, and Atreus nuzzles into it as if it’s his hand rather than a piece of electronics. “I take it you had a good time.”
“Yeah,” he says bashfully, starting to really take in the mess he’s made. With lethargic movements, he grabs a strip of toilet paper to clean himself. The vibrator is momentarily dead, which surprises him: he was half-expecting Heimdall to double down on him without mercy.
Fearing this might still happen soon, Atreus slips a finger inside himself, to try and push the vibrator further up, so that it doesn’t sit exactly against his most sensitive spot like Heimdall is surely counting on. Hopefully it will make a little bit of difference when it inevitably turns back on.
“Well, now that that’s out of the way,” Heimdall says. “You might want to run away from where you are now. With the noises you were making, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone called security on you.”
Atreus rolls his eyes as, without much hurry, he finishes tucking himself in and pulling up his clothes with weak movements.
“Why don’t you sign up to work as security here, instead of your family’s company?”
“Why do you think I would rather catch horny kids rubbing one out in public places, than do my perfectly respectable job at a tech firm?”
“Because I’d be that kid you catch and punish?”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and just as Atreus starts to wonder about its meaning, the vibrator switches back on.
It’s not too violent, but the spike of stimulation against his still twitching insides immediately translates into a sharp feeling between pleasure and pain that has him writhing on his feet.
“Wait, don’t—”
“Has anyone ever told you that there’s something as ‘being too horny’?” Heimdall accuses him, sounding amused and piqued at the same time. “And here I was feeling generous and giving you some space to breathe… but clearly you don’t need it.”
“I just said—”
“I know what you said, hungry little wolf. Get going now. I’ll see you soon.”
“Wait!” Atreus blurts out frantically.
The line remains connected, so he tries his best to push through the vibrations and the embarrassment to say, “Can you… can you stay with me on the phone?”
The vibrations lower back into a barely-there motion.
“Why?”
“It doesn’t feel as weird to go around like this, if I’m listening to your voice.”
It’s not that he doesn’t like the experience or that he isn’t aware Heimdall’s the one on the other side of the remote. On the contrary, being so far away from him and yet still under his range of influence makes Atreus tingle with a – probably misplaced – feeling of connection. But hearing Heimdall for the first time as he picked up the call felt like a missing piece instantly falling into its right place. Perhaps, in hindsight, the reason why he called at all.
Fortunately, he doesn’t have to fight for it.
“Fine,” Heimdall concedes, quieter, “I’ll stay.”
Smiling in relief, Atreus makes a noise of agreement, and unlocks the door.
“What are you doing anyway,” he asks, carefully testing whether he can keep the trembling out of his voice as he approaches one of the sinks and opens the tap.
“Oh, just finished making coffee,” Heimdall says.
His hands still under the running water. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, looking at himself in the mirror. Crowned by an unkempt crest of short hair spiking randomly in all directions, his face is the same sweaty, blotchy red of someone who’s run a marathon, and the blue of his eyes stands out almost too violently against his feverish appearance.
In summary, he looks like a total mess.
Back at his apartment, Heimdall must be wearing his usual button-up shirt and suit pants despite having a day off work.
As he splashes his face with fresh water, Atreus isn’t sure how to feel about the fact that, while he was jerking off into a public stall like some unhinged, hormonal high school teenager, Heimdall was probably going about his day in a completely normal way, neatly dressed and calmly sipping his terribly bitter coffee while listening to his moans through the phone.
He thinks it would make sense to feel mortified. Yet, his dick twitches violently in his pants, attempting to fill out again despite having come just minutes before. It borders on painful, and he clutches the sink under his fingers like a lifeline as his bottom lip turns white under his teeth.
The door to the restroom opens, letting two chatty students enter. Atreus jumps like a frightened cat, hurrying to close the tap and dry his hands on his pants.
“Oh, visitors?” Heimdall chimes in. “Better go before they realize how much fun you were having.”
“Whatever,” he says, pulling up the hoodie over his head before anyone can think too much of the state he’s in.
With Heimdall’s snickering accompanying his steps, he slinks out of the restroom.
*
Atreus walks the university hallways briskly, taking the shortest route to the bus stop. There’s only two people waiting under the bus shelter, but Atreus decides to take his place at a safer distance.
Hopping on the low wall that divides the sidewalk from the park, he sets his backpack in his lap and wriggles until the vibrator doesn’t feel uncomfortable with the position.
From the other end of the line, while he takes the time to connect his earphones to the phone, comes a noise of drawers being pulled open.
“Well I won’t be the only one speaking on this call,” Heimdall says. “Tell me about your classes.”
“How do you think they went?” Atreus manages, wiping the sheen of sweat off the back of his neck. A refreshing breeze is blowing in the street, that he wishes he could catch without having to pull his hoodie down. Then again, it’s not like it would be enough to cool him off. “I have a dick boyfriend.”
A soft noise akin to a chuckle, and, “Had you chosen a kinder boyfriend like your werewolf girl did, this wouldn’t be happening, you know?”
Irritated, Atreus silently glares at the sun instead of Heimdall.
“How long till the bus?” he is asked soon after.
“Three mi—iinutes,” he draws out as the toy starts shaking in random surges.
There’s a noise of jingling keys as Heimdall answers, “Good. I have to go buy cigarettes before you arrive, because I just know that once you do, I’ll have my hands full with your neediness for the rest of the day.”
Atreus automatically opens his mouth to defend himself, but shuts it on second thought. If the mere idea of Heimdall being stuck in his flat because he’s promised him attention pleases him, then there may be some truth behind Heimdall’s accusation. The kind he refuses to feel guilty for, after this experience.
So he owns up to it and says, “Wise choice. If you’re not there when I arrive, I can assure you your apartment won’t be in the same condition you left it.”
The quiet pause that comes from the phone speakers as well as the vibrator, feels filled with Heimdall’s stark, unspoken realization that he has given him a copy of his keys – and that if he was ever considering to make Atreus wait outside the apartment like a dog, that plan is officially off the table.
To be honest, Atreus has forgotten the keys at home, but he certainly won’t disclose that now.
“The little wolf has woken up with claws today,” Heimdall says, a lot soberer, and unwilling to acknowledge his strategic mistake.
Perhaps the indirect admission of defeat goes to Atreus’ head a little too fast because, with a triumphant smile on his lips, he’s quick to add, “What are you wearing?”
“The usual,” Heimdall retorts unsatisfactorily, as if to compensate for his previous misstep. Why can’t he let him have good things?
“Can you… be more precise?” he asks sourly.
“I don’t know, I have many things to do in these last fifteen minutes of freedom.”
“Fine, I’m sure you’re wearing your grey pants anyway,” he says in challenge, “You always wear them on your days off.”
“Is that so,” Heimdall says. It doesn’t sound like an actual question – and yet, there’s something in his tone that hints at an odd discomfort. Is he weirded out by being served facts he didn’t realize about himself?
“Am I right?” Atreus teases, and wonders if Heimdall’s the type of person who would turn on his heels and go change just to prove him wrong.
“Who can say,” Heimdall says noncommittally. “What else are you so sure I’m wearing?”
“Actually, I’m not sure about the top part.”
“Try for me.”
“Well… I hope you’re wearing your turtleneck. Or your black button-up,” Atreus admits, now wondering if Heimdall’s the type of person who would go change just to make him happy. In a way, it’s good that he is already as red as a tomato. Adding to his embarrassment won’t really make a noticeable difference at this point.
An appreciative hum floats up from his earphones, along with feeble street sounds. “What do you like about them, sunshine?”
It’s really not the show of admiration or the honesty that embarrasses him. He’s always been good at handing compliments out like cookies to whomever he meets. To see them puff up with pride, or blush shyly in reaction to his words. Or sometimes, to simply get what he wants.
It’s the specific way Heimdall takes each confession into his hands and holds it over Atreus’ head like a Damocles’ sword to turn against him at a moment’s notice, that makes him feel overly exposed. It’s the way Heimdall doesn’t puff up nor blush, but smiles sharply, like he thinks such a fool of Atreus for willingly handing over the most formidable weapon he could use to destroy him at his own discretion.
Nonetheless, Heimdall hasn’t destroyed him yet, and when he asks like that, it’s impossible not to answer him.
Atreus squeezes his legs together, eyes falling shut to better remember the way Heimdall’s clothes fall tighter on his chest and upper arms.
“The way your muscles look in them. I… I like it when you roll up the sleeves.” Even his tongue feels like it’s burning along with his face. Maybe feeding Heimdall’s eagerness for admiration will, at the very least, get something good out of him in the evening. “I like to take them off too.”
“I thought opening the buttons annoyed you,” Heimdall points out, and the only thing Atreus is actually annoyed at, is the impression he’s not as good as Heimdall at dirty talk, if the amusement in Heimdall’s voice is anything to go by.
“It’s not bad,” he says quietly, envisioning his fingers following the buttoned hem of Heimdall’s shirt, to hook under it and pull the fabric taut. “But yeah. I’d prefer ripping them open.”
“Of course. You have no respect for my belongings, as we have established.”
“You could get a cheaper one,” Atreus proposes breathily, but a moan slips out of his mouth as his mind still imagines the sound of snapping threads, revealing the naked skin under it. “Wouldn’t it be fine in that case?”
In his ear, Heimdall chuckles. “Honestly, runt… Is that what you really should be thinking of? Weren’t you out in the open, trying to pretend you’re not coming your brains off?”
His eyes snap open, as his brain returns to reality.
Hidden behind the backpack, the heel of his hand has moved on its own, to press against the bulge in his pants. Thankfully, no one seems to be looking in his direction, more interested in the bus making his appearance further down the street, moving along with the traffic.
“Shit.” Standing in line will at least keep him focused and on his feet. Lowering his voice as he approaches the other passengers, he mumbles, “Okay, nevermind. Can you tell me something unsexy?”
“I’m afraid your horny brain might interpret anything as sexy at this point.”
Heimdall’s judgmental silence accompanies him as the bus stops in front of the waiting people, doors sliding open with a hiss.
It is less crowded than he feared. The passengers are evenly scattered, and among the empty seats he’s able to get one that feels separated enough from anyone else’s immediate vicinity. Sitting down with an arm slung around his backpack, he tries to relax in his spot at the knowledge that only a ten minutes ride separates him from his destination.
It’s hard to, with the vibrator still going off in bursts at Heimdall’s every unspoken whim.
“You can recite to me your tech firm security’s code of conduct or something,” Atreus prompts him, in dire need of a distraction.
“Nothing quite as boring as rules for you, right?” Heimdall says critically. “Instead, how about I give you a list of my belongings I cannot find anymore, so that you can make a mental note of what you need to return by next week?”
Alarmed by the direction of their conversation, Atreus seals his lips and braces for an increase in the vibrator’s intensity. But when it gives no sign of change after a handful of seconds, he carefully answers, “Sure. I’ll check if I have them at home.”
“Check? You’re the only thief I know who has a copy of my house keys.”
“Doesn’t your dad have one too?”
There’s a long beat of silence from the other side – followed by an outraged, “My father doesn’t steal my damn clothes!”
“I haven’t stolen them either!” Atreus protests. “Borrowed, at worst.”
“Without my consent—”
“You gave me a copy of your house keys.”
“That’s not a permission to clean out my apartment, you little shit! Did I need to explain this before handing them out?”
“Alright, okay,” he concedes hastily, just as the predicted escalation kicks in. His hips jerk forward, in a sharp, involuntary motion that he readily attempts to pass off as slipping in his seat. The contractions in his lower body work against him, making him wriggle like a weasel, and pushing the vibrator lower little by little, until it digs once again into the soft spot inside him that makes him want to scream. “I’ll give everything back!”
“I don’t believe you.” A fat excuse for Heimdall to continue playing with the remote – as if he has needed any excuse to justify the past three hours.
Pulling the phone mic closer to his mouth while trying to fully disappear behind a too small backpack, he softens his voice and says eloquently, “Heimdall. Just ahh, a general reminder that I’m on the bus now.”
“I’m happy to know time schedules are respected around the city,” Heimdall retorts, deliberately missing the point.
“Oh my god, I’m bringing you one item back right now!” he surrenders. “It’s on me.”
“Is that so. What is it?”
“The black hoodie.”
“Hm. So you did steal it.”
“W-whhy—why do you even care? You literally never use it.”
“That’s not the point. Why should I believe you anyway? Send a picture and I’ll give you what you want.”
Atreus gapes at the darkened screen of his phone, as if it just hollered at him.
Is Heimdall serious right now?
Collecting himself, he throws an instinctive look around the bus. Most passengers are minding their business, typing on their phones, listening to music or staring off in the distance. There’s only two people sending over odd glances. One of them politely diverts their attention when their eyes meet. The other, an older lady in a beige coat sends him a kind smile, which turns concerned as she seems to catch something pitiful in his face.
Atreus glances away, cheeks hot with shame.
Well he’s done far more reproachable things in public today than sending safe-for-work pictures of himself.
…Would they be safe-for-work? Atreus doesn’t know. His pale reflection in the bus window suggests he looks exactly as disheveled as he feels, sweating uncomfortably in his clothes while trying to not give in to the sensations raking his body and urging him to crawl to the ground and let himself faint – force Heimdall to pick him up if he wants to do anything about that couch sex.
Steadying his hands from clenching at the same rhythm of the vibrations, he manoeuvers the backpack so he can hold his phone on top of it and have a decently large frame of not only the hoodie itself but also his face.
The camera stills and saves the picture and, before Atreus can think better of it, he forwards it to Heimdall.
“Sent you,” he murmurs.
There’s a few seconds of wait, as Heimdall probably pulls his phone away from his ear, unlocks it and opens their chat to see the picture. Atreus can tell when he does by the softest exhale in the background.
“If you look like this within two minutes of getting on the bus, I wanna know what you look like when you get off.”
With a sigh caught between exasperation and relief at the vibrations easing up, Atreus starts tapping the butt of his phone to his forehead, trying to focus on the growing ache between his eyebrows rather than everything else, until he imagines there’s a small red mark lost somewhere on his flushed face.
It’s going to be a long ride.
*
After a while, his head begins to swim. Everything gradually slips out of focus, more and more irrelevant in the face of the intoxicating numbness he’s drowning in. At the umpteenth bump in the road that the bus seems determined to catch at its highest speed, Atreus folds his arms over his backpack and hides his face between them to suffocate a groan.
At least, if any of the passengers asks, he can easily pass off as horribly ill – which is better than revealing to be horribly aroused.
Somewhere not too far from him, Heimdall has gone out, had muffled conversations, and made it back to his apartment, by the sound of it. And now, the vibrations inside him oscillate at random intervals, as if Heimdall’s trying to play a catchy melody on a one-key piano.
"You think you’re so funny," Atreus mumbles. "Stop it."
“Fine, fine,” Heimdall surprisingly relents. “I don't know why I'm being so kind today."
"Because you're making me go through hell?"
"Don't be dramatic. If you really didn't like it, you could have taken it out anytime."
There’s no good counterargument to that. Even now, maybe, with some careful maneuvering, he could slip his hand in the back of his pants and reach down, to pull at the string and let his rim stretch around the vibrator as it comes out—
Atreus needs to stop thinking.
"You're so breathy,” Heimdall comments, sounding terribly pleased with himself. “I hope for you the bus is empty. It doesn’t seem like you’re faring well.”
“Shut up,” he complains, growingly annoyed by how chill Heimdall is acting while Atreus has to fight against instinct at every rocking movement of the bus. “How are you doing instead?”
“I’m doing very well, thank you.”
“I mean.” Atreus audibly swallows, peeking up from his shelter of crossed arms at the other passengers. “Are you…”
“Am I what?” Heimdall eggs him on.
Turned on? Hard? Touching yourself? This kind of talk shouldn’t be a problem when he’s jumped so far beyond the fence of shame now.
“Are you… uh, affected by…?” he struggles nonetheless.
“Oh, you wanna know if you’re enough of a tease? If I’m touching myself while I listen to you moan every time I push my thumb higher on the remote?”
His breathing gets a little harder. His eyes fall shut as his mind is filled with vivid images of Heimdall – sat on the couch with spread knees, throwing his head back as he roughly palms his clothed erection and groans into the phone.
“Yes,” he lets out in a long exhale, determined to push through his limits. It makes no sense to have any at this point. Lowering his voice down to a whisper, he says, “I wanna know if you’re jerking off to my voice.”
“Gods. When I think you can’t get any greedier.” The vibrations rise again, as if trying to pull one more groan out of him for Heimdall’s own gratification. “Would you like it if I was?”
Extremely so. It has something to do with the fact that, anytime he tries to impress or flirt with Heimdall, it always seems to elicit a mocking snort or a condescending chuckle from him. There’s a semblance of imbalance, that Atreus is wary of, between how much he wants Heimdall and how much Heimdall wants him.
A part of him thinks – knows – it could be a matter of perception, of different ways of expressing themselves. Another part of him thinks he wouldn’t be worrying about this if he wasn’t stranded alone on a bus, letting Heimdall play with him to his heart’s content.
But sometimes what Atreus is most greedy for, is Heimdall’s spoken admission that he’s into him. That he struggles for sanity around Atreus as much as Atreus does around him.
"Yeah, I would like you to enjoy it. Me,” he dares add, the word probably almost lost to Heimdall with how deeply into the backpack’s fabric he’s pressing it. “I would like you to enjoy me. Does this… do anything to you?"
There’s an eerie quiet from the other side. A heavy exhale and nothing more, until Heimdall’s voice returns, but faint, as if he’s pulled the phone away from himself.
When Heimdall’s voice returns, it’s to tell him, “You should come home and find out, Loki."
The vibrations subside, but not fast enough.
Out of nowhere, his second orgasm crashes into him like a tsunami. The world fades to muffled noises as he buries his face into his folded arms – even Heimdall’s voice disappears as he says something Atreus is unable to catch. His mouth drops open, drooling over his backpack, but his throat closes up and his moan is soundless. For many seconds, he doesn’t breathe, too overwhelmed by the feeling that bends him in half in his seat.
It might be the worst orgasm he’s ever had. Not enough stimulation anywhere that matters, just an abrupt, vigorous push into a crushing fit of pleasure that shakes him to the bone and forces him to tighten his death grip on the backpack, pressing it hard enough against his crotch that it feels a little bit like humping. If Atreus lets go now, he’s going to shove his hands into his pants and rub himself raw or fuck himself on his own fingers, regardless of any law on public decency.
It feels like eons before the vibrations, albeit weak, nudge him towards an inescapable overstimulation, despite the concerning fact that his dick is still half-hard and refusing to deflate fully. He gasps an aborted groan into the receiver, trying to form words that don’t come to him in any of the languages he knows. So much for walking out on a linguistics class.
“…Did you just cum?” Heimdall’s stunned voice reaches him again, sounding distant even when set right into his ear.
Face scorching hot, Atreus wets his lips, and can’t bring himself to reply.
The vibrator lowers to almost nothingness, but it still feels like too much. How is it that he managed to hold out an orgasm for almost three hours, and now anything can push him over the edge?
Through the fuzziness reigning over his senses, a tiny little voice points out that Heimdall wasn’t there with him for the first three hours, calling him his favorite nicknames and telling him to come ‘home’.
Did Heimdall ever say something like that before? It’s always been ‘my apartment’, ‘my house’ and ‘come over’. Is it a new brand of pathetic, that he liked hearing it so much? Did Heimdall just say it without thinking, or is he going to say ‘welcome home’ when Atreus arrives?
It takes a few tries for him to notice the speaking lady in a beige coat standing in front of him.
“Darling? Is everything alright?” she says, leaning forward when he pulls his head up, hand half-raised as if itching to take his temperature.
Atreus looks at her blankly, the meaning of the words tethering just out of the limit of his comprehension.
“Yeah, is it,” Heimdall wonders. Half mocking, half genuine.
“I—I just,” he articulates very slowly. “My stomach. I have…” Despite all the hospital shows he’s binged, right now he can’t remember even one medical issue related to stomachs. “A thing. A problem. It’s fine.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No! It’s,” Atreus blurts out, “I’m about to reach home anyway.”
“Is someone waiting for you?”
“Yes.”
“I see… You’re sure you can make it?”
“I’m really trying to imagine how you look right now for a stranger to sound so concerned for you,” Heimdall comments unhelpfully. “Ask her to take a picture.”
“Shut up,” Atreus says.
“I’m sorry?” the lady asks confusedly.
“No, the phone call…” he explains, pointing weakly at his earphones. “Yes. I will manage.”
“Will you?” Heimdall asks.
“Will you?” echoes the lady. “I can walk with you if you pre—”
Hugging his stomach, Atreus lets out another soft groan. “Sorry, another cramp… But really, I’m fine. I know what it is, and it always looks worse than it is. Thank you for worrying though.”
“Alright, well,” the lady pauses, visibly unconvinced. “Let me know if you need any help, darling.”
“Yes, thank you.”
Eagerly, Atreus takes advantage of the lull in the conversation to plaster himself tighter into the corner of his seat and hope the unnecessarily kind lady will get the message. The coolness of the bus window grants him only a moment of relief, before the reverberating rumble of the engine against his forehead threatens him with a migraine.
God, he’s had enough vibrating for a year.
"What was it?" Heimdall asks with a marveling tilt in his tone, which confuses Atreus.
"What?”
"That made you cum. What was it? Did you hit another bump? Were you touching yourself in public?"
"Can we please talk about something else?"
"I don't know if I can now,” Heimdall scoffs.
Out of the window, the world comes to a stop as the bus doors open and passengers move and change around him. The surroundings are, thankfully, familiar.
“Next one’s mine,” Atreus informs him, skipping over everything else.
“Good for you. Not much longer and that lady would have dragged you to an emergency room.”
“I wonder whose fault that would have been.”
“Yours, obviously, for placing such a risky bet.”
It takes only a minute for the bus to reach the next station down the street. Standing up is getting more problematic by the second, but Atreus pours his last energies into the effort of trudging towards the exit. Moved by the need to keep up the act to the very end, for his own sake, he sends a pained but grateful smile to the lady on the way – and turns away before she can offer to accompany him all the way to Heimdall’s house.
The instant the bus doors crack open in front of him, his legs stumble off almost on their own.
“So close to the finish line,” Heimdall casually says. “How was the experience.”
“Don’t use the past tense when you’re still going to milk every second of this.”
“Wouldn’t it be out of character if I didn’t make the best of the time I’m left with?”
“You’re going to make it an unnecessarily long walk.”
“It will be short if you soldier on and walk faster.”
Atreus strangles the phone in his hand instead of Heimdall’s neck, in lieu of his absence – but he does try to speed it up, despite the slow-paced vibrator still rubbing against his prostate, sending bursts of pleasure-pain to his overstimulated dick.
Heimdall’s silent along the way, going about his day between vague sounds of running water and closing drawers, but Atreus finds it comforting. It is exactly the low-effort company he craves now that the capability to string together a logical conversation is spiraling away from him.
The sight of the flat further down the road, nested at the top floor of its building, shoots an adrenaline rush into his veins that pushes him to close the distance faster.
By the time he reaches the building, he’s dragging himself through the entrance door as if his body is fighting to resist a much greater gravity.
The gatekeeper greets him cheerfully as he walks by, but does a double take when Atreus’ physical state registers in his brain.
“All good, kid?”
“Yes! Yes,” Atreus hastily waves off his concerns with a hand. “Sorry, I gotta go. You know how he is. He gets grumpy if I’m late.”
The man laughs, nodding with complicit understanding. “Oh, I can imagine! Take care of yourself then.”
Ignoring the scoff in his ear, he launches himself to the elevator, which is thankfully already at the ground floor. He barely makes it in to smash the floor button and hide behind closing doors when the vibrator spikes up, and he bends down to his knees from the burst of… he doesn’t even know how to call it anymore, other than deliberate torture.
He wishes he could call the sound that comes out of him as anything other than a drawn-out, pained whine, but that would be a straight-faced lie.
“I would appreciate it if you stopped trying to ruin my reputation with the concierge.”
“It, aah, it was already ruined anyway—” He tries to keep himself upright with the support of the wall, and fails miserably. “You’re terrible with people.”
“I never did anything wrong to him.”
“I think it’s just the v-vibe you give off.”
“If it’s my ‘vibe’, then why are you on your way to my apartment.”
“I don’t know. Masochism?” he says, watching expectantly the number on the tiny screen go up and up.
As soon as the elevator dings and slides open, Atreus tumbles towards Heimdall’s door like a drunken man. Finally reaching his destination, he tells himself he has absolutely no reason to be surprised at finding it locked. Heimdall’s been consistently difficult today.
“Open the door, aah’m here.”
In reply, the vibrations get so intense his hand slips off the handle and he sags heavily against the door, which quickly becomes the only thing keeping him on his feet. His dick is painfully hard again despite everything, squeezed uncomfortably in its confined space with every shift of his legs. His whole body is an exposed wire – even the cool touch of the door somehow feels like an electric shock on his skin.
“Can’t you open it? I’m busy.”
“B-busy with what?!” Atreus shout-whispers into the door, pawing at it like that will serve any purpose in unlocking it. “I forgot… your keys at aah, at home.”
“So you didn’t actually have them…”
“Heimdall, please.”
There’s a huff on the other side, and the call dies.
For a second, Atreus is actually terrified he’s being left there, unable to speak or walk. Just a quivering sack of meat left on a doormat, to be found in the morning by some passerby.
It’s a dumb thought, he realizes when the door opens and he tumbles to the ground, crawling forward until his body is fully into the apartment, a sweaty, curled tangle of limbs blocking the entrance hallway.
“Oh boy. What a mess.”
With all the remaining strength he can muster up, Atreus rolls on his back, to watch an upside down Heimdall close the door and leisurely come to stand above him.
He looks impeccable, with his black button-up rolled up his forearms and tucked into carefully ironed grey pants, and his hands casually resting in his pockets as he regards Atreus with a smug grin.
“I will hand this to you,” Heimdall says, “Your vibrator face is a lot better than your werewolf girl’s.”