#skarsgard

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How you two met

— You met at a big film/music event — he was promoting a movie, you were performing.

— Bill noticed you first: not because of your fame, but because you were quiet, observant, different from the rest of your well-known artistic family.

— He was polite, discreet, but extremely curious about you.

— For the first time in a long while, you felt someone looking at you, not at the surname you carry.

First conversations

— He loves listening to you talk about music; he’s genuinely impressed by the way you understand melodies and performances.

— You find it fascinating how he’s both calm and playful — and he reveals a dry, sarcastic sense of humor that only comes out when he trusts someone.

— You both know how to deal with public life, but for totally different reasons… and that creates an instant connection.

Relationship dynamic

— Bill is much more affectionate than he looks. He’s not clingy in public, but at home he sticks to you like he’s been missing you for weeks.

— He loves hugging you from behind while you compose, resting his chin on your shoulder.

— He gets genuinely hypnotized when he catches you singing without noticing — like, he’ll walk past the living room and stop just to listen.

— He’s constantly saying you’re “the best sound he’s ever heard,” even if you insist he’s exaggerating.

Him vs your fame

— Bill is extremely proud of you, but he hates how the media treats your personal life because of your famous family.

— He’s the kind of boyfriend who squeezes your hand tightly the moment he senses you’re uncomfortable with the press.

— If someone says something negative about you, he doesn’t respond… but he gives them that classic Skarsgård expression of “I am silently judging you.”

— He supports you 100% in every career decision and gets emotional when you dedicate even a single sentence to him in interviews.

Cute things he does

— He loves sleeping while holding you, rubbing the back of your neck until you fall asleep.

— He steals your oversized sweaters because “they smell like you.”

— He introduces you to the rest of his family with quiet but overwhelming pride — enough for Alexander to tease him about it.

— He keeps videos of you singing at rehearsals on his phone because they are “private moments the world doesn’t need to see.”

Jealousy (subtle, but it’s there)

— Bill isn’t explosive, but he gets quieter when he sees another singer/actor giving you too much attention.

— He tries to hide it, but you notice from the way he pulls you closer in public.

— Sometimes you tease him: “Jealous, Billie?” and he raises an eyebrow, laughing, because you know exactly how to provoke him.

Your shared routine

— He makes your coffee exactly the way you like it and leaves it in a mug near you without saying anything.

— You have movie nights where he picks strange, European, or overly scary films — and you swear it’s just an excuse to have you curl into him.

— When you travel on tour, he tries to attend at least a few shows; he stands beside the stage wearing that impossible-to-hide proud smile.

Moments that are very “you two”

— He shows up to your studio sessions just to give you a quick kiss and bring food.

— You have a shared playlist you started on a bored, sleepless night — it grew and became the way you two communicate when you’re apart.

— He helps you practice lyrics in other languages, and you try helping him with accents (which he finds hilarious).

When he truly loves you

— His eyes change. Intense, soft, deep — in a way that almost makes you forget to breathe.

— He takes care of you in the little things: removing your makeup when you’re exhausted, putting a jacket on you without you asking, pulling you onto his lap when he notices you’re anxious.

— And you realize he loves you when he starts including you in long-term plans: trips, film projects, even silly things like renovating the house.

Intimacy +18

— Bill loves your voice in every context — including when it’s hoarse after a show.

— He has a calm, slow way of touching you that leaves you helpless before he even lays a hand on you.

— He loves when you take control in bed, but his favorite is when you get needy and let him lead.

— Neck kisses are his weakness — especially when you’re wearing that perfume he says “should be illegal.”

— He has a possessive side only in intimacy: holding your waist, pulling your face close, whispering in your ear in a way only you hear.

Small fights & soft drama

— You rarely have big fights, but when you do, it’s from caring too much.

— You take too long to ask for help. He hates when you hide that you’re exhausted, especially on tour.

— A typical fight is him saying: “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

— And you answering: “I just don’t want to worry you.”

— He takes a deep breath, runs a hand through his hair, and speaks with that intense calm only he has: “You’re already my favorite thing to worry about.”

— In the end, you fix everything with softtalk, long hugs, and him kissing your forehead until you relax.

— He rarely shows it, but when an actor/singer flirts too much with you, his gaze darkens instantly.

— He doesn’t start drama in public, but his hand slides possessively to your waist.

— When you get home, he asks in a low voice: “Did you notice how he looked at you?”

— And you laugh, kiss him, and say: “But I went home with you, not him.”

— End of jealousy. He pretends he isn’t relieved — but he is.

Living together

— He cooks better than you expected. Nothing fancy, but comforting.

— Your home is quiet, filled with candles and soft music.

— He works on his scripts on the sofa while you write lyrics on the floor, leaning against his legs.

— You go out rarely — you prefer quiet nights, wine, massages, weird movies, and long conversations.

— Bill even keeps a drawer for your things: hair clips, makeup, forgotten sweaters… he likes feeling that you belong in the house as much as he does.

How he treats your career

— He never tries to diminish you; on the contrary, he lifts you up in everything.

— He notices when you’re overwhelmed and pulls you into bed, lying with you in silence while stroking your hair until you sleep.

— When your family starts giving too many opinions, he becomes your silent fortress.

— He always says you’re “too famous for the world, but perfect for me.”

How he would ask you to be his girlfriend

Nothing public.

Nothing dramatic.

Just the two of you, soft music, maybe at night after one of your shows.

He holds your face, looks into your eyes with that barely-hidden nervousness, and says:

“I don’t want to be just someone in your life.

I want to be the someone.”

Simple, direct, deeply sincere.

With the waters of the coast too shallow and ice-locked to safely cruise through, they had been forced to take a wide berth deeper out to sea in order to make it back to their home fjord. The crew had been blessed enough to make it this far into the detour without the leviathan goddess sensing their trespass and tearing them asunder, but her silence could not be taken for permission. Time and her impatience would become their enemy if they did not hurry back to Rikkan.   

The wind lashed at his face and tore through his curls as he powered across the deck, whipping tears from his eyes. His thick, heavy greatcoat did little to protect his bones from the shiver that wracked even a burly body like his own. Still, he relished what little warmth managed to seep into the rough skin of his palms through the bowl in his hand, letting a harsh, steaming breath seethe through clenched teeth.

He was Edvar, second son of Chief Halnere. He did not get to fuss about over a little chill, not if he wanted to set any kind of respectable standard for himself.

"Halneresson! Could use another hand over here, if you've got a free one!"

The shout came from the Captain, his face weathered grey by age and the storm, barely audible over the roar of the freezing surf. Edvar didn't argue. He set the bowl down on a nearby barrel, bracing himself against the tilting deck as he rushed to help the crew reel hefty fish nets out of the water, which seemed to hold onto them for dear life. His shoulders burned as he threw his weight into the frozen rope, his boots slipping on the slick timber.

"Reckon you’ve got the easy shift tonight," the boss grunted, wiping his hands on his soot-stained canvas trousers. He nodded toward the heavy hatch in the deck, leading below with a grim smirk.

"While we're freezing our arses off out here to keep the ship runnin', you get to go down into the dry and keep the demon company. Just don't let it bite off ya fingers, eh? You got use in you, yet"

A few of the sailors chuckled, a low, nervous sound quickly swallowed by the wind.

"Don't count me so lucky just yet, friend," he muttered, his voice thick with the heavy, rolling cadence of the northern clans. "Gotta survive just being near the thing first."

"Shit, you're right about that. Ah well, good luck to ya. I'll decide whatever the hell I ought to say to your old man when you don't come back up in one bit."

Turning away from the rail, he made for the hatch, eager to get out of the cold as the crew chuckled behind him.

The air down in the prison hold was thin, drafty and drenched in the smell of soggy old timber and stagnant bilge. Edvar descended the narrow ladder, the lantern at his hip wobbling, throwing long, twirling shapes across the low beams overhead. He balanced the bowl of broth that had since chilled in the outside air, the greasy slop clotting and splashing over the rim as the floor rolled in unison with the swell.

He set his lantern down right outside the iron bars, casting a flat line of amber light across the threshold of the cell.

From the dark beyond that line, the silence began to blister. A deep, rattling moan echoed off the metal, a sound that he had at first mistaken for the shifting of the vessel. A glottal clicking followed each heavy breath, a reptilian growl vibrating through the floorboards, driving itself into the marrow of Edvar's very bones.

He sat in the discomfort of it, his skin prickling beneath his thick wool coat, watching the boundary where the light died.

Slowly, Edvar slid the bowl forward, the wood scraping against the grit of the floor, nudging it through the bars and to the edge of the lantern's reach.

"There ya go, witch. Time to eat up," he coughed, scratching at his nose with his thumb, ignoring the instinct in his gut that warned against speaking entirely. It was just trying to scare him with its eerie noises, he was sure.

A spindly hand slid into the light, pale deathly-grey fingers tapering into sharp, blackened claws that caught the edge of the dull flame reflecting through the glass. But it was the index finger that held his gaze—missing, severed cleanly at the knuckle and replaced by a yellowed, gnarled human finger bone attached with a leather gripping glove. The skeletal prosthetic hooked over the rim of the bowl, the wood sagging beneath the sharp points of her claws as she dragged the offering back into the gloom.

The growl in her throat deepened, and the hairs on Edvar's neck shot up. The darkness of the cell felt too sweeping, too vast, hiding too much. Desperate to see the face of the thing he was feeding, he reached down to lift the lantern, intending to flood the shadows with light.

A sudden, violent lurch of her chains tore through the dark. Edvar flinched, his arm jerking instinctively as the projectile hurtled his way.

The bowl smashed into the iron bars with a clang! Broth splattered, dark grease and chunks of meat spraying across the floorboards. From the blackness, a dry, raspy voice hissed, laced with pure spite.

"You wish to poison me, like a coward, with this bile you dare call food?"

He squinted, frustration splintering through his unease as he looked down at the mess between his boots.

"It ain't poison. It's the same shit me and the men are eating," he shot back. "You're not special. You eat or you go hungry."

The shifting of chain links echoed from the corner as she tilted her head. "You wish me to weaken myself with this slop? Is that why you Flamebloods are so.....breakable? This is what your mothers feed you?"

"I'm afraid, unless you can magically conjure up your own banquet, my lady, that this will just have to suffice," he grunted, bracing his hands on his knees as he glared into the dark. "And now you can either lick up what you've spilled from the floor or go hungry. Choice is yours."

"It is preferable to starve," she hissed.

"Then you can be my fucking guest."

A silence descended on the hold again. Edvar watched the shadow of her hood, expecting another snarl. Instead, she paused.

A low, mocking sound spilled into a dry, raspy laugh, and as the laughter faded, she finally moved, sweeping forward out of the corner and into the light.

Edvar’s breath caught. Up close, the sheer wrongness of her features hit him all at once. Her thick braid was a rope of dark crimson hair dragging through the filth of the deck, coiling like a giant serpent around her bare, dirty feet. The heavy hood had fallen back just enough to expose the long, pointed sweep of her ears, both marked with brutal notches and jagged scars from past battles.

But it was the massive obsidian horns cutting upward from her brow that anchored his gaze. They were monstrous things, rising like twin serrated blades, monoliths on their own. The lantern light caught the wet sheen of the crown, highlighting the dangerous, backward-curving spikes that split off from the main vents of bone. They looked ancient and regal, heavy enough to snap a human neck had they been cursed with such things, yet she bore them with grace, like she could carry the weight a dozen times over.

He could see, undeniably, how his forefathers long ago believed that the Ikar-Drakayith were devils dragged straight from the hells themselves.

“You amuse me, you know,” she chuckled, teeth gleaming as she smiled. “You humans have quite the audacity, thinking yourself so brave.”

Her eyes were hidden behind a scrap of rag that had been tied around her head, obscuring her vision, but he knew she didn’t need to see him to track his whereabouts. He wouldn’t put it past her to be able to see him regardless.

“I don’t think myself anything,” he said. “You on the other hand are far too arrogant for someone in your spot. You got yourself caught, did you not? Makes us humans somewhat capable.”

The edge of her lip twisted into a scowl. “The dirty, underhanded tricks of humans do not hold up in an equal fight. Surely decades of skirmishes have taught the clans that much? It was a lucky shot that brought me down, nothing more.”

“And what a lucky shot it was,” he stepped back, plucking a chunk of mutton from his collar and tossing it back through the bars. “But lucky shot or not, you’re ours now, and you’ll be dealt with soon enough.  The world will be better for it.”

“Oh it will, I’m sure,” she smiled. 

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Celebrations, banquets and drunken chatter soon quelled, an extinguished flame, as the grand doors to the Hall of Fire parted, and the returning warriors stepped inside.

Great hearths lined the centre of the longhouse, sending plumes of smoke up toward the blackened rafters, where banners and tapestries of the clan crest hung heavy and still. The air tasted of roasted boar, chicken and cow, spiced by the smell of mud and dung from the farms billowing in through the open doors.

Edvar kept his head held high, despite the shocked eyes now following him as he continued his march. His boots left wet, icy tracks across the floorboards. 

Men stopped mid-swallow, horns of ale frozen at their lips, while women pulled their children closer to their wool skirts.

“He’s home,” they whispered, blinking over and over, wondering if their eyes had deceived them. “He’s not dead. He’s not a traitor after all.”

The murmurs rippled through the crowd. For two moons, the village had figured him a coward or a corpse. Whispers had festered that the second prince had fled his duties, deserting the clan after a bitter dispute with the high table. No one in Rikkan had known the truth—that Edvar had quietly gathered his most loyal vanguard of Firehearts and slipped into the Wolfmaw territories without permission, embarking on a rogue campaign that should have cost him his life.

At the far end of the longhouse, raised upon a massive stone dais, Chief Halnere sat like an old mountain carved into a high seat of dark oak. He was a truly monolithic man, a living god of weathered grandeur that commanded absolute silence without even lifting a finger. His heavy brow knitted over deep-set, calculating eyes that had seen a hundred bloodbaths, and his silver-grey hair feathered thinly around a set jaw, spliced with three deep set scars given to him years ago.

Just a step behind him stood Tsarund, Flameblood’s golden heir. A thick, intricate blond braid  folded over his massive shoulder, resting against a heavy bear fur coat that hung open to reveal a muscular, sun-browned chest. His eyes narrowed, scrutinising his younger brother's approach. 

“Chief,” Edvar knelt, fist pressed hard over his heart. 

Chief, not Father. He kept his eyes fixed on the stone steps of the dais, refusing to let his exhaustion show. 

“Please, I beg your forgiveness of my long absence. My Firehearts and I embarked on a journey south, to Wolfmaw, who wish to restore their standing with us. We return to you now with a gift, a token of their allegiance.”

A low, sharp sneer twisted Tsarund’s striking features.

“Very typical of you, brother, to pull a stunt like this,” he said, steps echoing against the stone as he stood from the table, his towering frame casting a long shadow. “You take dozens of men, of good, strong men, and you disappear for two months at sea. You dare to strike deals with our enemies when it is not your place to do so, and not only that, you dare to return—”

“Tsarund.”

Halnere rose a hand. A warning, not to stir trouble. It was a single, authoritative gesture that halted his eldest son mid-step, forcing Tsarund to lock his jaw and reluctantly, obediently, return to the high table.

“Let him speak. I wish to hear an explanation,” the old chief commanded, his heavy gaze boring into Edvar’s skull. He knew, always knew, that there was more to be said in the privacy of the council room later, that whatever he truly wanted to say could not be said in front of everyone.

"In exchange for allegiance, they offered us a gift that was impossible to refuse," Edvar said. "One I am sure that, once you see, you will understand why I had to seize it."

He turned, raising a single hand to his men. "Step aside."

The Firehearts parted cleanly, their iron shields shifting to reveal the prisoner at the center of their ranks.

He had to admit, it was satisfying to do this, satisfying to experience the deep chill that rushed through his body as he spoke. As he declared his victory, earned his respect. 

“I present to you Kharlon,” he went on. “Matron of the Dragonclaw clan."

A collective gasp swept through the longhouse. Several elders sprang from their benches, chairs scraping violently against the floor as the crowd pushed backward, desperate to put distance between themselves and the creature before them.

Even in heavy iron shackles, Kharlon did not sway, nor did she kneel when the warriors tried to kick her knees in. She did not slouch; she did not cower. The Hall of Fire seemed to shrink around her. Even discounting the addition of her horns, even without boots, she still stood almost a full head taller than nearly every warrior in the room. Fire light licked across her face, reflecting in the voids of her pure black eyes. Edvar had not seen them until now, when the blindfold had been removed.

She was enjoying it, he realised, watching that smirk return to her face. She was basking in the fear that swelled in the room, thriving in the slight awe, in the undivided attention. 

“Kharlon.”

Halnere uttered her name like it caught his curiosity, as if she were a peculiarity to be examined.

“You have been afforded the dignity of standing here before my table, the courtesy of living to see another day within my sight, and yet you do not return the respect of kneeling?”

She smoothed her tongue—split into two—over her teeth, like it pained her not to use them.

“The day you wield any power over the common dragon, Halnere, will be the day I shall happily kneel for you.”

“I thought your father remained Patron of your clan. You are but a mere princess, if you can even be called such a thing,” he mused, ignoring her comment. An insult loosely disguised as intrigue. It was a dig at Edvar, too, of course it was. Because of course his son could not bring him the true leader of the Ikar Drakayith.

“He was,” the Dragonclaw answered, staring him down with eyes of shining onyx. “But no longer. I am the Child of Zormir, and it is by her will that I now lead my clan.”

She uttered the name of the forsaken leviathan like it meant anything to a man who had grown to trust his own intuition, his own eyes, over stories. It was true, as far as the rumours, the legends, went. Millions of years ago, a select group of humans believed that they could come to one day inherit draconic traits and become one with the four leviathan gods, and had set about a crusade of killing and drinking the blood of dragons. Kharlon was believed to be a direct descendant of the very first men to drink the blood of Zormir herself, and in the eyes of her people, it made her the closest thing to divinity alive.

To Halnere, though, she was naught but a petulant demon.

“Your standing with your goddess means nothing to me,” he said. “At least your father saw sense in leaving our shores alone. You are but a child playing with toys. You’ve been straying too close. Attacking our trading routes. You stir up trouble for no reason, and indeed you are becoming quite the hassle.”

There it was—a throwaway point, a slight, indirect admission that Edvar was right. That he had been right to journey all that way to get her, because having her in their custody meant saving themselves the pain of pointless loss. Having her meant having power, his father just needed to see it.

“No decision of mine is made without reason,” Kharlon tilted her head. “Is it simply not enough to enjoy the power one wields?”

“Arrogant witch,” Tsarund growled. He left the table once again, brushing off his father’s command to stay put, stalking towards her, shoulder clipping Edvar’s as he pushed past him. “My father is right. Your arrogance is childish. You are not worthy to stand here, and my brother can take you back to where he got you and they can do what they like.” 

“Oh, dear,” she tutted. “You speak out of turn. Wouldn’t want to get another scalding from daddy, would you?”

In a blur too quick for intervention he reeled back his fist and let it fly. Her head snapped sideways, a spray of crimson shooting from her mouth, but she didn’t stagger. 

Then slowly, so slowly, she turned back. Her eyes glowed faintly, as if embers stirred behind them.

That smirk returned, a feral crescent curving onto torn lips.

“You see, my friends. The witch is not untouchable. She bleeds the same as us,” Tsarund triumphed, pleased at the sight of her blood on his hands. 

“That may well be,” she licked the blood from her lips. “But now, I suppose we shall have to see if you bleed the same as us.”

The air in the hall trembled, goblets rattling on their tables and clay pitchers shattered. The foundations groaned. Then, with a deafening, catastrophic roar, the world burst into flames. 

The thatched roof tore away in shreds, collapsing as the hulking form of an enormous, onyx-black dragon smashed it to bits, her entire head blotting out the burning sky above as she parted her maw and unleashed a fire-filled scream.

Helyn the Deathless—Edvar had seen her from afar only once in battle, had been scared with bedtime stories of her as a child. The oldest dragon alive, having seen and fought through centuries of battle yet no man had come close to killing her. If the Matron had managed to bond with such a beast, there was no telling what other kind of power she wielded.

Kharlon did not move, throwing her head back with pure, incredulous laughter rippling from her throat as the inferno washed over her—but the witch did not burn. Her clothes did not catch, nor her hair, nor her horns, her skin did not melt, did not char, nor did blister. Instead, the iron cuffs around her arms and legs began to melt, dropping to the floor as the heat stripped them to nothing.

Panic instantaneously devoured the longhouse. Screaming clan folk trampled one another, scrambling blindly toward the choked exits as burning rafters collapsed into the crowd. Edvar was thrown to his knees by the blast of heat, coughing violently through the dense, black smoke.

Through the haze, he saw Kharlon raise a single grey hand toward the gaping sky. She whistled—a sharp, piercing sound that cut cleanly through the chaos. Helyn leaned her massive, scarred head lower into the ruins of the hall, letting out a low growl tremble through the structure.

In a few fluid movements, Kharlon strode forward, scaling the jagged, interlocking spires of the dragon's shoulder plates as if they were stairs. She swung herself into the heavy leather saddle strapped across the beast's neck, settling into the seat with absolute authority.

"Edvar!" a voice barked through the smoke.

It was one of his Firehearts, dragging a weeping mother and two children toward the side doors. Edvar forced his legs to move, years of training wrestling down the sheer terror attempting to freeze him in place. He grabbed a young boy by the tunic and hoisted him up, shouting orders over the roar of the flames as he guided the remaining stragglers out of the collapsing structure.

The moment Edvar burst through the shattered side entrance into the biting night air, his breath caught in his throat.

The night was gone, replaced by a devastating, hellish dawn. Looking down from the high cliffs toward the docks, his heart plummeted. Through the smoke, a dozen more dragons cut through the night, their cultist riders raining pillars of fire down upon the wooden longships and the thatched homes of the village below.

They had been tracked the entire time, he realised. Dragons had elite senses of smell, and were known to be able to track scents from islands away. They had likely been following since the moment they left Wolfmaw’s docks at their eastern village. It was his fault. It was his rogue campaign, his desperate grab for glory, that had guided the devils straight to their gates. Zormir really did want to punish them for their trespass after all.

A cry tore from his chest as he sprinted to the edge of the cliff, tracking the hulking shape of her dragon as it surged up, up, up into the night. 

Kharlon had vanished, and the entire village of Rikkan along with it; consumed by flame that continued to burn for days.

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