American Gods Imagines

You and Sweeney were sprawled on the couch together watching television. You weren’t quite sure what you were watching, you’d been too busy arguing over the couch space, kicking loosely at each other for foot space and resting your legs on top of each other in a very mature way. 

Sweeney glared at you, like it was you who dropped in unannounced and starting begging for attention and space on your couch. You scowled back at him. 

There was a silence. 

You stared at him. He stared at you. 

Then he leant forward, grabbed your ankle, and tried to drop you off the side of the couch. 

You reacted instinctively, jumping forward and somehow, somehow,  you both ended up on the floor. You were on top of him, only narrowly missing hitting your head against his chin. 

Sweeney cursed in some long forgotten language and you lifted your head to flick him between the eyes with your fingers. “Language,” you criticized him as you tried to get your breath back. 

He dropped his head back against your floor. “You don’t even know what I said.” 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t need the literal translation to get when someone’s cursing at me.” You could’t help a smile. “Otherwise I wouldn’t understand half of what you say.” 

He pulls a face back at you, and curses again under his breath. You shift your knee so it’s digging into his hip. “Language.”

He makes a scoffing noise. “You think I’m gonna obey your fucking orders now?”

“My house,” you remind him. You tap his nose. “That makes me King of the Castle.” 

He looks unimpressed, then sad. “I was a real King once,” he said softly. 

You blink, pull back a bit so you can search his face. “Really?” you ask, in the same tone. And then a grin breaks out over your face. “King of the Leprechauns?” Your smile widened. “Is that why you’re so tall?” 

He scowls up at you again. “I told you that was a fucking stereotype,” he tells you. “And I was a real King.” 

A frown touches your face. “A… real King?” You…you knew very little about Leprechauns. Irish Mythology in general, really. You probably should look into that. You hadn’t heard of a Leprechaun King but… as Sweeney said, the only things they really talk about in America ie. Leprechauns was the ‘fucking stereotype’ that seemed more and more racist every time you saw it. You should really stop buying Lucky Charms. 

“No, an imaginary King,” he snapped back. Then he sighed. “I was a real King. Then a bird, then I was part of the fey folk. Then a fucking caricature.” He rolled his eyes then closed them, as if he was planning to sleep on your floor - which….wouldn’t be the first time…  

You reach down a hand, and stroke his cheek, without really thinking. He looked so sad. You try to imagine what it was like to be a King. Or a bird. Or a Leprechaun. Part of you bites back the amusement at realizing Leprechauns were considered fairies. “I’m sorry,” you say, not really sure why. Not really sure you could ever understand why. 

His eyes don’t open, but it seems almost like he’s holding his breath. You drop your head to his chest, wrap your arms around him best you could, and just breathe together. 

Naw thank you!! Originally I was going to make this a lot more aggressive, possessive… but it sort of ended up with a…much more romantic undertone…

There was a girl watching him from a table at the corner of the shitty club they’d found themselves in. 

Shadow was hunched over some stupid liqueur at the counter, barely noticing the - admittedly incredibly attractive - woman who was trying to catch his eyes. She was wearing red, her dark hair tumbling loosely around her dark shoulders, a red dress sticking to her as if it were painted on as she toyed with the straw in her drink and stared openly at Shadow. 

Shadow’s head picked up, and his face turned towards his admirer. They held each other’s gaze for a second and Sweeney could practically see Shadow’s face burn with embarrassment. Sweeney growled low under his breath and sauntered up to his boyfriend, slinging an arm over his shoulders pointedly and shooting a glare towards the woman. He’s mine, he tried to say with every fiber of his being, even risking a quick bite to Shadow’s jaw to drive the point home. The woman dropped her gaze and Sweeney felt smugness wash over him. That’s righ’, cunt, he thought satisfactorily to himself, even as Shadow shrugged off his arm and gave him a disapproving look.   

“What are you doing?” Shadow asked in a resigned tone. 

Sweeney grinned at him happily and picked up the cup he’d left by Shadow before he’d wandered off to piss, clinking it against Shadow’s. “Just making sure she knows what’s up, love.” 

Shadow rolled his eyes and took a swig of his own drink, a big gulp that Sweeney was sure was supposed to indicate how much alcohol he needed to deal with his lover’s bullshit. All Sweeney could see was the way the liquid slid down his throat, Adam’s apple bared to the world as his neck tilted. 

Sweeney’s grin widened and he ducked in to lick away the wetness around Shadow’s lips. His eyes definitely didn’t dart over to that woman as he turned that lick into a kiss, exploring his mouth, to make sure she was watching his claim what was his. She wasn’t. If she was willing to give up after just that, she wasn’t worth Shadow’s time anyway. Then he scrunched up his face. “You have shite taste in beer.” 

Shadow made an annoyed noise. “She was just being nice,” he said reasonably, apparently not dropping the whole woman thing. 

Sweeney made a disgusted snort. “No one’s nice for free.” He squeezed Shadow’s arm pointedly. “Though if you’re planning to leave me for some bar slut, I’m glad you’re giving me this warning.” 

“I’m not leaving you,” Shadow replied with a roll of his eyes. Their relationship was… complicated. Was it a real relationship? Neither one of them were ever really sure. Were they both playing at romance? Were they serious? Did either of them even have the right to fall in love? Here, now, in the middle of a war? 

So they never got deep into conversation. 

“I would hope not,” Sweeney slurred into his ear. “I’ve still got a lot of plans for you.” 

Shadow tried to play off disinterested, but Sweeney could tell from the way his body tensed under his touch that Shadow was listening. 

Sweeney pulled away suddenly. “You know where to find me,” Sweeney reminded him as he took a step away. He looked around the room, the woman was gone. Sweeney was almost disappointed. “If no one else catches your eye,” he added with a wink and wandered out of the club, sure that Shadow was on heels. 

Was the woman Bilquis? We’ll never know….

Thank you! I’m so glad you guys are here for me, sending me prompts and sweet things like this! I didn’t get any prompts for the first three days of having this blog so I was really worried it was going to be a failure…but now eleven or so days in and I have almost fifty followers and eighteen prompts to work with~ It’s really wonderful~ 

Naww thank you!! 

Aw thank you! For those of you who haven’t read “Part 1″ of this, you can find it here. Though tbh I’d be surprised if at least half of you weren’t here from that since almost half my notes are from that. So, as I’ve said before, I haven’t read the book yet. (I’m reading it though!) So this is set in an AU probably where Wednesday and Ostara and Shadow all head to the House on the Rock, in the thrilling arc of  “Roadtrip 2: the sequel with less swearing probably.” “Roadtrip 2: for anyone who doesn’t live in the US shows with roadtrips are generally bizarre’. “Roadtrip 2:three people with nouns as names drive places”. “Roadtrip 2: Why”.Or something like that, idk, I’m not a writer. *Awkward cough* i mean I am, I just…. omg here just have your fic. 

Ostara collapsed back on the shitty hotel bed with a sigh. 

And don’t get her wrong. Travelling with that cutie Shadow? Not such a bad thing. It was… literally everything else. It was the way she had to mind every word Odin said, every line holding some hidden meaning or another. It was trying to figure out just where Shadow fit into this jigsaw puzzle full of broken and hidden pieces. It was the shitty car and the shittier food, staying in hotels like this. She could practically feel those invisible stains on the bedspread crawling against her skin. 

And why? Why had she done this? Was it worth it? For all she knew the mortals would make up some new God to beg to. She had betrayed her friends, after all. All those Jesus Christs. And sure they weren’t the… they weren’t like the gods of old, but they had cared for her, because they cared for all things. Did it matter that much to her? Other gods were far worse off than her, disappeared into nothing. She had had a chance at immortality. Was it worth it to trade one person’s lies and half-truths for another? Was it worth it to follow Odin in place of… 

Media.

Ostara groaned and kicked her legs against the bed. Over the year since their first kiss, they had grown…. closer. Closer, closer. A kiss here, a brush of skin against skin here. A game neither of them were willing to back away from. 

Now Easter thought about it, this had been a long time coming. They’d been playing their game, her, the Old God who refused to be forgotten, Media, the New God, who held all the cards. 

Well, now she had a card. And it was an important card indeed. 

But still….

She groaned again and lifted her head from the bed. 

And her eyes caught on the tv on the opposite side of the room. 

And her heart stopped. 

She sat up. Carefully. Delicately. Smoothed down her travelling clothes. Ran a hand through her hair. Adjusted her bra. 

She reached out for the remote. Her hand hovered over the button. Then she snatched her hand back. What was she, stupid? 

She stood up and walked to her room’s door. She opened it. Stuck out her head cautiously. The coast was clear. She slid out of the gap of the doorway, slinking past the doors where she had seen Wednesday and Shadow disappear into only minutes before. 

She snuck towards the elevator, and a few minutes later she was out of the hotel. She looked around the half-dead town they had wandered into. 

Where can I find a television here? she wondered. 

She started walking. Televisions were everywhere nowadays. It wouldn’t be hard to find one. 

As if on cue, an electronics store - looking dingy and dirty - appeared in her vision on the corner of the street up ahead. Ostara tried to hide the new spring- hop, her mind told her cynically - in her step as she rushed towards the shop. She looked into the window, a cliche of televisions set up. Ostara watched them eagerly, all showing the same television show. 

But nothing happened. Media didn’t crawl out of the screen, the characters didn’t start talking to her. They were all unchanged. 

Ostara’s shoulders slumped unhappily, and she turned to go. 

To almost walk into the very God she was hoping to see. 

Media looked pale and tired, adorning a character with brown hair and a white turtleneck. Was it her imagination, or were there red rings around Media’s eyes? 

Ostara leant against the window, trying to act like she wasn’t shocked that Media had turned up. 

“Ostara,” Media acknowledged curtly. Ostara knew instinctively she wasn’t reading a script. These were Media’s words.

“Media.” She tried a smile, but it felt fake against her lips. 

“Come back to me, have you?” There was no hope in her voice, no light in her eyes. 

“Just checking up,” Ostara told her. 

Media made a noise. “You’ve chosen the wrong side.” 

“Have you thought maybe you’re the one in the wrong?” 

“I’m not the one starving a whole planet.”

“Like you care,” Ostara blurted back. 

Media stepped forward, her arms coming up to plant themselves by Ostara’s head, to cage her against the window. “I do care,” she said firmly. 

Ostara had a feeling she wasn’t talking about the mortals. Ostara was pressing herself up against the window, trying to create space from this sudden, though expected, toxic atmosphere between the two of them, even clenching the muscles in her stomach as her eyes flew over Media’s shoulder to make sure no one was watching. 

No one was even out in this emptiness she had created. 

“We were making something beautiful,” Media hissed at her. “We had the world.”

“You had the world,” Ostara said. “I was a bunny.” 

“We can still fix this,” Media told her firmly. 

“I don’t want to fix it,” Ostara snapped back. Probably. Almost definitely. 

Media flinched and looked down at the cement under their feet, her hands still pressing on either side of Ostara’s hair. 

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Ostara said, her voice brimming with the barely tamed anger of the Spring. “To be forgotten, cast aside, to be treated as the butt of a joke. To be a bunny.” 

Media’s eyes had their own fire in them as she glared silently at her. 

“I want to be me again, Media. What do you want?” 

Media’s hand slammed against the glass. “I want you.” Media’s hair had fallen over her eyes. “I want you to love me back.” 

The air escaped their lungs at the same time, Media’s hands jerking away from Ostara’s head as she pushed away from her, turning away in a second. 

Ostara watched her with wide eyes. 

“Oh,” she said in a small voice. 

“I have to go.” Media said, shooting Ostara a look over shoulder. “I have a war to fight now, because of your roomie.” 

Ostara broke away from her gaze, the veiled cover of her eyes too much for her to handle. Love. She raised her head determinedly. “This war was inevitable.” 

Media gave a shaky laugh as she turned back. “I suppose it was.” Her hand twitched, as if to move towards her, maybe tuck a stray hair away like she used to. It clenched into a fist instead. 

Ostara watched it sadly, before stepping forward and pressing a small kiss against the corner of Media’s mouth. “Inevitable,” she said again, softly, before turning away herself, heading back to the hotel, and never looking back. 

Media is supposed to be wearing the character Erica from ‘Something’s Gotta Give’, cos I wanted her to be wearing a heartbroken character and she was the first character who came to mind. You might be going ‘oh but she had a happy ending’ and so I’ll say ‘yeah it represents Media’s secret hope that she’ll be reunited with Ostara and definitely not because I’m too lazy to find a proper heartbreak story and I definitely put in more than three seconds of thought into choosing a character from a movie I’ve seen often and definitely not twice in the past fourteen years.’ You guys are so judgmental. 

This uh….this might be becoming a proper series… 

Aw that’s so sweet~ Thank you!Me? Write Sajinn? What do you mean that’s 95% of the reason I created this blog? I have no idea where you’re getting all of this. So, on Mousa Kraish’s twitter he calls his character Ifrit so I’m just gonna go with that cos I assume in this world he has to have a name and the way Mousa writes it makes it seem like Ifrit is his name not the type of Jinn he is so… 

This is set in a happy!au where Salim and the Jinn just like get to be happy and move in together back in New York and everyone is so damn happy, Shadow’s happy, Sweeney’s happy, Ostara’s happy, Bliquis, Anansi, everyone is as happy as humanly and godly possible. Happy. 

 Salim entered his apartment with a relieved sigh. Home. 

It might seem selfish, after all that had happened to him, all he had gone through, to still get annoyed over simple things like drunk passengers and strings of red lights. Ifrit assured him it wasn’t, on those nights when he held him close and Salim admitted all those things that still unnerved him, that feeling tugging at the edges of his mind that it was all going to go up in flames. Ifrit never judged him, and shared his own feelings in return, the stories from his past, the dreams he had of his broken, crumbling City. 

Being married to a Jinn - and his stomach still fluttered at that thought - didn’t make life any easier. But he had faith. Even after a day like this, when he’d spent the last hour scrubbing vomit from his cab, he had faith. 

He had faith, and he had someone magical waiting for him here, in his apartment. He wandered through their apartment, the apartment where they were free to be together, where no one battered an eyelid at the two of them. He wondered if it was acceptance. Maybe they just didn’t know enough about his culture, his people, his laws, to know just how wrong it should be for him to be with his Jinn.  But even when they attracted the attention of a bigoted tourist or two, glaring at them from across the street, he could never find it in himself to feel like he was committing the sin he had been raised to feel it should be. It wasn’t like back in Oman, those sneaked touches and stolen tastes in back alleys with strange, equally desperate men, the eyes of Allah in the back of his mind judging him, or maybe it was just the fear of his parents, the people, the law.  He never felt Allah judging him when he was with the Jinn. He felt guilty about that sometimes, as if he was using the fact that the Jinn was such a creature, a beautiful creature made by Allah, proof of his faith, to negate the guilt he should feel. 

His eyes fell on his Jinn, glasses on his face to cover the burning flames where his eyes should be, hunched on the couch over a book. 

Salim grinned, the tension already easing from his shoulders. Philosophical questions could wait for another day. He stepped into the room. 

Immediately, his Jinn’s head darted up to him, the glasses slipping down his nose to reveal that fire. He smiled up at him and Salim grinned back helplessly. Ifrit put aside his book and stood up, closing the distance between them. Salim winced instinctively, and his Jinn hesitated. 

“Vomit,” Salim explained and Ifrit’s face relaxed. They’d both driven that cab, after all. Practically a family business, he thought warmly. 

“Bath?” 

Salim nodded. “Sounds wonderful.” They’d been speaking English, he mused as his husband wandered into their bathroom to fill up the tub. They’d begun to save their natural language for their later night conversations, their language turning from a necessity to something beautiful, a reminder of the home neither of them could really return to, something whispered between two lovers at midnight. 

The Jinn was half-naked before Salim realised he was supposed to be getting undressed. 

He smiled sheepishly to himself as he started flinging clothes away. The Jinn had slid into the bath while waiting for Salim to undo his shoes. 

Finally, Salim was naked, and he gratefully melted into the water, plastering himself against his Jinn as Ifrit poured water over his head, running hands through Salim’s hair with a focus on his face that made it seem, and Salim honestly believed, that at that moment, here, washing him, was the most important thing in the world to the Jinn.

Salim tilted his head back as the warm waters rolled down his neck and he sighed. He was happy.  

Yeah, listen this is basically me throwing a bunch of headcanons at a fic and seeing how they mesh.  

Hello there! So um…while there is some implied smuttiness and all….this ficlet sort of turned into over 1800 words before I’d actually gotten to the actual sex so…. I decided to leave it here, unless people ask for a part two or whatever cos otherwise it’d never get finished, haha. 

I made no reference to whether reader was a God or not, and there are no gender terms used within to describe the reader, though the reader has a female body starting from the lap dance scene~ 

Warning: both characters have had a bit to drink in this fic, so you know…  

Anyway, I wasn’t sure what type of reader I was writing for so have a flirty, self-confident reader who has lots of booze at their house for some reason. 

You were brooding in your kitchen over a cup of wine. 

It wasn’t sad if it was wine. You weren’t a pathetic person if you were having a cup or two of wine after dinner. You were a sophisticated person. You should be congratulated, honestly. 

You practically oozed poise and perfection. 

You were also onto your second bottle of wine somehow, so maybe the whole eliteness of it had worn off after the sixth or so cup. 

Besides, alcohol rarely affected you. You stared morosely into your cup. Maybe you should move onto something stronger. Something that would…actually affect you. 

Not that alcohol would cure your problems. 

Problem. Singular. 

But before you could rehash your problems over another cup, your apartment door swung open, a loud slam accompanying the way it hit against the wall as if thrown by Hercules himself. 

Your eyes fixate on the man sauntering through half-drunk, a self-satisfied grin on his face. Close enough. You lean your elbows on the kitchen bench. “Sweeney,” you enunciate, trying to keep the smile from your face, trying to act as if your wall was more important than the man who probably just broke a hole through it. It really, really wasn’t. 

“Hello love,” he said easily and your stomach rolled in protest. You had moved into cute nicknames a few months earlier, his Irish lilt making each new name he tossed at you something special, something to be cherished. Maybe. If you weren’t reading too much into this. After all, what did years of flirtations mean, really? When it all came down to it. He dropped a bottle on the bench. “Another one, dear, and pour one for yourself too.” 

You roll your eyes and flick him on the head, right between the eyes. “I’m not a bar.” 

He grinned and leant closer to you, his breath reeking of alcohol, with that hint of something…meadows maybe. “I know that,” he protested. Your eyes dart down to his lips, so tantalisingly close. In a second you could press yours against him, steal the whiskey from his tongue and find out just what a leprechaun tasted like. 

He pulled away sharply. “Besides,” he announced to your empty kitchen. “I’m celebrating.”

You raise an eyebrow, ignoring the disappointment that came with his subtle rejection. “And what are you celebrating, my King?” you ask as you pull out the good liquor you’d been studiously avoiding all night. 

He shrugged and rested his back against the counter. “Oh some cunt or other thought he could take me down.” He looked around smugly and you finally noticed the bruise on his cheek. “Didn’t even get one hit in.” 

“Looks like he got a hit in,” you commented dryly as you place the alcohol on the bench and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. You press the ice against his cheek and he winces in return. 

“Forgot about tha’ one,” he said, his accent all the more pronounced with the disappointment in being caught out. You roll your eyes, and take the opportunity to trail your eyes along his face, letting your fingers run across his beard. 

“Of course you did,” you agreed. Your free hand reached up to trace a cut on his forehead. “And this one too I suppose.” You grinned up at him. “I should probably ask….you didn’t get a concussion and just forgot all the times this guy hit you, right?” 

He stuck out his tongue at you, his hand grabbing the one on his forehead. “I came here to celebrate,” he reminded you, pulling you close in a single move. The breath left your body as you were pressed up against the solid wall of muscle that was your Leprechaun. 

There was a moment of silence as the two of you looked into each other’s eyes. Do it. The words were in your head, on your lips, a hairbreadth away from shouting them at him. Let’s stop with the games, start with the fucking.

And then, because he always did, he pulled away. “I asked for booze,” he reminded you with a slur, reaching across the bench for the alcohol you’d laid out.  

You let out your breath in a huff. “Well,” you said, not quite sure where the idea had come from, half-certain you’d somehow gotten drunk off his breath, “if we’re celebrating.” Then again, it could be all those cups of wine. You took his arm and led him to the couch. You pushed him down and grabbed the bottle from his hands, taking a big swig of it. Then you dropped yourself down onto his lap. 

His eyes widened in mild shock, his hands fluttering wildly around your hips as if torn between cupping them and pushing you off. It was cute, seeing those walls of his break down. 

You bite your lip in your most seductive manner, glad to have chosen a very short skirt for your wine binge. 

He narrowed his eyes at you in return. “You’re drunk,” he accused.

You tilted your head and rolled your neck, enjoying every click as you bared your neck to him. “Have you ever known me to get drunk?” Before he could answer, you moved on. “We’re celebrating, remember? Some cunt tried to fight me,” you repeated in a fake Irish accent. 

His nose wrinkled. “That’s offensive,” he told you, his voice getting as frustrated as it did whenever anyone mocked the Irish. Apparently all those years of being demonised as pathetic drunks hadn’t exactly endeared the Irish Stereotype to the leprechaun. Maybe he was just upset everyone thought he was short. Hard to tell with him, honestly. 

You leant in and pressed your forehead to his. “I’ve always wondered,” you admit slyly. 

His breath catches in his throat. “Wondered what?” he finally manages to choke out. 

Your lips are hovering against his again, but if you’re going to do this, if you’re going to be the one to finally push those barriers the whole way, you’re damn sure going to make him work for it. 

And, you know, make sure he actually wants it. 

“What it’s like to give a lap dance,” you finish, raising your ass off his lap and grinding it back down against his thighs. 

The strangled noise he made in return was not human. You smirked back at him in satisfaction. 

“Can I?” you ask in mock innocence. 

Mad Sweeney swears at you before nodding vigorously. “Fuck, yes.” His hands finally come down on your hips and he gives them an experimental squeeze. He even leans in, maybe for a kiss, but you turn your head to look down at his hand and instead his lips brush your neck. He chuckles darkly against your skin, maybe noticing the mood you’re in, figuring out how you want this to go. 

“Finally,” he mutters and your head darts up to face him, a glare forming. 

“Me, finally?” you demand in voice that was close to a screech. “Why do I have to do all the work?” 

He blinks at you before slouching back casually on your couch, hands leaving your hips to sling over the couch’s back, an evil grin forming on his face. “Maybe I like being chased,” he tells you and you growl back in response. 

You let yourself slid forward on his lap further, your breasts pressing against his chest, hips pressed against his. Sweeney was trapped now, between you and the couch and you were going to wipe that smirk off his face and make him beg with every ounce of his body, and then maybe, finally, you might just let him get what he wanted. Maybe. 

You ground your hips down against him slowly, making sure he could feel every inch of your ass as it trailed from the top of his knees all the way down to where that bulge in his pants was forming. 

You feel a flush of heat yourself, all too suddenly becoming real to you, you were straddling Sweeney. 

You looked into his eyes then, needing to make sure that this was alright. 

He smiled at you, the heat between you fizzling out for that second. Something genuine touching his eyes. His hand reached up to cup your face and he pulled you closer to him.  

“Perhaps we should start with a chaser,” he commented, before pulling you in for that long-craved kiss. 

You probably could’ve written an ode to what he tasted like, all those different beverages clashing in his mouth with the dusty taste of tobacco, but you were too busy trying to memorise this moment. When you pulled away panting, resting your forehead back against his, noting distantly that this was the first time you’d even seen the top of that red mountain of hair of his, the first time you’d ever been taller than him. 

“A chaser comes after the main drink,” you point out finally. “To ‘chase away’ the bad taste.” You glare at him again, with no heat, hoping to convey the joke that he was critising your amazing dancing skills. You get distracted by the pinkness of his face, the way his lips have swelled ever so slightly under your administrations. The way he was trying to hide how he was just as desperate for breath as you were, both of you having pushed your limits just to keep tasting each other. 

He shrugged and you could feel it, feel the way his face scrunched slightly with the movement, the way his whole body adjusted to that small movement, and warmth pooled through your body. You were in control now. You had him right where you wanted him. Your leprechaun was literally between your legs as he said, “I’m non-traditional like that.” 

You laugh and your hands clutch at his suspenders. How could your leprechaun, red haired and muscular, wear such disgusting clothing out in public? You intertwine your fingers in them. “I’m afraid I don’t know many lap dance moves,” you whisper into his ear. 

He was too busy nibbling at your neck to notice, his hands back on your waist, fingers trying to slide up under your top while simultaneously pulling you back onto his chest. 

Oh no, you were not going to let him take this moment away from you. You’d let him trick you out your prized kiss, you weren’t going to let him change the dynamic too. 

You pushed him away with one hand, flipping your head forward and then quickly back to let your hair arc into place before running a hand through it to make sure it was adequately sex-strewn already. You lean in and bit his ear before whispering, “I thought you liked being chased.” You steal the words of retort from his lips with another kiss. He tasted more like you now, the wine from your lips mingling pleasantly with his taste. “My turn.” 

Yep! I’m happy to do pretty much anything, haha. 

Ooh yeah I totally got shipping vibes from when Media first appeared talking about them having a date… okay yeah I think most people did…*awkward cough* Here, have this…

Ostara woke up and immediately regretted it. 

She wanted to sink back into those dreams, the dreams where it was Her who was worshipped, when the name Easter, Ostara and Ēostre on everyone’s lips as a prayer. When they loved her for the life she brought, feared that she would take it away. Worshipped her with eggs and gifts. When the blooming of flowers was synonymous with her name. 

Ostara. 

Now she was a bunny. She supposed she should be grateful that she hadn’t actually turned into a rabbit yet; with the amount of them she’d eaten… it wouldn’t be the nicest thing in the world. 

No, the nicest thing in the world was the only thing she really had left. Her memories. The memories when her hair flung free around her neck, petals adorning her skin as if they were a part of her. They used to be.  

She could go back to sleep. Nothing was stopping her. Nothing was, really, stopping her from any of this. She could ravage the world if she chose. But… but she was happy with this. Of course she was. She was worshiped the world over, her name on many more lips than it had been at the height of her power. And if it just happened to be linked with another younger demi-god? 

She was fine with this.  

The house would be empty, she knew. It wasn’t Easter yet, wasn’t even close. Her day was far away and who cared about Ostara in August? Well. Sometimes one Jesus or the other came by, to check on her. Good Samaritan and all that. But besides from that- 

“Oh shit,” she cursed, and shot out of bed. 

Five minutes later and she was the epitome of beauty. Her blonde hair done up intricately under her Easter Bonnet - named for her, she reminded herself. Her bare shoulders, smooth and gorgeous, framed by a sleevless dress covered in flowers. The flowers people used to pray in gratitude to her for. 

It was her minor, minor rebellion. 

A rabbit appeared by her ear, whispering that her guest had arrived. 

Ostara swept towards the door, dress trailing around her like the flowers that used to- Now stop that, she told herself firmly, just before her eyes met Media’s. 

Media was dressed as - wearing the form of - a character Easter couldn’t name. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to. Media chided her for her attachment to the past, but Media’s life seemed to revolve around remembering characters somehow even shorter lived than the humans who created them. 

“Media,” Ostara said in her most pleasing voice. “How good to see you.” She was fawning and hated that she was. 

Media pulled out one of her (probably famous) pouts. “You didn’t forget our date, did you?” she asked in her breathy voice, reaching out her hands to clasp hers. “I missed you ever so much, and have been ever so looking forward to this.” 

Easter smiled back as genuinely as she could as Media slipped her arm into hers and lead her to wander around the garden, Media rambling aimlessly about how nice it would be with this new movie coming out, because it had an Easter Bunny in it, and how everyone’s going to be so excited to talk about her again. 

Ostara’s eyes caught Media’s bodyguard a few meters away and she looked away. Media caught the glance and pulled up short. She stood in front of Easter with an upset look in her eyes. “Now, you mustn’t judge me for bringing a friend on our date,” she told her dramatically. 

“I wasn’t,” Easter replied quickly. 

Media’s eyes narrowed, just slightly, and she stepped closer, far more into her personal space than even she usually dared to go. “If you want it to leave,” her hand touched Easter’s waist experimentally, just a brush, but it had Easter holding her breath. “I can make that happen.” 

Ostara blinked at Media, for once, unsure of what to say. She had been making speeches for thousands of years, but Media, this new, younger God, she had all the speeches. She knew every trick because she played every trick. 

Was this a trick? 

Or was Easter just lonely enough to see things that weren’t there? 

“Well,” she tried in her most determined voice, “He is ruining the view.” 

Media smiled down at her. “It is a good view.” Her persona had dropped, gone was the breathy words of a woman from the past. Here was Media, holding her gaze without even the slightest hint of self-conciousness, as she waved her hand to the bodyguard behind her and the creature disappeared from their sight. 

New life, Ostara thought to herself. There had been gods, ones that were gone now, that used to claim that she was… passionate. That she could fall so quickly for someone that… 

Was this Media’s angle? Had she heard the rumours, scrounged it up from some show or other, and decided love was a better motivator than a favour? 

Suddenly she was tired. She was tired of these politics, tired of the game that gods played nowadays. At least back in her heyday, when gods played mortals as their tools, everyone still just worshipped her. The Spring was vital to life. She was vital to life. 

And here she was wondering if one brief moment of intimacy was a sign or a manipulation. 

She was the goddess of the Spring and she wasn’t going to let herself be treated as a plaything. 

“Thank you,” she said, and then took a step forward in their already very cramped personal space and pressed her lips briefly, but passionately against Media’s. Media’s lips tasted of the lip balm that was flawlessly covering her lips, with just the slightest tinge of metal hidden within. Easter took that second to taste all of it. Then she turned away and started walking again. “I’m thinking of starting a herb garden,” she said carelessly to the woman behind her as she walked away. 

Media hadn’t moved, her eyes still widened slightly in shock. She touched her lips briefly, sure a blush was spreading over her face. A kiss. A kiss was more than she’d ever dared to hope…even the touch of her waist had seemed a step too far… And maybe it was just a product of all those lonely, desperate humans who filled the world with their tales of love and romance, but Media wanted something like that. She wanted Ostara. She wanted another kiss. She wanted more than a kiss. 

She wanted Ostara to love her back. 

There you go, have a first kiss fic. Hope this is okay, I sort of had no real plan for this ficlet… 

Of course! This is set during the last episode,  so mild spoilers if you haven’t seen it yet.  Enjoy~   

Shadow wandered out of the room in a daze. And his first thought after being sent out of the room like a gossipy child wasn’t anger or confusion. It wasn’t even resignation. It was the thought of how much darker the world seemed now he wasn’t in Her presence. 

Easter…Ēostre…Ostara…she was…alive. It may have been the light that caught her hair that had made her glow, but he could see, could see from the moment he’d lain eyes on her, that there was energy there under her skin, something genuine and happy and warm. Like the spring Wednesday had been rambling on about, she was bursting with life. 

He couldn’t help the small smile touch his lips. Even after all he’d been through, something about her made him feel happy, in a way he hadn’t felt since…

Laura. He pushed that thought from his head. Thinking about Laura was a complicated, messy, unreal haze that would’ve made him doubt his sanity if he wasn’t already sure he’d lost that two states back. Instead he thought back on Ēostre.More importantly he thought about when she approached them both, how all he could manage was the lamest “Hey’Ostara,’ any teenage boy had ever muttered awkwardly to a girl so far out of his league. But she hadn’t judged. Hadn’t called him out on it. Surely it must happen all the time to someone so.. so….beautiful. It had felt natural to walk arm in arm with her across her own gardens, the place filled with blooming flowers and rabbits and Jesuses. Jesi? She had called him sweet. Laura had never… Laura was… Now that the box had been opened he couldn’t help but compare the two. Laura, as he’d last seen her, pale and dead, her lips cold and her mouth tasting of chemicals, reeking with the knowledge that that mouth had last been used as a holster for his best friend’s dick. He bet Easter would taste warm. Maybe even of chocolate? Even in life, Laura had never shone like Easter did. Her hair had been lanky, her smile strained, and even when they were fucking, even when she was pushing him to treat him roughly, when she’d slapped him that first night, or even on their gentle days, their wedding, there was always part of her eyes that had clouded, hidden their true thoughts from him, and from the world. Easter had none of that. Her eyes were as vibrant as her smile, and her hair glowed and gleamed in the sunlight that seemed as drawn to her as he was. Oh he had it bad. 

He did… have it bad. He stopped his aimless wandering, almost in shock. He had been tortured, almost killed several times, arrested, lynched… and here he was, a recently released convict who had just watched his new boss murder a person a few days before, wandering lovestruck around a mansion full of Jesuseses, Lovestruck.  

And the worst part was… he couldn’t remember the last time he’d really felt this way. Before Laura had ‘died’? Before he found out the woman he loved had been screwing his best friend? Or…earlier? Had he been clinging to Laura, as an ideal rather than a woman? He had loved her, he knew that. He had loved the way she called him Puppy, the way she smiled, the way she looked dressed in only his shirt, the way she had taken in a total stranger and gave him a life, a meaning, a purpose, friends, a job, a home. A reason to better himself. But now….now maybe… he felt like that part of him was gone. They couldn’t go back now, even if his wife was a, uh, zombie. 

And maybe it was just Ostara. Maybe it was because she was a Goddess, maybe it was the way she was the literal embodiment of the things he loved most in the world, the beauty of nature and life broadcast to the world in every twitch of her mouth, maybe that was why he was immediately enamoured. Maybe it was because it was Easter. Renewal, right? Rebirth? Being around Ostara… it had pushed him to realise something he really, really hadn’t wanted to admit. 

He didn’t love Laura anymore. 

So, I’m sure my fellow American Gods fans have noticed that this fandom is sorely lacking in....everything. Barely any fics of our canon gay ship, barely any of our main gay non-canon ship MadMoon, and the canon Laura/Shadow ship has less than ten fics... and pretty much nothing about any other character. I found one of Bilquis, and there’s only like five f/f fics and fortyish M/F fics... I could go on.