#* THREAD. ‘ after war comes peace. ‘

[kaynothanks]

The Bargain Store

Pairing: Loki x goddess!reader

Summary: You, a goddess hiding on Earth, encounter Loki, who eons ago vowed to kill you. Loki never was one to keep his word.

Warnings: (18+ mdni) loki, what else? the smut just happened, i don’t even know how (yes, I do), oral (f receiving), loki has ulterior motives, mention of blood (lip), unprotected p in v, vaginal fingering

Word-Count: 6.5 k

Nobody suspected anything. Never had. For the past few decades, you had been the owner of your little shop, after spending many centuries on the run.

Throughout centuries, there had been wars and revolutions, plagues and remedies. You had stood witness to them all. Watched from the distance as civilizations went into ruin and new ones emerged. You had made sure not to get too involved. It wasn’t your place; not your planet and not your people. Still, you had been on earth for a big part of your lifespan. In your world, you weren’t anything special, a sheep in a broad herd. And you had had enough of it. So, you had left. Ran from your responsibilities, bid no goodbyes and settled for something less.

Centuries had woven themselves into the very fabric of your being, each era a thread in the intricate tapestry of your existence. You had been many things: a whisper in the wind, a shadow in the twilight, a force as ancient and unyielding as the stars themselves. Yet, for the last few decades, you had chosen a far simpler, more unassuming role—a shopkeeper, tending to a quaint little establishment nestled on a serene street, far removed from the cacophony of the bustling city that surrounded it.

Your shop was a sanctuary, not just for you, but for all who sought refuge within its walls. From the outside, it appeared no different from any other boutique that dealt in herbs, teas, and the occasional curious trinket. However, its essence was imbued with something far more ancient, a magic that hummed quietly beneath the surface, perceptible only to those who truly believed or those who, like you, were of another world entirely.

This little shop was your haven, a place where you could be both less and more than what you were. Here, you were not the goddess who had danced among the stars, who had witnessed the rise and fall of empires, who had fled from a war that threatened to consume her very soul. Here, you were simply the keeper of secrets, of remedies both mundane and magical, offering solace to the weary and the lost.

Your reasons for choosing this existence were manifold, but at their core lay a desire for peace, for a semblance of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. You had grown weary of the endless conflicts that had defined your existence, of the power struggles that had torn apart realms and ravaged worlds. Earth, with all its simplicity and complexity, offered a respite, a place where you could hide in plain sight among its inhabitants, who remained blissfully unaware of the greater cosmos that swirled around them.

The shop became a reflection of your desire for tranquility. Its walls were lined with shelves laden with jars and bottles, each containing herbs and potions that held whispers of your old world. You delighted in the mundane tasks of tending to your plants, mixing herbs, and brewing teas, finding a sense of purpose in the healing and comfort your creations provided. Your customers, none the wiser to the true nature of your being, were drawn to your shop by an inexplicable pull, leaving with remedies for their ailments and, sometimes, a lighter heart.

For years, this life had been enough. You had convinced yourself that you could forget, that you could move beyond the past and forge a new existence among the humans you had come to cherish. But the past, as it often does, refused to remain buried. It came for you on an unremarkable day, shattering the peace you had so carefully built with the ringing of the shop's bell and the entrance of a figure from a life you had tried to leave behind.

Loki's arrival was a storm on the horizon, a harbinger of chaos that threatened to upend the world you had created. The God of Mischief, with his piercing gaze and sly grin, embodied everything you had fled from: the power, the destruction, the endless machinations of gods and men. His presence in your shop, a place that had been untouched by the affairs of gods for so long, was a stark reminder that one could never truly escape their nature or their past.

The last time you had seen Loki, it was on the battlefield. You had been on opposing sides, and his last words to you were a vow of death. Yet, here he stood, looking around your shop with a curious gleam in his eyes, not having recognized you yet. Or had he? With Loki, one could never be too sure. You steadied yourself, the mask of the shopkeeper sliding effortlessly into place. "Can I help you find anything?" Your voice was calm, betraying none of the turmoil inside.

Loki turned his attention to you, his green eyes piercing. For a moment, you thought you saw a flicker of recognition, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. "I'm looking for something unique," he declared, the silk of his voice wrapping around you like a familiar shroud. His steps were measured as he approached, the predator within barely leashed. "A gift for someone who values... rare items."

You couldn't help but wonder who Loki would consider worthy of a gift. Your curiosity, however, was a dangerous thing, especially around him. "I have a few rare herbs and special tea blends. If you're looking for something more unique, perhaps a potion or two? Depending on what you wish to achieve." You kept your tone neutral, professional.

It was a game of cat and mouse, and you both knew it. Loki's lips twitched into a smile, and he moved closer, his gaze never leaving yours. "And what would you recommend for someone seeking... forgiveness?"

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Loki was asking for forgiveness? From whom? The thought that it might be you crossed your mind, but you dismissed it just as quickly. "Forgiveness is not easily obtained by potions alone. It requires sincerity and action. But," you paused, turning to fetch a small, unassuming bottle from a shelf behind you, "this may aid in opening the heart to forgiveness, making it more receptive."

He took the bottle, examining it with a thoughtful expression. "And what do you seek, shopkeeper? What would you have me pay for this aid?"

"Peace," the word slipped out before you could stop it. It was the truth, however. Peace was all you had sought by coming to Earth, peace from your past, from the endless battles and politics of gods.

"A tall order," Loki mused, placing the bottle down and stepping closer, invading your personal space. "But perhaps not impossible."

The tension between you was palpable, a dance of curiosity, old grudges, and unspoken questions. "Why are you here, Loki?" you dared to ask, needing to know his purpose. Your heart raced, not just from surprise but from a resurgence of a darker thrill you thought you had buried deep within. The life you had led before, filled with power plays and destruction, beckoned with a seductive finger through Loki's emerald gaze. As Loki dared to step closer, crossing the invisible boundary you had mentally drawn around yourself, a surge of defiance ignited within you. Your heart raced, not solely with fear but with the resurgence of a power you had long kept dormant. With a thought as sharp as a whispered incantation, you summoned a dagger into existence. It materialized in your hand, its golden blade gleaming with a light that spoke of ancient magics and forgotten realms. This was no mere weapon but a relic of your divine heritage, a testament to the might you once wielded freely.

You didn't hesitate. The years had taught you caution, yes, but they had also honed your instincts, sharpened them into lethal points. As Loki advanced, a smile playing on his lips as if he were merely a predator toying with his prey, you struck. The movement was fluid, a dance you had performed countless times across the battlegrounds of the stars. The blade sliced through the air, aimed with deadly precision at the figure before you.

But the strike met no resistance. Instead, the dagger sliced through the illusion, the projection of Loki dissipating into nothingness, leaving behind only the faintest traces of his magic in the air. It was a trick, a mere sleight of hand from the God of Mischief, and you had fallen for it. A cold realization washed over you, a reminder of Loki's cunning, of the depths of his power which, it seemed, had only grown over the years.

Before you could recover, before you could even curse your own folly, arms enveloped you from behind. It was an embrace as familiar as it was unexpected, one that spoke of countless lifetimes and entwined destinies. His hand snaked around your waist, securing you against him with an intimacy that belied the years of separation and the shadow of past betrayals. The other hand, firm and unyielding, gripped hold of your wrist, effortlessly disarming you of the dagger you had conjured. Its golden light flickered and died, leaving you exposed, vulnerable in a way that went beyond the physical.

Loki's breath was warm against your neck, his presence a cloak of inevitability you found yourself powerless to resist. "How I have missed you, darling," he murmured, the words vibrating against your skin, a mix of threat and endearment. In that moment, with Loki's arms around you and his voice weaving spells of its own, you were transported back across the aeons, to a time when love and war were intermingled, and your fate was inseparably tied to the whims of gods.

The realization that the figure you had attacked was but a projection, a mere echo of Loki's true self, sank in with a weight that was almost suffocating. It was a reminder of his mastery over illusions, over the realities he could weave with a mere thought. Yet, the arms that held you, the breath that teased the hairs at the nape of your neck, they were undeniably real. This was no illusion but the god himself, in flesh and blood, as tangible as the tumultuous history you shared.

The conflict within you, a storm of emotions and memories, raged with renewed intensity. Loki's proximity, his touch, it reignited flames you thought had long since turned to ash. But this was not the time for reminiscences, for getting lost in what had been. The immediate truth was that Loki, the very being who had once vowed your destruction, now held you within his grasp, not as an enemy, but with a possessiveness that spoke of deeper, more complex intentions.

As his hand released your wrist, letting the vanished dagger be forgotten, you were left to grapple with the reality of his return. His words, laden with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher, echoed in the silence that followed. Was it a declaration, a manipulation, or something in between? With Loki, the lines were always blurred, the truth as shifting as the sands of time. The shop around you, once a sanctuary of peace, now felt like a stage set for a confrontation centuries in the making. The tranquility you had so carefully cultivated was shattered, replaced by the crackling energy of a storm about to break. Loki's presence, both familiar and foreboding, promised nothing and everything, a paradox that was his very essence.

Still ensnared in Loki's unexpected embrace, his words lingering in the air between you, a whirlwind of emotions battled within you. Anger, betrayal, and a flicker of something dangerously akin to longing. His presence, his closeness, was overwhelming, yet you found the clarity to make a choice. You would play his game, match his deceit with your own cunning, even as thoughts of vengeance danced just beneath the surface of your composed exterior.

Turning your head to face him, you allowed the moment to stretch, to teeter on the edge of something neither of you could fully grasp. Your lips hovered so close to his, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, a tantalizing promise of what could be. "Have you now, my love?" The words slipped from your lips, laced with a venom sweetened by the honeyed guise of affection. It was a challenge, a provocation, delivered with the precision of one who knew just how to stir the god of mischief.

Loki responded not with words, but with action. He hummed, a sound that vibrated with a multitude of unspoken thoughts and desires, before leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss. It was a bold move, one that sought to bridge centuries of separation and silence with the intimacy of a moment. The kiss was a fusion of past and present, a clash of wills and desires, as complex and enigmatic as Loki himself.

Yet, as his lips moved against yours, a part of you recoiled, a reminder of the chasm that lay between what was and what could never be. With a resolve as cold and sharp as a blade, your hand found its way into the silk of his dark locks. You allowed yourself a brief second, a heartbeat, to feel the warmth of him, to breathe in the scent that was undeniably Loki, before your fingers curled into a fist, gripping tightly.

With a swift, decisive motion, you pulled him away, breaking the kiss, severing the illusion of reconciliation and intimacy. "I don't believe you for a second," you hissed, the words dark and laden with all the unspoken truths and lies that had accumulated over the years. It was a declaration of war as much as it was a rejection, a line drawn in the sand that marked the boundary between past affections and present distrust.

Loki, taken aback by the suddenness of your rejection, the intensity of your grip, could only stare, the mask of charm and seduction slipping to reveal a glimpse of the genuine surprise and, perhaps, a flicker of a bruised ego beneath his mask. The god of mischief, so accustomed to being the orchestrator of deceit, found himself momentarily at a loss, caught in the web of his own making. The air between you crackled with tension, charged with the electricity of a storm on the horizon. In that moment, with the remnants of the kiss still lingering like a phantom touch upon your lips, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare. It was a tapestry woven with threads of love and hatred, betrayal and longing, each stitch a testament to the turbulent history you shared.

Your defiance, your refusal to succumb to the seduction of a momentary weakness, set the stage for what was to come. It was a declaration that you were no longer the deity who had fled, who had sought refuge in the shadows of anonymity. You were a force to be reckoned with, a player in the game of gods, and Loki would do well to remember that.

Loki's response to your defiance was as swift as it was unpredictable. His initial surprise at your resistance melted away into that all-too-familiar grin, a mischievous curve of his lips that had always heralded trouble. The atmosphere shifted palpably, charged with a tension that was as much about power as it was about the unresolved history simmering between you. He advanced, the godly aura that clung to him making the air around you thrum with energy. His approach was deliberate, each step calculated to intimidate and enthrall in equal measure. You found yourself retreating until the solid form of the front desk halted your escape, the mundane reality of your shop a stark contrast to the unfolding drama.

Loki's fingers, cool and assertive, found the hem of your clothes, tugging with a playful yet disapproving frown. "I must confess, I find myself at odds with your choice of attire," he remarked, his voice a low purr that vibrated with an undercurrent of something darker. "These... mundane garments do not suit you. I miss the dresses of old, the ones that whispered secrets against your skin, the ones I could remove with but a thought." His words were a deliberate provocation, designed to unnerve and reminisce a past intimacy that had once been.

Before you could muster a retort or push him away, he lifted you with an ease that spoke of his godly strength, sitting you atop the counter with a possessive certainty. The action was bold, an invasion of personal space that he seemed to relish, watching for your reaction, gauging how far he could push before you snapped. His behavior, this blend of familiarity and threat, placed you at a crossroads. Part of you, the part hardened by centuries of hiding and surviving, screamed for caution, for you to summon your powers and push him away, to reinforce the boundaries he so blatantly disregarded. Yet, another part, perhaps the part that had once known him more intimately, that remembered the complexity of his character, urged you to wait, to use this proximity to your advantage.

The realization dawned on you then, amid the tension and the charged air, that Loki's tactics had shifted because he needed something from you. His words, his actions, were part of a larger game, one that involved merely his goal, and by extension, you. It was a game of manipulation, of old affections twisted into new strategies, but it was also a game you could play.

"So, you miss the past," you found yourself saying, voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling within you. Your eyes locked with his, a challenge laid bare. "But the past is a realm even you cannot return to, Loki. We are not who we once were, and desires... desires can be as fleeting as they are dangerous." It was a gamble, invoking both your shared history and the undeniable tension of the present. You sought to remind him that you were not the same deity he had once known, that you had grown and changed, just as he had. In this dance of words and wills, you were not just the prey he might have assumed you to be; you were a player in your own right, with your own cards yet to be revealed.

The next move was his, and the air between you crackled with the anticipation of it.

Loki's gaze, a maelstrom of green, held yours with an intensity that bordered on the palpable, each flicker of emotion a testament to the centuries that had shaped him. His response, when it came, was threaded with the weight of ages and the depth of a god's desires.

"My yearning for you," he began, his voice a low thrum that seemed to echo with the gravitas of eons passed, "has never been of the fleeting kind. It is as enduring as the stars that light our skies, as unyielding as the fabric of reality itself. To suggest otherwise is to misunderstand the very nature of my being."

With these words, he sank to his knees before you, an act so filled with symbolic surrender and yet charged with an undercurrent of strategy. In this position, Loki, the god of mischief, the architect of chaos, positioned himself in a posture of fealty—or so it seemed. Yet, you knew better than to take the gesture at face value. Loki was many things, but straightforward was not one of them. Every action, every word, was laced with layers of meaning, designed to manipulate and coax the desired response from those he engaged with.

His move was bold, a calculated risk meant to disarm and perhaps to remind you of the dynamics that had once defined your interactions. It was an acknowledgment of your power, your importance in this intricate game he was playing. Yet, it was also unmistakably a ploy, a way to close the distance between you, to weave a narrative of shared history and unresolved tension.

The air around you seemed charged, thick with the history and the palpable tension of the moment. Loki, on his knees, looking up at you with an intensity that spoke of genuine desire mixed with the ever-present calculation, presented a picture of vulnerability. Yet, you were not so easily swayed. You knew the depths of his cunning, the lengths he would go to achieve his ends. His admission, cloaked in the grandiosity of his age and station, left you with a choice. To engage, to allow yourself to be drawn back into the orbit of his world, his plans, or to hold firm, to remember the reasons for your distance, for the life you had chosen away from the machinations of gods and their games.

The moment stretched, a tableau of tension and possibility, as you weighed your response, acutely aware of the stakes, of the game that was afoot, and of Loki, who knelt before you, a god cloaked in the guise of a supplicant, yet undeniably dangerous, undeniably compelling.

As Loki knelt before you, the atmosphere thick with tension and unspoken words, you made a decision. Lifting your leg, the black of your heeled shoes catching the light and glinting ominously, you pushed against his shoulder. It was a gesture meant to distance, to assert your autonomy against his sudden show of vulnerability or manipulation—whichever it truly was. Your voice, when it came, was laced with a mixture of resolve and undeniable truth, a reflection of the complex dance that had always defined your interactions.

"Your desire for me," you began, your words deliberate, "could never hope to keep pace with your lust for your myriad schemes and machinations, my love." The term of endearment, spoken so, carried a weight of irony, a nod to the past entanglements and the understanding that, for Loki, the pursuit of his goals often overshadowed everything else.

Yet, instead of acquiescing to the push, of allowing himself to be dismissed so easily, Loki's reaction was to tighten his grasp on the situation—quite literally. His hands, those instruments of mischief and manipulation, found your leg, his touch bold as he held you in place. Then, with an audacity that was quintessentially Loki, he pressed his lips against your calf in a kiss that was as shocking as it was calculated. It was an act of defiance, a refusal to be pushed away, and a statement of his intent all at once.

This gesture, so intimate and yet so brazen, served multiple purposes. It was a challenge to your autonomy, a test of your boundaries, and an undeniable declaration of his continued interest. Yet, it was also unmistakably Loki—crossing lines, blurring boundaries, and always, always pushing for more than what was offered. The action left you momentarily stunned, grappling with the rush of emotions it elicited. Anger, irritation, an unwelcome surge of something more confusing, all mingled together. It was a reminder of the power he wielded, not just through his magic, but through his very presence, his ability to unnerve and to provoke.

In that moment, the complexity of your relationship with Loki was laid bare once more. It was a tangled web of attraction and repulsion, of history and the potential for future conflicts. His refusal to be dismissed, to be pushed aside, was both infuriating and intriguing. It was Loki in all his complexity, challenging you to respond, to engage, to once again become entangled in the endless cycle of push and pull that had always defined you.

The next move was yours to make, and the shop, once a place of mundane tranquility, had become a battleground of wills, a stage upon which the next act of your shared story would unfold. With a flick of your fingers, reality within the confines of your shop twisted and shifted, unfurling like the petals of a flower under the first light of dawn. The mundane guise that had cloaked the truth from prying eyes dissolved, revealing the hidden splendor that no ordinary human could perceive. The illusion you had meticulously maintained for years now peeled away, and the floor beneath your feet transformed, paths of gold unfurling like rivers through the space. Artifacts, their origins as ancient and varied as the stars themselves, now adorned the walls—each piece a testament to histories untold and powers unimaginable.

But the transformation did not stop with the shop. It enveloped you as well, the very essence of your being responding to the unspoken command. The simple, mundane dress that had draped your form vanished, replaced by attire that echoed Loki's wistful remembrance. What materialized was reminiscent of your homeland's attire, designed for the relentless heat and the unyielding brightness of your realm. It was barely more than a tunic, the silk woven in patterns that spoke of ancient craftsmanship and royal decree, clinging to your form in a way that left little to the imagination. The hem flirted with the very brink of decency, the rump of your body barely shielded by the delicate fabric, a bold declaration of your heritage and status.

In this transformation, you reclaimed a fragment of your past self, the visage you had donned before you sought refuge and anonymity amongst the mortals of Earth. The change was not merely physical but symbolic, a shedding of the facade you had adopted to navigate the complexities of a world not your own. Standing there, in the true appearance of your being, you confronted Loki not as the unassuming shopkeeper he had encountered moments before, but as the goddess you truly were—powerful, formidable, and undeniably yourself. You stood before him not as an adversary to be underestimated, but as an equal, a being of immense power and depth, whose true nature was as complex and as potent as his own.

The shop, now a reflection of truths long concealed, served as the perfect backdrop for the unfolding confrontation. The artifacts that lined the walls, each bearing witness to the ages and the stories they contained, stood as silent sentinels to the encounter between two beings who transcended the mundane, whose histories were intertwined with the very fabric of the cosmos.

In this moment, the illusion shattered, the truth laid bare, you awaited Loki's response, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of unspoken challenges. The game, it seemed, had shifted, and the rules were being rewritten with each passing second. As the golden light settled and the true form of your shop shimmered into existence around you, Loki's initial reaction was a momentary flicker of surprise that quickly morphed into an appreciative smirk. His gaze swept over the transformed space, taking in the ancient artifacts and the streams of gold that ran like rivers across the floor. But it was the change in you that held his attention captive. The way the silk of your tunic clung to your form, the bold declaration of your divine heritage—it was as if he was seeing you for the first time all over again.

Loki breathed, his voice a blend of admiration and something darker, more primal. "This," Loki's voice wove through the air with an echo of ancient power, "is the true essence of you that lingers in my memory.” His eyes, alight with a mischievous and predatory gleam, never left your form as he slowly circled you, taking in every detail. "Hiding in plain sight, were we?" he mused, his tone teasing yet laced with an edge that hinted at the complexity of your shared past.

Despite the tension crackling in the air between you, you stood your ground, your posture radiating confidence and power. "And what of it, Loki?" you countered, your voice steady and imbued with strength. "Did you expect to find me cowering? Diminished?"

Loki's circling came to a halt, and he faced you, the distance between you charged with an electric anticipation. "On the contrary," he replied, his voice soft yet carrying an undeniable weight, as his fingers went forward, pulling at one of the strings keeping your body hidden from his gaze. "I've always known your strength, your... resilience. It's what makes this game so exhilarating."

The word 'game' hung between you, a reminder of the countless layers and facades both of you had navigated over the eons. This moment, however, stripped away those layers, revealing the raw essence beneath. It was a confrontation, yes, but also a recognition of the profound connection that had always existed between you—a connection fraught with complexity and contradictions.

"Are you certain you wish to engage in another game, Loki?" Your voice, steady and imbued with a quiet power, cut through the charged silence, even as you felt him unbuckle your shoes, his fingers deftly and slowly slipping them from your feet. "I seem to recall your rather... unfortunate defeat last time." The words hung in the air, a challenge and a reminder of past encounters where the balance of power had shifted, leaving Loki on the losing end.

Loki's hands stilled momentarily as he lifted his gaze to yours, a cunning glint sparkling within those deep green eyes. "Ah, but my dear, to dwell on a solitary defeat is to overlook the endless expanse of the game," he mused with a sly, almost serpentine smile. "The allure for me lies not in the victory or the loss, but in the exquisite complexity of the play itself. The interplay of strategy, the artful dance of minds. And," his voice dropped, a velvet caress against the tension hanging in the air, "the delicious possibility of reversing fortunes, which, I assure you, is a prospect I find most... exhilarating."

As he spoke, his fingers slid underneath your heel, leading your leg to rest over his shoulder with a care and precision that contradicted the levity in his voice. Loki laid another feathery touch to your thighs, gripping them tighter as he wedged his face between them, while you held fast to the edge of the counter. You stifled a moan when his tongue traced over the seam of your core.

There was no need to harbor affection for the man to appreciate the artistry his mouth provided. His tongue grazed the surface of your clit and you felt a tremor coursing through your very bones. He delved deeper, his taste encompassing the entirety of your core. As he did, your legs seemed to tighten inadvertently around him, though it posed no barrier to his indulgence. Your cunt clenched and you were swept away as his fingers dug deeper into the flesh of your thighs, pulling you closer onto his awaiting tongue. The surge of familiar emotions within you was overpowering, far too intense for your unprepared body. Your head fell back with a moan as you gave yourself to him in your entirety and Loki groaned, his tongue honing in on your bud as he chased your orgasm. He refused to relent until the heat had filled you whole, filled your soul. You writhed underneath him, hips helplessly buckling. Loki chuckled, a melodic blend of amusement and triumph, resonating with an undercurrent of sly cunning.

“That’s it, darling,” he coaxed as a surge of desire blossomed within you, enough to part your lips into a broken cry. His dark hair peeked between your fingers and his tongue snuck out to lick his lips while his gaze was set on you above him. His hand wandered to your tunic and yanked it away. His thumb grazed your nipple when he returned his mouth to your center, two of his fingers slowly dipping into your glistening heat.

“Loki,” you whimpered, tightening the hold on his hair—he matched your movements, arm securing you to him so forcefully no might on Earth and beyond could have parted you from his lips. He curled his fingers, rubbing that special spot inside of you and your stomach twitched. You felt him grin against your heat, teeth gracing over your sensitive bud, as a tremor ran through your body.

“My tempest darling,” he sighed when he finally pulled his fingers from you, leaving behind such an agonizing feeling of emptiness. You were about to retaliate, when he stood, bringing your body this his, hand running along the length of your thigh before he hoisted it against his hip. “Even if doubt shadows your heart, my dear, believe me, the absence of your taste on my tongue has been an ache most persistent,” Loki declared, his voice weaving together assurance and playful sincerity. One of his hands made quick work of undoing the dress pants of the black suit he was clad in, the other clutching your thigh close—so terribly tight you were certain even the skin of gods could be bruised by his hungry fingers. His lips found yours, softly at first, though through the looming desire burning within, Loki’s control appeared to stray when you bit into his lip, drawing blood. A groan tore from his throat, eyes darkening as he looked down at you, refusing to part from your gaze even as he entered you. Your mouth fell open against his, a silent moan slipping from your lips, his forehead dropping onto yours. He moved then, pulling out barely before he pushed back in so deeply it shook you. Loki had always been the embodiment of wickedness wrapped in the guise of charm; an enigma whose very presence stirred a vicious blend of temptation and sin, drawing all who encounter him into a dance with the devilishly divine.

“How I’ve missed you,” he whispered against the heated skin of your neck, traveling downward to softly kiss along your bared collarbones. His voice was a divinity, dark and rich and soaked with the sweetest of all sins. The emerald green within his eyes reflected the gold surrounding you. One of your hands cradled the back of his neck, fingers catching loose strands of raven hair that had grown so long in the centuries you hadn’t laid your sights on him. Loki held your thigh in a fierce grip, fingers digging further into your flesh with every stroke of his throbbing cock with your heat.

“You swore to kill me, my love,” you gasped as he delivered another harsh thrust, your head fell forward against his shoulder a searing pleasure built within you.

As his teeth grazed the delicate skin of your neck, savoring the salty essence of your being, Loki’s hand traveled from the curve of your thigh, securing you firmly against him at your waist, moving you against him in a refined rhythm. Against the warmth of your skin, he murmured, “To kill you, my little deity, would be akin to consigning a part of my own soul into the abyss.”

A gasp caught in your throat as he thrust into you deeper than before and you collapsed against him, coming with a cry of relief. He continued thrusting into you, arm keeping you secured against him as though you were about to vanish as you had done all those years ago. He lifted your chin, his mouth capturing yours when you felt him jerk inside of you. You felt his warmth spilling into you, his shameless groans filling your ears as he emptied himself within you. Breath mixing with his, you stayed there for a moment—in which the world seemed to narrow down to the space between the two of you, to the silent conversation spoken through glances and the slight tremors in your lungs.

Loki stole another kiss, then, as if breaking from a spell, his expression shifted, his early devotion to you giving way to a more serious, contemplative mien. “Business with you, my tempest darling, had always been a delight most exquisite,” Loki said, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that bordered on violence. “I trust you’re familiar with the tales of the Celestial Compass, aren’t you?”  he continued, referring to an artifact of immense power and ancient origin, rumored to guide its holder to whatever they sought most in the universe. It was an object that you had kept hidden away, its location known only to you.

The mention of the compass sliced through the tension, a stark reminder of the stakes at play. Loki's presence in your shop, the transformation of your surroundings, the exchange of words—all were mere preludes to this moment.

"Why, Loki?" you asked, your voice a mix of curiosity and defiance as you fixed the tunic he had so carelessly pulled aside. "Why seek the compass now? What is it you desire so fervently to find?"

Loki's smile then was enigmatic, a mask that offered no clear answers. "Ah, but revealing one's desires so openly is a dangerous game, my dear. Let's just say... I seek something that has long eluded me." The ambiguity of his response left you wary, aware that Loki's desires were seldom straightforward and often entwined with greater schemes and hidden agendas. Yet, the acknowledgment of this quest, of his need for the compass, revealed a vulnerability in Loki—a crack in the armor he so carefully maintained.

As Loki awaited your response, the weight of centuries and the anticipation of what was to come hung heavily in the air. The next move was yours to make, in a game that was as much about uncovering truths as it was about concealing them. In response to his inquiry, your reply came not in words, but in the form of a serene smile, a silent echo of your shared past. With a casual flick of your fingers, you vanished into the ether, just as you had done countless centuries before, leaving Loki alone in the confines of what now appeared to be a decrepit shop. Its once vibrant essence faded, reflecting the sudden void your departure had created.

Loki, momentarily taken aback, quickly regained his composure. A laugh, rich with both amusement and a tinge of admiration, escaped him as he reached out to snatch a golden letter materializing out of thin air. The letter, simple yet profound in its message. The words, though brief, carried the weight of eons, a testament to the enduring dance between you two. Loki's gaze lingered on the golden script, a smirk playing on his lips, already plotting his next move in the timeless game between you.

“Farewell, my love.”

#loki series #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki #loki laufeyson #loki smut #loki x y/n #loki x you

[couch-house]

Okay I finally figured out Comet's origin story. Long version under the cut but short version is: knuckles finally got to reunite with the surviving echidnas but they didnt want to leave their homes to live on the floating island, so an alien felt bad for him and gave him a fankid <3

Okay so to recap stc canon: Knuckles has spent his entire time on the floating island believing he is protecting it until his people return. he doesnt remember, but he used to live in the ancient echidna city with Tikal and Pachacamac, but somehow was transported 8000 years into the future (present day). This happens after Tikal briefly brings Sonic back in time to help the echidnas fight off the Drakon empire--fish-shaped aliens that discovered chaos energy (the emeralds were made by the Drakons with the echidnas' sacred emeralds, then the echidnas "stole" them back and the drakons declared war). They succeed in beating them back for this battle, but my headcanon (which ended up being p close to what Kitching supposedly planned out) is that after this battle, the drakons come back and end up wiping the echidnas out--those that arent killed are taken off mobius as prisoners/slaves. At some point, some of them are able to escape and form a sanctuary away from the drakons.

Okay now we gotta talk about the Kaamdaarns. The Kaamdaarns are alternate dimension aliens that appear in 113, 119, and 120. They are peaceful aliens with "highly advanced science" indistinguishable from magic, which they use to disable any weapons on their planet and then also to free Shorty from his cybernik suit.

so the STORY WITH COMET GOES... Kintobor helps Knuckles to identify some kind of beacon signal that appears to be coming from other echidnas. Knuckles and Sonic hop into a spaceship (tekno and porker collab) and through a dimensional portal (tekno and kintobor collab) to find the source. they find a colony of echidnas long-established on a sanctuary planet under the protection of the kaamdaarns. the reunion is pretty bittersweet for knuckles bc like. these are people 8000 years removed from his culture. there are maybe some things still in common but otherwise their lives are completely distinct from how he grew up. and after 8000 years, very few if any of them consider the floating island home more than the place they are now. even those that might be interested in going back with knuckles are wary of the risk of leaving the safety of the kaamdaarn planet and being captured by drakons. and for a bunch of ruins... it's not really worth it

so knuckles has once again lost the whole Purpose of Everything He's Done and ummm well it goes about as well as the first time that happened

so he's hanging on by a Thread but the kaamdaarn that brought him and sonic to the village--her name's haven here she is--

says "you know what will fix that? a child." and see above: her making comet. GREAT idea, i agree. i mean the thought was more like "surely there is a way for you to both stay with your friends AND with other echidnas." but same difference. anyway sonic doesnt know what kind of egg that is.

thanks for listening. here's porker lewis as a reward :)

#sonic and knuckles go to mr pokemons house dot png #sth #exit sonic #sonic the hedgehog #sonic the comic #stc #knuckles the echidna #fleetway sonic #fleetway knuckles #sonknux #comet #sonic oc #porker lewis #dr ovi kintobor #comics #fankid #fanart #doodles #id in alt text #friendly remimblr if you cant read my writing USE THE ALT TEXT!!! thats my lifehack to avoid bothering writing legibly lol #almost all of this got done yesterday. im twisted im insane yaaaay drawing yaay #gonna draw the things i actually am SUPPOSED to draw today. finaly. drawing energy. #in my mind this whole backstory is a 4-5 part comic. so 20-25 pages #maybe more--i have no idea how to pace a comic #anyway. stop crying. take this child. <3

[perpetual-stories]

Six Ways To End Your Story

Hi, everyone! Someone kindly asked for advice on how to end a story so here it is for everyone!

Six Types of Story Endings

While every story has to end its own way, there are six general types of ending. Which one you go for will depend, of course, on the story you’re telling, and maybe also on the tropes or conventions of the genre you’re working within (if you’re working within a genre at all).

The six types of story endings include:

Resolved ending

Unresolved ending

Expanded ending

Unexpected ending

Ambiguous ending

Tied ending

What Is a Resolved Ending?

A resolved ending leaves the reader with no lingering questions or loose ends A resolved ending is part of most classic fairy tales (“And they all lived happily ever after…”), but also of countless classic novels.

Consider the ending of Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, a classic of literary fiction and the inspiration for countless romance novels. At the end of the book, Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy marry, and we’re led to believe that their marriage will be long and happy. Not only that, but the rest of Mr. Bennet’s marriageable daughters have settled down in matches appropriate to their characters. In other words, there are no lingering questions or tensions.

Remember, a resolved ending isn’t necessarily a happy ending. Think of any of Shakespeare’s tragedies, in which the protagonist and most of the other major characters usually wind up stabbed, poisoned, or executed.

What matters most in a resolved ending is that all of the threads of the novel have been clearly and satisfying resolved.

What Is an Unresolved Ending?

Sometimes, the end is not really the end. That’s the case with an unresolved ending. This is the kind of ending that leaves the reader with more questions than answers. Ending on a cliffhanger has the potential to be a frustrating experience, but that frustration can also be satisfying if the story calls for it.

Unresolved endings are popular choices for books in a series, because it leads the reader to the next book.

What Is an Expanded Ending?

An expanded ending often takes the form of an epilogue. As the name implies, it expands the world of the story beyond the events of the narrative itself. That usually involves a jump forward in time, and occasionally a change in perspective as well. (Dostoevsky’s classic Crime and Punishment ends on just such a note, as does Tolstoy’s War and Peace.) Like an unexpected ending, an expanded ending may reframe the way the reader has been thinking about the story.

One advantage of an epilogue is that it allows the writer to answer questions that might not be possible to answer in the space of the main narrative (for instance, how things turned out a decade or more after the main events of the story).

What Is an Unexpected Ending?

An unexpected ending is one the reader likely didn’t see coming. The twist ending can be earth-shattering, or clever and subtle. The trick to pulling off a great surprise is that it should seem inevitable in hindsight. Very few readers are likely to be on board for an ending that seems to truly come from nowhere, but if the ending makes sense they’re more likely to appreciate the subtle machinations and plot twists it took to get there.

A good ending avoids deus ex machina, a Latin expression meaning “god from a machine.” In the context of fiction, a deus ex machina is a heavy-handed device that abruptly and definitively resolves all the story’s problems in a way that doesn’t feel natural to the story.

For instance, a previously unknown rich uncle appearing from nowhere to give the poor striving protagonist a vast fortune may certainly be a surprise, but it’s not likely to satisfy your readers. Remember, a good twist is one that the writer has left clues for all along.

What Is an Ambiguous Ending?

An ambiguous ending is one that’s open to interpretation. While an unresolved ending doesn’t give the reader enough information to say what’s going to happen next, and an ambiguous ending might allow two different readers to come to two completely different conclusions. Of all the endings, the ambiguous one demands the most involvement from the reader, since they are actively invited to think about the significance of events for themselves.

Take a quick look at the ending to Charles Dickens’ classic Great Expectations. In the last lines of the novel, the main character Pip takes the hand of the widow Estrella and says he sees “no shadow of another parting from her.” But is Pip’s vision reliable? Do they stay together or is another parting in the future? The novel leaves the reader with both tantalizing possibilities.

What Is a Tied Ending?

A tied ending is on that brings the story full circle—it ends where it begins. This type of ending follows the classic Hero’s Journey, which is common to many myths and folktales from around the world, but it’s also a popular choice for many works of literary fiction trying to capture the cyclical nature of time. James Joyce’s famously beguiling Finnegan’s Wake even ends on a sentence fragment that literally completes the very first sentence of the novel.

As a writer, you’ll need to make sure that the journey to this point felt worthwhile. Ending up right where you started can feel pointless if the journey there and back wasn’t meaningful.

There you have it folks, and kind ask, I hope this helps anyone who is struggling with their story endings!

Follow, reblog and comment if you find these helpful!

#writing #writing advice #writing tips #original writing #writers on tumblr #writersconnection #writerscommunity #short story #storytelling #writersupportingwriters

[thegingerwrites]

I'm calling this "the grass isn't always greener au" and I'll probably never write it but it was stuck in my head today:

The Clone Wars are over, Palpatine is dead and the galaxy is more at peace than it has been in a lifetime. Anakin is no longer a Jedi. He has been living with Padmé and their children for two years now and everything is fine. Everything is definitely, absolutely fine.

And yet Anakin can't help but feel like he made some kind of mistake in leaving the Order when Padmé told him she was pregnant. He can't regret her or their children. He can't regret the fact that he no longer has to deflect blaster bolts on a daily basis. He can't regret peace.

But he does miss Obi-Wan. The ragged threads of their bond are still present in his mind when he can bring himself to sense them. (And he does, often, like picking at a scab or the empty cavity of a missing tooth. He prods at the empty space, making sure never to go far enough as to make Obi-Wan aware of it. He hasn't seen Obi-Wan in months). He misses having a purpose, a bright shining goal, the feeling of fulfilling his destiny even if the pursuit of that destiny aged him in ways he is still coming to terms with.

He was never the Jedi he should have been but now he is no longer a Jedi at all. And maybe if he had held himself together for just a little longer, he could still be one today.

The Force gives him the chance to find out.

Anakin wakes up in the body of Darth Vader, two years after the fall of the Republic, broken and in pain, fully invested in the power of the dark side.

He flees the Executor as soon as he can. Taking stock of his mechanical limbs, full-body burns, and life support suit, Anakin has no idea where he is or what has happened to him. But this is him, some alternate version of him. When he takes off the helmet and stares into his reflection in transparisteel window of his escape pod, he sees himself. Despite the changes, the burns, the eyes, he recognizes himself.

He seeks out Obi-Wan through the tenuous, broken bond in both of their minds. This may not be his world and this might not be his master, but Anakin knows he could find Obi-Wan anywhere if he allows himself to reach out to that connection again.

Darth Vader appears on Obi-Wan's doorstep on Tatooine, begging for his help. It takes Obi-Wan time to understand what is happening but they sit and talk and everything that happened in the last days of the Republic is slowly revealed. Everything that Anakin did, everything that he became.

They talk for hours, Anakin reveling in Obi-Wan's companionship again, taken aback by how much his master loves him, even this version of him and all that he did, and Obi-Wan nearly brought to tears by the idea of having Anakin back again. What Obi-Wan wouldn't do to sit side by side with Anakin again, to have even the smallest speck of hope that Anakin might come back to him.

By the light of his hearthfire, Obi-Wan asks Anakin to take off his mask, so that he can see his face again. Anakin would do anything for his master but especially this older, sadder version who loves him so desperately and he obliges. Obi-Wan reaches a gentle hand out to stroke Anakin's pock-marked cheek. He presses a kiss to his pale and scarred forehead.

Then Anakin wakes up in bed with his wife, pulled completely from the alternate reality and back in his body again, his eyes wet with tears. Without hesitation, he reaches out to his bond with Obi-Wan and pulls.

Perhaps Anakin didn't make a mistake in choosing peace. But he certainly made one in leaving Obi-Wan behind. And if Obi-Wan's love could survive all of that, it can definitely handle a few years of strained silence and damaged trust.

Anakin races up the steps of the Jedi Temple in early morning sunlight and for the first time in two years, meets his old Master for tea.

#obikin fic #obikin au #obi wan x anakin #obi wan/anakin #aniobi #i almost titled this “the grass isn't always greener” #maybe i could write this if i convinced myself it didn't have to be 30k long #hmmm 🤔 #i thought about putting in a read more but it's less than 700 words people can deal

[gabessquishytum]

Oh OG Warprize Hob Anon wherefore art thou..... I just thought it was time to show thanks and appreciation for one of the best AUs (imo) to come out of the Dreamling ship. Not a week goes by where I don't think about their writing, and spin headcanons and scenarios of my own in my head. One of the most underrated aspects of their writing I think is Dream's ruthlessness and cruelty in that AU, it's so rare to see Dream just be a toppy asshole all the way through, fellow fans seem to prefer to see him as an emotional bottom twink 😭. One of the rare AUs where Hob is allowed to be the sensitive wanton bottom all throughout 🤤🤤 Ohh OG Warprize Hob Anon, I miss your writing so much, I hope to see your writing grace this dashboard once more, especially with more dark Dream moments. For my fellow fans, I thought I'd do a small thing and compile all their asks here. I'm so sorry if this is sloppy, but I just copy-pasted these here.

Warprize Hob AU

Anonymous asked:

I don’t know where this came from?? Dubcon/noncon cw, or it’s kinky roleplay if you prefer that. But...

Hob fought bravely, a solider in the war of greater men. He even crossed blades with terror in all black, the Nightmare King himself once. They said it was better for a solider like him to die with honor than to be taken alive. But when the tide turned and Hob’s own sworn sovereign fell, all he wanted was to live. He laid down his blade, expecting to be taken into chains. But not chains like these.

He kneels, blindfolded, on the bed, naked other than pure gold bondage, thin chains that truss him everywhere. Gold binds his hands at his back. Gold cuffs secure his ankles, connected by a flimsy thread only put there so it could be snapped apart. Gold laces around his tits, catching in his chest hair. Gold threads between new ruby piercings in his nipples—still so sensitive that even the touch of silk sends bolts of pure heat through his body. Every time he twitches, he sees stars. Gold loops like garters around his thighs, connected to the glimmering chain around his hips. And gold ribbon cages his achingly hard cock and full balls.

Hob is so, so hard. He has been since they fed him sweet candied fruits laced with a magic that heated his blood until he was begging those faceless servants to please, please let him come. They didn’t. Instead, he was bathed and perfumed with jasmine oil brushed through his hair (everywhere). He was opened with gentle touches and generous oil, a marble plug nestled inside him, blessedly cool against his burning skin. He was left on the bed with a final chain connecting his collar to the bedframe.

His prick so hard in its confines, and the plug is not enough. He still feels terribly empty. Against his own will, he finds himself rocking back and forth, rubbing his thighs together, desperate for anything that might help him get pleasure where he needs it most.

Until with no warning, a hand touches his head. He stills. He thought he was alone. Strong, thin fingers brush down his face, linger on his lips. A gentle thumb pushes inside his mouth. Hob moans, body thrumming like a harp just to be touched so simply.

“Peace, my prize,” a deep voice, peaceful as slumber, murmurs. The blindfold is pulled down and Hob blinks blearily into the face of the Nightmare King himself. He smiles, confident and regal, and slim fingers caress his side, down to his ass, and push against the plug until it finally presses where Hob needs it. "I will give you what you crave.”

Gabe:

Mmmm yes!!!! I love this.

Hob as Dream’s chosen prize after his victory in battle? Oh yes, excellent. I particularly adore the idea of Hob being unknowingly fed some kind of aphrodisiac to make him needy - Dream wants him to be willing, so he will simply make sure that he has no choice but to be.

Also, the preparation... Hob would usually be utterly humiliated by such an act. It's so impersonal and degrading. But all he can think about is how much he wants to cum, so he spends the whole time whining and begging for more. By the time Dream gets to him, Hob is spreading his legs like a well trained whore who's never known anything different. He's nearly forgotten the battle and his instincts as a warrior, he just wants to be fucked. Anyone could come into the room and have him and Hob would just be grateful.

But he isn't for just anyone, oh no. He's the king’s prize, his spoils of war. He suckles desperately on Dream’s thumb, sticks his arse out temptingly and generally tries to make himself as tempting as possible. He aches, and his brain is fuzzy, the king is absolutely the most beautiful thing Hob has ever seen right now.

Not to mention his cock is perfect - the most perfect Hob has ever had inside him. It's as though his body has been molded perfectly for the king’s cock. He's not sure if he's ever cum so many times in his life.

When he comes back to himself several hours later, sweating and sticky and aching... he knows that he should be angry and hurt. He should get up from the beautiful bed and find some way to escape. But. He's tired, and hungry. The bed is comfortable, and the king is staring at him with sparkling black eyes.

He rolls over. Cum trickles gently down his thighs. The king holds out his hand, one of those candied fruits held between his long pale fingers.

Hob opens his mouth.

Anonymous asked:

Hiii I’m the originally war prize hob anon, lured back because I was blown away by how you and everyone else responded to the idea! Amazing work, go team.

Here’s more. (It’s so long. I’m sorry)

At first, Hob was confined to the bed chamber, a decoration, a pretty thing—and so rarely has Hob ever considered himself pretty. Pretty was for swallow-boned young men and women with smooth thighs. Pretty was not him, full bodied and furred. He has always pleased his lovers, they have found him handsome. But most have expected him to take charge and take care of them, not to—to—

Submit with spread legs and open mouth. To tempt. To eat sweet aphrodisiacs from those long, pale fingers until he’s begging to feel them for inside him. Sweet humiliation.

The king wants this. They pass long nights pounding Hob’s pride to shreds. He learns to beg under the king’s cock, his cruel mouth, and the touch of those inhuman eyes. Even sober, he only has to think of the king and his body floods with hot want. But still. Hob doesn’t understand.

“Why me?” He dared ask the first week, the king with a hand fisted in his hair, thrusting into him so deep and slow, Hob could feel it in his throat.

The king paused. A cool hand trailed down Hob’s back. Gathered the chains that pooled at his back, the ones he hadn’t yet snapped in his fervor. “I am interested.”

Hob meant to press him, even at the risk of his own peril, but the king slammed back into him and every thought vanished.

And then Hob is brought out of the bed and taken to kneel at the throne during the days too, chained to the king’s hand. At first, Hob assumes he is meant to be a symbol of the king’s power. Or a toy to warm the king’s cock when the duties of court grow dull. (Hob is both.)

But then comes a night when the king ponders battle plans for his next great war. And he turns to Hob.

“My general suggested we surge ahead and meet the enemy at their own gate. You rolled your eyes.” The king looks at Hob as if he is peeling the layers of muscle and bone away, finding the heart of him. And Hob realizes that all day, the king had noticed him listening. Not always—sometimes the king prefers to see him squirm, prefers to press the heavy gold plug into his hole and watch Hob strain for hours to keep it in, only to fail. During those hours, Hob had not heard a thing.

But when the king had allowed Hob to rest his head against his solid thigh, Hob had listened. And he had been seen doing it.

“Your enemy will expect a frontal attack. A show of strength. For you are a strong king. Respectfully, that’s a brave way to kill many of your own men.”

“Hmm.” The king says nothing else. He beckons until Hob kneels again at his side, the bowl of candied fruits, as always, sitting on the table. The king plucks one up and offers it to Hob.

“My lord,” Hob breathes. “Why do you care what I think?”

Hands brush through his hair. “Eat,” the king murmurs.

This king wants something. He waits for something. Hob cannot work out what. Yet.

He eats.

Gabe:

Assfggjkl og warprize anon!!!!!!

I am so taken with Hob’s thoughtfulness, his curiosity. His fearlessness. And I think that Dream is rapidly becoming besotted with these things too.

Hob isn't scared of him. No matter how ruthless and harsh he is, no matter which way Dream forces Hob to bend, he always springs back up with those curious eyes, wanting to know what's next. Dream suspects that he doesn't need the aphrodisiacs at all - that Hob would be willing to spread himself out in any arrangement of Dream’s choosing. But Dream is afraid of rejection, and Hob enjoys the lustful oblivion just a little bit too much to ask for a change.

Hob is clever and capable and good with his hands. When Dream comes to him wounded from some accident or skirmish, Hob knows exactly how to bind the flesh carefully but firmly. He rests his head in Dream’s lap after, like a beloved pet hound. His breathing is so soothing, Dream even manages to fall asleep. He wakes up and Hob is already between his legs, ready and waiting to be choked on the king’s cock as usual.

Dream fucks him instead, as ferocious as ever but this time with a purpose. Hob is his prize and the world ought to know about it. From now on, he'll have Hob smelling of his cum, always. He'll have him littered with bite marks and bruises. He'll keep Hob close, make sure the end of his gold leash is always within reach. He'll bring Hob to the battlefield, if he must.

A creature as magnificent as Hob must be treated as he deserves. And Dream alone can give him what he needs.

Anonymous asked:

War prize hob anon, here!!! I am loving the responses to this idea! So many amazing brilliant takes, love to see it.

The talk of whether Hob would escape or stay and be spoiled inspired me (glorious takes on both sides) so I drabbled on the subject…

It takes time. Trust. And a letter opener left unattended.

That night, Hob slides quietly as he can out of the silk sheets. He sits astride the sleeping king, his face turned toward the moon, his neck a deceptive swan’s curve. And Hob raises the blade to it.

One slice. And he is free.

It does not matter, he tells himself, that he has never been fucked so well. That the king is kind to him, relatively. He could take Hob with violence and pain or share him. Instead he feeds Hob fruits to heat his blood so that every time he plunders his body, with fingers, tongue and cock, Hob welcomes him.

Even the humiliations and hurts of his new service are given a sweet edge. The way he was spanked for misbehaving, hard and brutal, until his skin was red and tender. Followed by a hot tongue in his ass. The way he was made to kneel for hours and hold the king’s cock in his mouth. Followed by servants massaging the aches from his body and tending to his bad knee. (Yet another reason Hob is a poor choice for a prize.) In the king’s service, Hob might hurt. But he rewards him with such care…lavishes attention on him until Hob cannot come any more.

No. Hob has to do this. He must escape. He has his pride. This is just pleasure. Nothing more.

“Well?” The king’s voice interrupts his turmoil. Oh gods. He is awake. He surges up, knocking the blade from his grip. A hand clamps on his thigh, another on his wrist and he is rolled on his back, away from the blade. The chain between his wrists, once wide to allow him movement, slithers shorter until the cuffs kiss, and the collar tightens just enough to threaten his breathing. For all his battle prowess, struggling it gets him nowhere but squirming and pinned. The nightmare king settles over Hob like a dragon on top of its hoard. He stares unblinkingly down at him.

“You could not do it,” comes that deep whisper. Hob stills. “You are a well-trained solider yet for nearly five minutes you sat with a blade at my neck and did not make your move. Why?”

Hob swallows. A hot open mouthed kiss blooms just under his jaw, followed by the press of teeth. Even without the candied fruit his body sings for this man. What is happening to him?

“My pet. My prize. You must already face great consequences for this disobedience,” the king says. “I may not let you come for weeks. Answer me or it will be months.”

“I had to try. I had to—I don’t understand.” It isn’t the first time he has asked, pled, begged to know. “I’m at my wits end. Please. Why me?”

Fingers slip between them to tease at his hole and Hob resists the powerful, heady urge to submit and grind against him. For as long as he can before his resolve crumbles into lust. It will not be long. It never is.

The king gives the same maddening answer he always gives. The only one, whispered against his lips. “I am interested.”

Gabe:

Hnnnnng.

Og warprize hob anon…… i hope you know that you’ve created a beautiful monster and we’re all horny about it. i hope you also know that your words are beautiful and your prose is delightful. it’s a pleasure to read.

Oh but the turmoil Hob goes through. There’s nothing that the king can do to soothe the way his mind is twisting and turning, bouncing between loyalty to himself and some mad, misplaced loyalty to this nightmare of man. What does Hob owe Dream, really? His life? What kind of life is this?

He could set himself free. He thinks he’s almost worked it out. He could take away the one think the king seems to want. He could make himself… dull. Boring, predictable. Uninteresting.

But.

He thinks about long, thin fingers running down his spine and soothing the perpetual ache at the small of his back. Warm salve on his knee, applied at the king’s own orders. His body rigid and sweating in the night from some bad dream, suddenly embraced by cool arms. A kiss on his brow in the early morning. He’s been so greedy for those things, has coveted them and gloried in them. How can he live without them now?

Worse: what would the nightmare king do with a broken toy? Hob doesn’t want to find out.

He bounces in Dream’s lap with renewed fervor when he’s finally allowed the privilege of taking the king’s cock again. But there’s a heat behind his eyes, a kind of determination that he’d thought long dead and gone. He’ll find some way to win this game, this strange warped little battle. His own feelings be damned, Hob will not be broken. Even a king must have some chink in his armor, somewhere.

Dream raises a delicate eyebrow and almost, almost smiles. Pulls his prize closer by his golden leash.

“Interesting.”

Anonymous asked:

Hiiii warprize anon here! Glad to see people are still warprizing hob, I think it’s good for him. Truly, anons, you are doing glorious work with that AU.

I wanted to write dark obsessive dream next in all his dubcon glory next but no one cooperated? Have some less porny character introspection instead ig…

It’s amazing how little it takes for a grown man to become used to being a pet. As weeks stretch into months, Hob revels, just a little. In the lustful linger of eyes on his body. In the quirk of that cruel mouth when Hob pleases the king. The eager stirring of his cock even before he eats aphrodisiacs. Even his punishments—even the hot lash of the whip—begins to feel like sacrilegious worship. Gasping for breath, holding his thighs spread as the king buries himself in his body certainly is. In the blackest and most honest hours of the night, Hob knows the truth. He is starting to like it.

That’s the danger of the king’s service.

Hour by orgasmic hour, the king is twisting himself into Hob’s mind and body like a key carving out its own lock. He demands Hob’s submission, his pleasure and his desire for his own. But how many people had the king had in such a way? How many prizes have knelt, and learned to live at his pleasure? And where are they now? Abandoned surely, replaced. Hob is the chalice the king sips from now but he is one of dozens, maybe even hundreds. The king might have taken a prize from every battle won.

Hob is…not special.

He kneels on his cushion, waiting for the king who has stepped from the throne room, and reminds himself.

Footsteps approach and stop just behind him. Always, when the king is away, a guard is assigned to keep a close eye for Hob’s protection, though none are allowed to take his chains in their grip. Not unless Hob runs. Daring, the guard plucks at the chain between his nipples until it swings against Hob’s chest. He holds his breath.

“How’s it going?” A voice drawls. “Knees a little tired?”

Hob glances at the door for the absent king before raising his head. The guard above him smirks like he knows a joke and Hob is the punchline.

“Yes, rather,” Hob replies. “Even with the cushion.”

“His majesty seems to like that,” he muses.

Corinthian. That is his name. He’d heard the king give him orders with iron in his voice. The way one talked to a guard dog who wasn’t trusted. A creature who couldn’t be taught to fear the whip.

“You’d know better than me.” Hob meets his eye as best he can through the man’s dark glasses. He is very handsome, golden and strong. Perhaps this is the answer. Perhaps prizes who lose their luster are given other ways to serve.

Corinthian tilts his head. Hob feels his eyes trace down the marks the king left. Lurid love bites at his throat and faint fingertip bruises on his hips. “I really don’t. Suppose I’m not his type.”

“Surely you’ve seen the others then.” Hob replies. He keeps his hands folded where they’re bound at the small of his back.

“Other … prizes?” Corinthian’s grin only grows. “Sweetheart, no. You’re the first.”

Hon stares but senses no lie. “Can’t be.“

“Picking a prize always been his right but he’s never felt the need to use it until now. Until you.” The man leans closer, dangerously into his space. Hob feels him breathing, he’s so close. “I’ve heard the sounds he pulls from you at night. He must have years of pent up energy.”

Hob’s throat is dry. Something fragile, winged and stupid flutters in his chest. But before he has to think of a reply, Corinthian snaps back to a respectful distance an instant before the doors swing open, and the king sweeps in. He climbs the stairs, slinks back to claim his throne. Hob is still reeling when his cool hand finds his chin and tilts his head up.

“You did not move,” the king says. It is not a question but an expectation.

Hob shakes his head. For a long moment his eyes glitter down on him, simply watching. Then fingers card through his hair and he is guided to rest his head against his king’s knee.

Gabe:

Lying face down on the floor after reading this tbh. Like. What can I say? What can I add?

Knowing that he's the only one is a further kind of beautiful torture for Hob, because once again he's asking himself over and over again: why? Why him, above anyone else? There's a part of him in agony over his imprisonment, the curtailing of his freedoms, the fact that his mind and body are no longer his own. Then there's the part of him who wants to know why, so he can be good. He needs to know how he can keep the favour that he has miraculously obtained.

And Dream? He never gives answers. If Hob even dared to ask more than a small, sobbed "why me?" in the midst of some blissful torture, Dream wouldn't bother to answer. Hob thinks that the king likes him kept ignorant and confused. It's another way to keep him in line. He's always dancing on a knife's edge, wondering whether the king will eventually toss him aside - never knowing if he's truly safe.

So he'd better be as good as he can. Never give Dream a reason to throw him away. But he will slip up eventually - its only a matter of time...

Anonymous asked:

As requested, here’s some warprize!hob being punished by dark!dream for bad behavior. Also… thanks panickingstudent2’s last ask for some very specific inspo!

The king chains him up by his wrists. No gold cuffs with velvet interiors here. Not for this. This is punishment, work fit for dungeons, cold and deep as his king’s displeasure. Hob is already delirious from too much candied fruit. The cage has been cruelly clenched around his hot, aching cock for days now but he needs to be fucked, he needs it, he needs it.

“Mercy,” he begs but it won’t do him any good. He’s been begging for days, his cock and balls hot and aching.

Fury is divine on the nightmare king’s face. Other kings would simply kill him. Leave his body for the ravens. But Hob’s king will not let him go.

“I would have you obey me,” the king says. Fingers brush against his hole and don’t even push in where Hob yearns for them despite himself. He cants his hips back weakly, but the fingers go away. “But if I must bring you low again and again, I will. And I will enjoy it every time.”

He steps back. And the whip snaps through the air and white-hot fire flashes across Hob’s back.

Wet agony blooms across his shoulders and bloodred welts.

“You know why I must do this,” the king says. “You know why it is my pleasure to do this.”

The whip lashes again and again, fire licking across his skin. It doesn’t stop when Hob screams. Or when he sobs. When it’s done, his entire back glows like an ember. The king faces him, eyes black holes in his pale, sharp face. He places a cool hand on Hob’s back and he presses into the soothing touch, whining like a newborn babe.

“Please, I’m sorry, please, pleasepleaseplase,” he breathes. The king twists him around until the cuffs pull tight. He drags the plug from his hole, and finally buries himself to the hilt in his ass. Hob wails. Hands tangle in his chest hair and pull him flush against his king, as he plunges in and out at a ruinous pace. Being finally filled is sweeter relief than when the whip stopped.

“Say you are mine,” the king says. Once he was quiet, and constrained whenever he touched Hob and this is why—the need in his voice is barely bridled. Hob is not the only desperate one. “Say it.” The king bites, sudden and sharp at Hob’s earlobe.

“I’m yours—Morpheus!” His head snaps back as his body thunders through a cruel, dry orgasm. He doesn’t hear the king’s soft gasp against his ear, or register the name he’s cried. He’s in pain, from his cock to his shoulders—yet Hob floats. Perhaps he could fly.

Love, Warprize Anon

Gabe:

Hnnnggg. I am. Deeply obsessed with this. I love it when you drop these beautiful snippets for us!!! Hob calling the king by his name in the middle of a punishment/orgasm? Talk about a mind-fuck. Poor thing, he's truly terrified.

But it isn't just fear, is it? It would be so much simpler if he could say that he's scared and be done with it. So much easier to handle that emotion. What he feels is more that fear. He's grown attached to the king, longs for him when they're apart and fears him when they're together. When he tries to imagine a life away from his capture, he can't even manage it anymore. It's impossible to see beyond the king, who looms so large in Hob’s thoughts all the time. He's obsessed, addicted, terrified, longing to be taken and horrified by the idea all the same.

All he knows is that his king has power over him that he will probably never comprehend. Perhaps its time to surrender and acknowledge that he's lost. He no longer belongs to himself. He belongs to Morpheus.

-Love Yan Anon <3

Aww, hey Yan Anon!!! It's nice to hear from you. And thank you for highlighting OG Warprize Anon and their incredible work (you're a trooper for scrolling through and copy/pasting everything, seriously). Warprize au has definitely been a big hit, as it rightly should be, and it's great to look back on how it all started. Hopefully OG Warprize Anon is out there doing great and knowing that they inspired many, many people.

Hopefully we'll see more content for the Dark Dream enjoyers out there. I certainly lean towards a mean toppy Dream myself, although I'm not immune to Obliterating That Twink either. There's room for everyone in the fandom - and don't forget to leave comments for your favourite authors as Yan Anon has here. It's a great way to encourage your faves to write more of the stuff that you love!

#yan anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft #warprize hob #cw dubcon #cw drugging #cw intox #cw pain #cw physical abuse

[huramuna]

wine red, tears gold - chapter 4.

king aegon II x baratheon ofc

previous chapter | next

a 'what if aegon didn't get poisoned and the greens technically won the dance but at what cost' au. basically aegon, alicent, otto and jaehaera are the only greens alive. and larys i guess. someone get rid of this guy.

word count: 3.5k

please follow & turn on notifs for @huramuna-fics for my fic postings

content: smut (specifics below cut), canon typical misogyny, canon typical violence, angst, fluff, arranged marriage, touch-staved aegon, aegon isn't a r*pist in this au but he is still a bad person and has his vices, ofc and aegon need to go to therapy together, justice for jaehaera, awkward sex, kind of a slow burn, infidelity

this comes from the inside - the living tombstone • oblivion - grimes

warnings: p in v, creampie

Being close with another person can be such a precarious thing. Not just in emotional closeness, but physical as well. 

Lyanna never much liked being touched, not even as a child. She would shy away from courtiers pinching her cheeks, from her mother’s outstretched arms, from her father’s heavy hand upon her shoulder. Being touched felt like a burden of sorts, as if someone expected reciprocity from putting their hands on another. 

She never wished to give it in return. 

Since moving to the Red Keep, she has changed— in more ways than one, of course. She quite liked being touched now by her good mother, Alicent’s touches were soft and warm. Mayhaps it was because the queen mother was there to hold Lyanna at her lowest, and she found some comfort in her arms that she never derived from her own mother. 

Then there was Aegon. His touches were… confusing. He seemed much at war with himself, like a stray dog wishing for affection, a scratch on the cheek or pat of the head, but didn’t know how to ask, how to convey he wanted it. His proposal to Lyanna of exchange of pleasure for nurture was a strange one, to be sure. 

It must’ve been the wine, that would be why she had said yes, wouldn’t it? 

Certainly not the fact that her husband seemed… jealous. Jealous of a Dornish prince putting his hands on her and making her laugh. Aegon, being the same one who had said she wasn’t a beauty that men go to war for. Aegon, who couldn’t even flow in the same atmosphere as Lyanna for weeks. Aegon, who fucked a whore the morning after their wedding and many days besides. 

That Aegon— was jealous? 

The notion of it seemed humorous to Lyanna, as if she held some great power over him, reducing him to his knees before her. 

All for a touch. 

In truth, it was more than just a touch. He had fallen asleep with his head in her lap, snoozing softly. Lyanna wriggled down, trying to get comfortable. As much as she detested Aegon, at least she thought she did, she didn’t want to wake him. Not when he seemed so at peace with his pathetic prize. 

He was a heavy sleeper. She managed to lay on her back comfortably and adjust his position to where he was strewn across her stomach and chest. Lyanna watched him for… who knows how long, being lulled into some sense of relaxation by his weight and warmth on her, coupled with his rhythmic breathing. He was like a living heavy blanket. 

Her fingers threaded through his hair, smoothing small circles upon his scalp absentmindedly, as she fell asleep herself. 

When she awoke, he was still there— albeit, shifted slightly. He clung to her like a second skin, his leg thrown over hers, his arms draped over her chest haphazardly, still deeply asleep. Lyanna’s breaths fanned over his hair, his head resting under her chin. Whatever spell she had been under the night before had (almost) worn off, the novelty faded. 

Gently, more gentle than he truly deserved, she roused him. “Aegon,” she murmured, “Aegon, it's morning— I must get ready soon.” 

“Morning…” he hummed drowsily, lips pressed to her neck unknowingly. “No… I will sleep more.” 

Lyanna rolled her eyes; it was like dealing with a child rather than a King. “Laze around if you must, husband,” she began to pry him off of her. “But I have duties to attend to.” 

“Duties can wait, wife,” he blinked, supplanting his chin upon her chest and looking up at her in a way that made her heart wrench. He looked Gods awful pathetic, like an abandoned puppy. “Stay longer, please.” 

“… I have things to see to, Aegon. I don’t wish for your mother to be cross if I’m late to break our fast together.” 

He let out a huff, rolling off of her. “May I at least stay until you leave?”

“I suppose. You can help dress me. Do you know how to dress a lady?” Lyanna asked, getting up from the bed to open her wardrobe. 

“Ehm— I know how to undress a lady.”

“My Myrish silk from last night begs to differ.”

“Well, you have too many layers, too many loops and ties. This is why whores are so much easier, they’re practically already naked.” 

Lyanna shot a glare at him. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me that you frequently lie with other ladies.” 

Aegon came up behind her, a bit taller than her by a head, poking his nose into her neck. “Why? Are you jealous?”

She scoffed. “Jealous? Jealous like you were of Prince Qyle?”

“I don’t get jealous,” he grumbled, backing away from her and folding his arms over his chest. “I just don’t think it was appropriate the way he was touching you— like you were a whore.” 

“You love that word, don’t you?” 

“Mayhaps. I quite like other words, too. Slut, cunt, bitch— the list goes on.” 

“You’re truly an ignorant, beautiful creature, Aegon. It’s a wonder to me that you survived infancy.” 

“You think I’m beautiful?” 

Lyanna let out a snorting laugh, it was undignified and unladylike— but real. Even more real than the laughs that Prince Qyle evoked from her the night before. She stayed turned away, sorting through her clothes. The noise she emitted, raucous and loud as it was, made Aegon smile for half a moment. He quite liked when his wife laughed— and he had been the one to do it this time. 

Aegon ended up not helping her dress, as he took one look at the configurations of a corset and left. 

That was fine by Lyanna, in all truths. She descended to the Queen mother’s chambers and broke her fast with her, as was her daily routine. Somehow, in the middle of their eating, their conversation turned to the topic of sex. Lyanna didn't feel much embarrassment talking about most things with Alicent, as she was a good conservationist– but sex was one of the things Alicent was… hesitant to talk about, all things considered, and Lyanna wasn’t exactly an expert. 

Poking into her soft boiled egg with her spoon, Lyanna listened intently to Alicent.

“You’re the only one I would talk to such things about, dearest,” Alicent hummed, dragging her utensil through her own bowl of coddled eggs, “I never much liked it with… the late King. ‘Twas my duty, after all. I can only hope that, ehm, Aegon makes it less painful for you.” 

“... he does fine, I suppose,” Lyanna murmured, prying the soft white of the egg from the shell and balancing it on the spoon. “... truthfully, we haven’t…” she rolled her shoulders to enunciate her meaning, “Laid together in a way conducive to making an heir– not since the wedding night.”

The queen mother perked a brow, crossing one leg over the other. “So you are doing such things in… other methods?”

“Only once– last night, in fact,” Lyanna admitted softly, poking the bite of egg into her mouth, wiping away an errant drop of yolk from her lip– to which Alicent was watching intently– “After the banquet. Was Aegon… jealous as a child?”

Alicent cracked a small smile, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not sure that he was jealous in the way that some may think. He wasn’t so much envious of what others had that he wished to covet, but rather what others were, comparatively to him. Rhaenyra was his father’s favorite, Aemond was the better swordsman, Helaena more beloved by my father– he was always the odd one out.” she blinked profusely, picking at the hem of her sleeve. “Why?”

“He… followed me to my chambers after the feast and started spewing heinous accusations about Prince Qyle and I.” 

“And this… led you both to the bed?” Alicent took a long sip of her tea, her eyes not leaving Lyanna’s. 

“No– my boudoir chair, actually.”

The queen mother’s cheeks reddened softly. “Oh my– I cannot say that’s something I experienced. Was it… pleasurable at least?” 

“It was certainly enlightening– that he may not be as useless as I thought,” Lyanna paused. “That I may not be as repulsive to him as I thought I was.” she spoke a bit quieter then, the subject still tender to her, a wound not yet fully scarred over.

“It’s his blood.” Alicent replied in a matter-of-fact tone.

“His… blood?” 

“The blood of the dragon– Targaryens have dragon’s blood in their veins, which runs thick and hot when situations become… precarious. It may be any sort of situation that might give you or I an adrenaline rush, good or bad– but for them, all my children included, it’s like igniting the spark to a wildfire. Some sort of primal, uncontainable thirst for… whatever it is that spurred them. For Aegon… he quells his blood with wine and whores,” Alicent frowned slightly at the notion, the corners of her eyes crinkling into a silent apology, “Jealousy could very well be one of the things that whipped him into a frenzy– mayhaps you should use such a thing to your advantage? Of course, I won’t condone adultery, my dear– but the illusion of interest in someone else may have Aegon more… inclined to lay with you.” 

Lyanna sniffed slightly, putting down her empty egg shell. “I wish he would just want it without me having to… set him on fire, or however it’s put.”

“Men are– for the lack of a better word– stupid, Lyanna. They are blind to the things they need the most.” 

–

Lyanna spent the rest of her week planning on how exactly to make Aegon jealous. She didn’t really understand how to put on such airs of that extent– acting confident was one thing, but feining attraction for another person was different, wasn’t it? She didn’t consider herself a massive flirt, either.

They sat in the dining hall, entertaining a visiting lord from the Reach, some Tyrell or Redwyne or other, who promptly gave Lyanna a bouquet of beautiful flowers. She was delighted at the gesture, not because she really enjoyed them, but because it would be easier to start her ruse. 

“Oh, thank you, my lord– these are gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous,” she hummed. She was wearing a green dress that, somehow, matched Aegon’s deep green tunic that eve. “How did you know that sunflowers were my favorite?” 

“Ah, your grace, the sunflower is my favorite as well,” the lord smiled heartily, chattering on and on about sunflowers. “It very much reminded me of your radiance, my queen.”

His audacious compliment earned a warm giggle from Lyanna, her face blistered with a blush– half of the blush was from real bashfulness, as she wasn’t used to receiving such compliments. She knew it was false, of course. She was more reminiscent of a plain dandelion than a sunflower.

The dinner consisted of Lyanna talking to him, making much smalltalk and overall, talking to him more than she’d talked to Aegon in their entire marriage. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her husband practically stewing, rolling around a brussel sprout around his plate with the tip of his knife, an inhuman heat blistering off of him in waves.

Apparently, to Aegon, enough was enough– his hand slipped from his goblet of wine, drenching the front of Lyanna’s dress. “Ah– my dear, I’m so very clumsy,” he crooned, “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?” 

Lyanna nodded slowly as her husband looped his arms around her and led her out of the dining hall. She murmured some apologies to their guests, citing that they would return soon. Aegon led them down a corridor, not far from the hall, into a closed off enclave, where he closed the door. 

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he grumbled, spinning her around so that her back was pressed against the stone wall in the close quarters of what was basically a servant’s closet. “You’re egging me on purposefully.” 

Tilting her chin up defiantly, she spoke nonchalantly. “I have no idea what you’re speaking of, husband, truly.” 

Aegon gave an unamused expression, his mouth wrought into a thin line. “I’m not even that drunk and I could plainly see you letting that… absolute peon of a Lord come onto you.” 

“So? He fancies me and gifted me a bouquet of flowers– I don’t see anything terribly wrong with that. It isn’t unheard of to pay homage to their queen, is it?” 

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and jaw. “I don’t– You– you’re so fucking frustrating!” he growled, raising his voice. Their noses were touching from their proximity, their breaths intermingling. It was the closest they’d ever been.

Footsteps echoed from the hallway, to which the both of them froze. They came past the closet, then descended back down the corridor.

“This is scandalous.” Lyanna murmured.

“How? We are husband and wife, simply having a chat.”

“We are the king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms, not… animals– I’m sure that anyone who opened this door would see you… pinning me against a wall. I’m not sure much could be left to the imagination there, Aegon.”

“You really should get the stick out of your arse, wife.”

“Mayhaps it would do better up yours, then?”

“Careful, I may actually enjoy that.” he grinned, the expression lighting up his usually solemn face. Lyanna considered him quite handsome at that moment. 

“You’re vulgar.” she quipped back, biting down on the soft part between his thumb and forefinger gently.

A sound akin to a breathy moan came from Aegon’s mouth at her bite. “And you call me an animal? You’re fucking biting me, you cheeky minx.” 

“Yes? Well, if you are to drag me to your level– we are both animals then.” she stared at him with wide eyes and she wondered if he could feel the beat of her heart. It felt like it would abscond from her body at any moment. Her heavy chest fell and rose in weighty breaths. 

“That lord is quite wrong, you know,” Aegon whispered, his lips dangerously close to hers– they hadn’t kissed since the wedding ceremony, and even then it was a quick peck – his mouth quirked into a smug grin. “You aren’t a sunflower. You’re a sweet little rabbit. I quite like rabbit, you know. They’re delicious, succulent,” he paused, leaning forward and speaking against her lips, “Tender.”

It was unsure who closed the gap first, but their lips fused together into a ferocious kiss. They both tasted of a deep, rich wine. It was a fight of tongues and teeth, a battle where they both wished to devour one another– Lyanna’s hand tugged at his white curls, nails scraping against his scalp as he held her face in a vice-like grip, as if he was afraid she would dissipate from his clutches at any moment. His lips were soft, surprisingly, where she had expected them to be rough and chapped. His skin pressed against hers and the slight growing stubble upon his cheeks tickled her in kind, her lips perking into a smile as they kissed. 

The once silent closet became a cacophony of small sighs and gasps from both the king and queen. Aegon’s free hand trailed to the small of Lyanna’s back, resting right in the divots above her bottom, his fingers splayed out in exploratory fashion. His repose was short lived, as he grabbed the fleshy globe of her arse, emitting a pleased hum of surprise. They parted for a moment to breathe, as it was wholly necessary– if they hadn’t needed to breathe, they wouldn’t have parted at all, reveling in one another’s taste for hours.

“I forbid you to cut my dress, Aegon,” she whispered in a playful warning, staring at him with a look that couldn’t be described as anything else other than fondness. “I refuse to go through these halls with my garment sliced to shreds.”

“But you love it, don’t you? You quite liked it last night.”

“Aegon.”

“Fine,” he acquiesced, his hand retreating from her face to unbuckle his belt. The light of the closet was dim, close to none– the soft flickering of the sconces outside of the corridor bleeding in through the cracked door. She couldn’t see what he was doing, really, but she heard the soft grunts coming from him as his fist slid against his length. Giving her ass a playful squeeze, he used his other hand to ruck up her skirts, the pad of his thumb swiping down her underclothes. “Lovely.” Aegon practically purred, hooking his finger and sliding the wet garb down her legs.

The air was cold against her bare sex, causing her to shiver. She chased the warmth of his body as he adjusted himself, parting from her closeness for just a moment, making her all but whimper. 

They didn’t need words, despite their new trend of back and forth quips– and it was nice to not have to say anything. She let him take the lead, as he was more experienced than she. His legs were between hers, keeping them open as he glided his member between her folds, gathering the wet slick that had been ruminating since they came to the closet, then he slid into her. Lyanna stifled a gasp, the sensation still so unfamiliar– it wasn’t painful like before, as she was prepared for it now, but it was a feeling of stretching she wasn’t used to. 

Aegon, in turn, huffed a moan into her neck, murmuring something in broken High Valyrian under his breath. He sheathed himself to the hilt inside of her, resting both hands on her hips, which had the perfect little clefts for handles, he noted. He didn’t move right away, savoring the warmth and tightness of her, squeezing around him like she was all but made for him. 

“P-please,” she whispered, so quietly, into the shell of his ear.

He set a wonderfully slow pace, which only sped up with each kiss they shared, their tongues mingling and dancing to the soft sound of Aegon’s heavy stones smacking up against Lyanna’s core. Their cacophony became a full on symphony of wet, slapping noises, coupled with their borderline obscene sounding kissing as they moaned into one another’s mouths.

 It felt like something of newness for both of them as Aegon’s thumb came up to circle at her clit– Lyanna was experiencing a fullness and indulgence in having her husband slotted in her so deliciously. Aegon was experiencing something akin to euphoria at the fact that he was fucking someone who wanted him, whom he did not pay, and was not doing so out of duty. He had been a bit hesitant on the latter at first, but there was no way in the Hells that she was faking such debaucherous, beautiful little moans. This was sensual ecstasy and closeness that they’d both never felt before in their lives. 

Lyanna’s whining became more pronounced as Aegon’s attention on her clit came to fruition– she clenched around him like a vice, feeling a small dribble of wetness soak around his cock. This act alone brought Aegon to his own completion, the wetness of her slick now mingling with his seed as he spilled inside of her, deep enough to hopefully take root. He bit onto the lobe of her ear gently as he came, whimpering. 

Lyanna quite liked that sound– of her husband whimpering into her ear as he emptied himself. It made her put both hands on each side of his face and kiss him again– but soft, like his little whimpers. It wasn’t something born of lust, but something completely different. Something that they both really couldn’t name yet.

Coming down from both of their highs, Aegon quickly situated himself back into his trousers– but not before reaching two fingers to his wife’s folds and pushing back in the seed that threatened to leak from her.

“Aegon,” she keened, dangerously close to overstimulation as he gave a cheeky flick to her wrought-over clit. “E-Enough– too much…” 

“I couldn’t resist,” Aegon chuckled as he pulled her undergarments back up, snug once more against her. “I don’t suppose we are returning to dinner?” 

“Gods– I don’t think I can. I am still reeking of wine and I won’t be able to look them all in the eyes when we come back looking as if the cat just ate the canary.”

“Or the dragon ate the rabbit?” 

“... I am sure I can feign sickness just one time– what do you think? Mayhaps we should retire early tonight.” Lyanna flattened out her dress.

“... we?” 

“Yes– we.” 

“We as in… me and you? In the same room? Together?” 

“That is what ‘we’ means, Aegon.” 

“... I suppose I could be convinced.”

–

They did indeed retire early that night, but not before going for round two, then three. A thoroughly fucked out Lyanna rested in bed, her body riddled in hickies of Aegon’s doing, her fingers tangled in his hair. She was well and fast asleep, Aegon noted. 

He loathed to untangle himself from her– she was so nice and warm and soft… but something inside of him nagged. Something broken and heinous tugged at his humanity, willing him to get out of bed and dress, donning his usual thick black cloak.

Off to the Silk Streets. To sate the broken parts of him and to quell the incessant nagging within his head.

Your fault, your fault.

#aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon ii targaryen fanfiction #aegon ii targaryen smut #aegon ii targaryen angst #aegon ii targaryen fluff #aegon ii x reader #aegon ii #aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #my writing #wine red tears gold

[achaotichuman]

Hello!!! I was wondering if you have recs for pro-Tamlin fics, fics where he gets a happy ending in general? Or where the Night Court get called out on their bullshit with a side of pro Tamlin bc I’d devour them but have a hard time finding them (I love your fics btw)

Sure do!

Pro Tam fics can be difficult to find. I found all of these scrolling through either the Tamlin redemption tag, or the different relationship tags on AO3.

I'll link all the fics here. I'll put all the summaries and the relationship that goes with them, if there is a relationship. This is a list of all my personal favorite Tamlin fics, but these creators make other amazing Tamlin fics, and scrolling the pro Tamlin tag can take you to some really cool fanfiction.

A Court of Threads and Daises by @shi-daisy. Tamlin/Lucien.

Tragedy almost struck the Spring Court when Tamlin Evergreen tried to take his own life. Lucien Vanserra manages to save his former Lord, but not his power.

Now that the Spring Court has a new High Lord and the horrors of war are behind them, both Tamlin and Lucien agree to help the new heir navigate court life and attempt to rebuild the broken Spring Court, along with healing themselves.

They weren't expecting to fall back in love in the process.

A Second Chance by @goforth-ladymidnight. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra. Modern ACOTAR AU – There is a reason that Tamlin disappeared from Lucien's life seven years ago. Lucien just doesn't know what it is. They were more than college roommates; they were best friends. Now, a chance encounter in a bookstore leaves both of them wondering if they can pick up where they left off. A new year is right around the corner, but there is no wiping Tamlin's slate clean. Featuring Jurian and Vassa in supporting roles, this is not a story of redemption, but of finding love—and forgiveness—in the most unlikely of places.

Lovely and Lonely by @praetorqueenreyna. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

"In hindsight, Lucien thinks he fell in love with Tamlin the moment he first laid eyes on him."

**************************

Lucien Vanserra must come to terms with his sexuality, and his complicated feelings for High Lord Tamlin.

Wildflower by @mathiwrites. Tamlin/Rhysand.

Five hundred years before Feyre’s arrival in Prythian, the humans fought against Faeries, led by the King of Hybern, for their Freedom. Tamlin is only seven years old when the war begins, but his family’s involvement and a fated friendship with a handsome young Lord from the Night Court will change his life forever. This is the story of how he becomes the High Lord you know and love, and the redemption story nobody asked for.

TL;DR - before they were enemies, they touched butts.

Make The Switch by @lorcanisdabest. Tamlin/Rhysand.

Tamlin is desperate to save Feyre from the Night Court so he decides to put his shape-shifting abilities to good use.

Note: this leans heavily on BOOK 1 Tamlin and BOOK 1 Rhysand.

A Court of Beasts and Chances by M4r0u_Mar. Tamlin/Tarquin.

About a Beast who must be prince and a Prince who wants to be beast. About a Prince who learns of second chances and a Beast who learns of redemption. About looking for love and finding it in the journey rather than the destination.

Or the one where I rewrite ACOTAR to make Tamlin and Tarquin mates.

A Court of Choices Made by Anonymous. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra. Lucien decides to go after Tamlin to pick a fight after his first Winter Solstice with the Night Court.

Tamlin Decides Feyre Is Not Worth The Trouble by @lorcanisdabest. Tamlin/Tarquin. You remember that glorious moment where Rhysand was dead? Let's extend that.

I see red, I see nothing by AngryRamen. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra. Lucien travels to Amarantha’s domain to try and bid for peace between her and the courts of Prythian. It doesn’t go well.

Still Beautiful, Still Mine by @goforth-ladymidnight. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra. ACOTAR AU - In the weeks following his visit to Amarantha’s Court Under the Mountain, Lucien is still recovering from the loss of his eye. Nuan has made him a replacement out of gold, but the scars on his face are there to stay. When Tamlin comes to see him, Lucien cannot help but relive the events that brought them to this point, if only he could focus on what's standing right in front of him...

A Sunbeam Shining Bright Into the Night by @nocasdatsgay. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

After the Great Rite ritual is completed, Tamlin always goes back to the Manor to see if Lucien is waiting for him. This year he is.

Forbidden by @nocasdatsgay. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra. Calanmai has come once again, but Tamlin isn’t focused on the females waiting for him.

Breezing on by Sprighnt (SliPuP_Slit). Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

His focus was shattered when Feyre dropped onto the bench next to him with a dramatic sigh, “You won’t even say hi after you ditched us last week?”

Lucien rolled his eyes at her antics, “I didn’t ditch you, I was studying for math. The exam of a subject that I need days to prepare for, remember? I didn’t think you’d even notice me gone, what with all the ogling that takes up your time in our practices.”

“Shut up!” She shushed him, glancing around wildly for any eavesdroppers, “what if he heard you?”

——— Lucien has settled into a routine now. He’s finally able to go back to competing after an accident that had him wondering if he’d ever be able to skate competitively again, he’s out of his hellish childhood home, and has friends that make him happy.

By the Fountain by Sprighnt_(SliPuP_Slit). Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

Tamlin is tired of stuffy dinner parties, luckily, he has his best friend, Lucien, to make things more interesting.

———

Tamlin took the time to look at Lucien, who was staring at an elegant fountain nearby. He examined the dip of his nose, the scrunch of his brows, the slight part of his lips that indicated he was contemplating something. Then Lucien’s mouth set in a firm line, meaning he’d made up his mind on whatever the issue was.

Lucien glanced back at him and Tamlin startled at being caught watching. He placed his hand gently on Tamlin’s arm, “I don’t think my father will plan one for me either.”

New Springs by Sprighnt_(SliPuP_Slit). Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

“I can’t be here for as long as you,” she clarifies, gesturing to the forest around them.

“You’re leaving?”

She shrugs, “It’s nice here, but my sisters, my father, they’re my only family. Even if they’re, a little difficult at times, and I don’t want to hurt Tam. I was really in love with him, but, to put it plainly, I’m not like you.”

“Like me,” Lucien repeats, confused, “what do you mean?”

———

In another universe, an alternate timeline, Feyre says “I love you”, before she’s sent off and therefore breaks the curse the way it was supposed to be broken. Things are different.

absolution by @praetorqueenreyna. Feyre/Mercenary Lady, Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

Things didn't work out between Feyre and Tamlin. Years later, they both find love in unexpected places

Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free by franklinarchive. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

Tamlin heals and then he moves on.

Or, what if Sarah J. Maas hadn’t committed ‘character assassination’ against Tamlin?

When The Sun Came Up (I Was Looking At You) by pansexual_intellectual . Jesminda/Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

There was a slight choking sound from the Night Court side of the room, but when you looked, Lucien was expressionless, adjusting his doublet.

It was the worst idea you had ever had. In the shreds of your manor you dropped to your knees. He was gone in the morning, as you knew he would be.

Burning Batter by Sprighnt_(SliPuP_Slit). Tamlin/Rhysand. Rhysand comes over to make cupcakes with Tamlin for Feyre’s upcoming New Year’s party.

A strange thing happened the night of the High Lord meeting by @umthisistheonlyusernamenottaken. Tamlin/Rhysand.

Tamlin shook his head, a small smile on his full lips. “You forget that we were closer than friends once. I know your face. Even when you think you’re being so clever, hiding behind that mask of impassivity, I see you.”

He snarled, even as his heart began to beat faster as the other male approached him.

“You think I didn’t see you? You couldn’t stop looking at me during that meeting.” He took another step closer, and his next words were tinged with playfulness, a hint of the Tamlin he’d used to know.

“Were you thinking of that night too?”

He froze. “What?”

In the Eyes of My Beloved by Alynaw66. Tamlin/Rhysand.

I promise, Rhysand sighs into his mouth; Then down onto the slight curve between his neck and shoulder. Tamlin shivers, feeling dazed. Overwhelmed.

“Another offer,” he begins, one hand sliding down to grip Tamlin’s narrow waist.

(Also fun fact about this fic, I was brought to Tumblr because of a link in the notes, so without this fiction I wouldn't be here)

Stay or Go? by SoulOfStars. Tamlin/Rhysand. Both of their families are dead. Rhysand decides to stay. They fuck in the second chapter.

heaven sent a hurricane by @praetorqueenreyna. Tamlin/Eris Vanserra. After his family is killed and he is crowned High Lord, Tamlin struggles to keep his Court under his control. (Un)Luckily for him, Eris Vanserra steps in to help.

A House of Flame and Flower by Mellowenglishgal. Nesta Archeron/Tamlin, Nesta Archeron/Azriel.

“Spare me the self-righteous lecturing, Feyre. You and your new family believe yourselves superior: that anyone who is not deemed worthy by you must bow or be eliminated. I refuse to bow to those I do not respect: and I owe none of you any such obligation. Nor am I obligated to remain where my autonomy is threatened,” Nesta sighed, gentle yet commanding, her voice low and steady and unyielding. “I renounce all ties to the Night Court. From now on, you are no longer my sister.”

“Where will you go?” Feyre snapped, but Nesta saw it: the sudden realisation that Nesta meant every word.

“That is no longer your business. Goodbye, Feyre,” Nesta said softly. She rose to her feet, elegant as an empress despite her unkempt clothing. As she stared down her youngest sister, Nesta caressed the delicious power shimmering like slumbering embers deep in her heart, until her veins sang with silver fire, pure light, blistering heat, deadly yet silent.

Flame was silent: everything it met shattered and snapped, disintegrating, unable to withstand it.

She was flame. She was undiluted, unrefined, unapologetic power.

She told Feyre, “You will not hear from me again.”

(Side note, I just started reading this fic and it looks FREAKIN amazing) Edit- Anyone who saw that I changed the name of the author to a tag, ignore it, I was wrong.

A Court of Lies and Resurrection by @ashintheairlikesnow. Tamlin/Rhysand. AU: Feyre is dead, torn apart by Amarantha when Tamlin did not send her away in time. Tamlin, forced to submit to Amarantha's terms, finds himself looking for help (and finding affection) in places he never expected, while Lucien allies with an ancient enemy (and one of Rhys's closest friends) to save him. WARNING Extensive explicit adult content, sexual situations, violence, MA

In This Peace Series by @trshtffc, the first fiction in the series is completed The Sorceress . Tamlin/Original Female Character.

Seven years after ACOWAR, Spring Court is struggling to keep from falling apart completely. A mother tries to move on and keep her daughter safe in this chaotic world, but when the young female most needs a friend, she'll give the disgraced High Lord a chance to attone for the pain he has caused, and, perhaps, to finally heal.

TW for - mentions of suicidal thoughts - mentions of loss of a pregnancy - mentions of sexual abuse - mentions of emotional abuse (toxic relationships and toxic family dinamics) - colourism - LGBT+phobia

(This one was recommended to me in the replies of this post, and it looks so good)

And finally, (shameless self-ad) A Court of Song and Desolation by me. Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra.

She had eyes like starlight and a grin that could outshine the moon, "We'll rule the world."

"What if we fail?"

"Then we'll burn it all down."

In hindsight maybe it could only have ever ended like this. Making a man who was never made to rule, High lord. This was all inevitable.

With his Court in ruins and everyone gone, Tamlin lives amongst the broken pieces of his Court and has no intentions of changing that. Lucien, however, will not stand to leave his oldest friend alone.

When Lucien takes Tamlin back to the human lands, they discover a darkness coming for Prythian. If something does not stop it, it will completely rewrite the way Faeries and humans alike live as they know it

I hope you like these amazing fics as much as I do, anon!

Edit- If anyone has any recommendations for pro Tamlin fics, or anti IC fics, please let me know and I will add them to the list!

#acotar #pro tamlin #tamlin #tamcien #tamquin #tamris #tamsand #rhyslin #neslin #lucien vanserra #pro lucien vanserra #tarquin acotar #pro tarquin #rhysand #nesta archeron #pro nesta archeron #eris vanserra #pro eris vanserra #acotar headcanons #acotar au

[pastafossa]

Happy Birthday and a merry 6 years to TRT! 🎂 🎁 🎈 🎉 🍰

🕯 🕯 🕯 🕯 🕯 🕯

Some FUN TRIVIA FACTS:

TRT's sun sign is VIRGO and its moon sign is LEO!

After 6 years, its current wordcount is 932k words. If you put that in size 12 arial font, single-spaced, this would come to about 2000 pages, and even more if the pages were the usual mass market paperback size!

TRT is now 40 in cat years!

The Man in the White Coat is my tribute to the Mad Scientist trope common in scifi, which is one of my favorite genres!

It is old enough developmentally to tie its shoes! Keep going, TRT!

Ciro is partially inspired by John Marcone from The Dresden Files!

TRT shares a birthday with literary great Agatha Christie! Maybe I'll introduce poison-based murder into the fic in her honor...

The idea of seeing threads came to me after seeing a meme about red threads tying soul mates together. Everything that came after - the other threads, the thread world, how it works, is unique to TRT!

TRT is now longer than War and Peace, and Crime and Punishment combined! So if you've read all of TRT so far, then you have the perfect middle finger to anyone who tries to say you can't focus on longer stories!

The inciting penguin documentary that Foggy drunkenly watched (which led to him declaring Matt and Jane 'penguins') was about Adelie penguins specifically!

Jane has a leather jacket because I love leather jackets and think all badass characters should have a leather jacket! And so you should you! EVERYONE DESERVES A COOL LEATHER JACKET.

The long hiatus between Chapter 4 and Chapter 5 was because I had life things pop up. During that hiatus, I realized the plotline/ending needed some work, so I spent those two years outlining, and I also wound up doing a bunch of additional novel writing classes just because I wanted to learn. A lot of this wound up influencing TRT!

The grey threads are one of the only threads that no one has solved yet!

There are absolutely some bad people working for Cyrus James. There is also a guy named Kyle. He is there not for Evil Purposes (tm) but instead because this was the only place he could work that would allow him to pay off his student loans.

When I started TRT, I thought maybe 5 people total would read it. I was told five people total would read it by some shitty people. So I wrote it expecting five total people would read it, and told myself at least I'd enjoy it, and I could use it to learn. In other words: I had ZERO idea TRT would take off like this. None. Nada. Zip. AND LOOK AT US NOW, BABY. FUCK THE HATERS, 6 YEARS AND GOIN' STRONG.

Based on my outline, we're a bit over halfway to the end!

I hope you enjoyed these TRT funfacts. And I hope you know: this fic isn't just me. It's you, too. This fic has become so much larger than just me. It's the TRT playlist you've sent songs in for that keeps me inspired when writing. It's the fanart I look at to give me a boost. It's your sweet comments and likes and kudos and messages that encourage me when I'm sick or depressed. It's the people who've made friends over this fic, or who've been inspired to write fic themselves, adding beautiful works to the community that we all use to keep going. It's all of this love for both TRT and Matt, and I'm so happy that I've been able to contribute in at least a small way in keeping Charlie!Daredevil love alive even after the show's been gone for years now. I love you all so, so goddamn much. I love this fandom. I love TRT with all my heart. Thank you so much for being a part of these past six years through cancelations, through your high school and college years and beyond, through my ups and downs of moving and sickness and fiberglass and pandemic craziness, through late night chapter drops and wild twists and turns.

And I hope the next few years as we enter the second half of this story are just as amazing!

#the red thread

[worflesbian]

my vision for more worf content comes in the form of a post-ds9 series that's like expanding on ezri's iconic takedown of the klingon empire, so really a klingon-centric political drama around the turning point they find themselves at at the end of the dominion war. worf and martok would only be one plot thread cause we'd also follow lower ranking soldiers in the imperial fleet, a-list celebrity opera singers in first city, farmers in the overlooked rural regions of qo'nos and other ordinary, everyday klingons, and it'd all weave together to form this picture of a civilisation dependent on war, in the immediate aftermath of the most devastating war in centuries. the fleet is decimated, countless lives lost, and they've fought side by side with not just the federation but the romulans for the first time in history - where do they go from here? there'd be a strong call to double down on rebuilding ships, recruiting new warriors, but would this not also be thee moment for a peace movement in the empire, if there ever would be one? for a people once hungry for war to decide they've had their fill of it? and worf as federation ambassador would be a key piece of the picture bc it'd be crucial after the dominion were defeated to solidify the allegiance between empire and federation into a stronger treaty (since gowron broke the last one), and the idea of peace as a 'federation ideal' would be a real source of tension for any klingons trying to broach the idea of demilitarisation. overall the picture of an imperial force dependent on violence for so long facing the prospect of peace and the question of who the klingons might be without war is such a fascinating prospect to me and i have not stopped thinking about it, ever.

#ghitlhpu'wij #tlhingan

[zaptrap]

Seeing that you've been here since 2012 is INSANE like you've witnessed it all huh. You've seen probably SO many weird and crazy things in this fandom like man that's so cool for you I feel...

ive def seen and participated in a lot of dumbass bullshit over the years LMAO. although notsomuch during the skybound-to-seabound era cuz i'd lost interest for a bit

Random shit I remember off the top of my head (plz feel free to fact-check):

deviantart era: (2012-2013)

that bright green ninjago ask meme

like, literally everybody making self-insert purple ninjas (sometimes orange, teal, or rainbow) and shipping them with their fav ninja

everyone making their own genderbends of the ninja. cole was almost always called nicole or colette lmao

people also naming their accounts (name)-the-ninja (or "teh-ninja", since this was 2012)

there's a non-zero probability that if you were in the fandom during the season 1 era, you're a furry now

naruto crossovers

half-snake ninja aus.........wonder who uh......who could've done that.....heheh (me) (that was my whole deal pre-nindroid!jay lmfao)

everyone posting like, doll-maker things they made of ninjago? especially dragon ones

(me) posting leaked screenshots of season 2 eps that i found on the lego wiki or smth lmao. this is also how i found out zane was a robot. i think i kept posting leaks when i moved to tumblr

legends of chima releasing and i thiiink it was supposed to be a ninjago replacement? like, legitimately? though a lot of people weren't happy about it. "furry gang drug wars" was a phrase used a lot lmfao.

tumblr era (2013-2016 for me) (may overlap with dA era)

everyone losing their minds over the shirtless ninja in ns2 lmfao

that one video of kirby marrow (rest in peace) saying cole was 14

that other vid of like, behind the scenes and it was the ninja's actors but like in-universe? it's where "cole bucket" comes from

also some behind the scenes vid with the actual voice actors lol

thinking back on this, im like 100% sure it was bullshit but when the end of rebooted aired, there was a rumor going around about fans being so upset over zane's death that they carved a snowflake on their stomachs. lots of people were freaking out lmfao

the rise and fall of "fucknoshittyninjagoOCs" (ashamed to say i heavily participated in harassing this blog even if i rlly didnt like the premise.........)

maypong

lots of tension with instagram cuz of all the art reposts. like. tons of reposts. i remember someone blocked me when i said to take something down but then unblocked me the same evening and apologized LOL so

roleplay twitter accounts (twitter was kinda not-as-a lot at the time)

nindroid!jay of course. its so old there was an update that was made in flash lmfao...

absolute fucking shitloads of AUs and headcanons. i dont think this has changed much but like. there were so many lmfao. entire threads

actually there's too many fucking AUs. im scrolling through my main blog and i cant fuckin find anything cuz ITS ALL THESE STUPID AU THREADS THEY AREN'T EVEN LIKE DEEP LMAO

ask-all-the-ninjagians

the absurd screenshot redraws i did. like they were super stupid lmfao. icr which blog they're on but they're on my comp still at least

ninjagians just. being a term used at all lmao

the ninjago fan-tournament during ns4. people would draw/write about their ocs doing whatever prompt was posted and then everyone came together to defeat a big bad snake man

tbh i started naturally losing interest during ns5, and then VERY QUICKLY dropped the show (and therefore fandom) when skybound came out lmao............... so i dont really remember a lot from this era and everything after

and now im back :D

i hope this is insightful! xD

#ninjago #talking #asks

[your-eternal-lies]

LOVE IS A CHOICE (chapter four)

Main Navigation || Please follow @your-eternal-library for all my fanfiction updates.

PAIRING — Bucky Barnes x Agent f!Reader SERIES SUMMARY — In your experience, relationships only bring drama and heartbreak, and you want absolutely none of it. That is, until an act of sheer recklessness brings Bucky Barnes back into your life.

WARNINGS — Just more angst, more flashbacks to Reader’s time with the KGB/Hydra, oh, and did I forget angst? There’s a shit ton of that, if it wasn’t clear.

LOVE IS A CHOICE

CHAPTER FOUR

It’s said that as long as you could still feel the cold, it meant you would live yet another day. 

So, when you first saw him, you thought he was the grim reaper. 

Standing in a darkened corner of your cell, his silhouette was apparent even in the shadows. You almost breathed a sigh of relief, despite the pain, thinking that the sweet respite of death had finally come to claim you. As you laid there on your side, momentarily abandoned in your cell, still sore and bleeding, all you could feel was warmth. 

Maybe he would make your death quick and painless, you thought. When he stepped into the light, he moved so slowly and quietly, you couldn’t even hear his heavy boots on the frozen concrete. He couldn’t have been human, you thought. There was simply no way. 

The dim moonlight illuminated the reaper’s face, revealing to you long shoulder-length brown hair and bright blue eyes, ones that looked impossibly sad. Almost like he had seen too many things that he could never quite say, especially not from behind the mask that covered the rest of his face. 

Regardless, it was like you could hear them. 

Your eyes watered, despite yourself, because you think he can hear them too, echoing in waves straight out of your weary heart. It had been a very difficult life, indeed, but you thought it was a worthy death. Natasha’s secrets, the very little that you knew, would die with you. Your sister would be free. Now, it was time for a long and peaceful rest. Didn’t you at least deserve that much? 

But he always stood there, unmoving and silent, as if simply waiting for you to die. You didn’t mind; it was so much better than dying alone, after all.

And it seemed like even Death had a heart, because one day, and you don’t know when it started, his cold indifference melted away into something you hadn’t seen in a while. The last time you saw it, you found them in the emerald green eyes of Natasha Romanoff. 

Understanding. Regret. Maybe even compassion. 

While your captors tried to pull your most precious secrets out of you, the reaper would avert his gaze, his shoulders stiff, his one good hand balling up into a fist at his side. His nails bit into the palms of his hands, drawing blood of his own, droplets of red drip, drip, dripping onto the concrete. 

And whenever you weren’t being watched, you were being held with a pair of conflicted hands that seemed to sew you back together at the seams. Your lungs would deflate slowly, the air you’d been holding hostage released in a quivering sigh. It would disperse into the room, mingling with the faint scent of gunmetal and leather that clung onto your only companion like an old war medal—a constant reminder of battles fought, of lives irreparably altered. 

The stifling cloak of isolation would lift, unravelling thread by painstaking thread as you allowed yourself to acknowledge the simple truth reflected in the stranger’s gaze: you were not alone in your suffering. 

A silent communion began to form, its foundation built on the remnants of shattered lives and unspeakable pain, daring to be pieced together once more. Your eyes would meet and there was, despite yourselves, a glimmer there, shining through the dampness of unshed tears—a flicker of hope that danced like a fragile flame. 

His palm against yours became an anchor in the cold stillness, his touch a whisper of solidarity that spoke volumes more than words ever could. 

But you knew better than anyone what cruelty Hydra and the KGB were capable of, and you realized with each passing moon, that this man was just like you. He was just as helpless, wanting desperately to break the cycle of despair, but unaware as to how or whether he even could. 

It was enough, however, to know that he wanted to save you. You wanted to save him, too. And nothing like that had ever happened before Natasha, or since. Despite your bleak reality in this underground cell, you could still recognize specialness whenever you saw it. 

Especially when he removed his mask for you, guided your icy fingers to the rugged lines of his face. The stubble along his jaw seemed darker against his pallid skin, the weight of his past evident in the weary tilt of his head. 

He never spoke, your reaper. Words weren’t needed here, not when he looked at you like that, not when you knew how he punished himself for being so powerless in the face of your misery. 

And certainly not when he made a sacrifice that wrecked your heart. You woke to rumbling walls and falling dust, the sounds of distant explosions and gunfire, before you heard her. 

“Wake up now, kroshka,” her gentle hands were on your face, a gasp of a sob escaping her lips when your eyes met. “There you are, little sister. I’m here, I’m sorry it took so long.” 

But you wanted to scream in agony, wanted to demand to know why she would do something so reckless as coming back. You wanted to beg her to go before the guards came back, but no sounds came out when you opened your mouth. Your throat was dry and hoarse, your arms too weak to fight her off as she picked you up in her arms. 

“It’s going to be okay now. I’m going to take you home.” How could someone so slight be so strong, you always wondered. But your eyes began to close again, your body unable to resist the warmth of hers. And despite how much you wished she would leave you behind and save herself, you were secretly overjoyed to see her. 

But it was only when you were halfway out of the cell that you remembered. Your eyes snapped open, your reaper watching silently from the shadows as you went. He nodded, as if telling you it was okay to go, but you grabbed desperately at Natasha’s arm. 

You tried to croak her name, to tell her that there was someone else here who needed saving. But all you could do was open your mouth in a rasping scream, and Natasha mistook your cries as ones of anger directed at her. 

You reached out behind her, heart sinking as your reaper soundlessly stepped between you and the swarming guards just as Natasha rounded a corner. Silent sobs wracked your body, tears dripping down your temples and onto Natasha’s shirt, knowing that if the roles had been reversed, your handlers would have killed you for such a thing. 

The last thought before you passed out were of him, of eyes so blue they reminded you of clear summer skies and crystal ocean waters. 

And when you opened your eyes again, finding yourself in an unfamiliar hospital room, you thought he was long dead. You mourned him as Natasha introduced you to her friends. You thought of him often as you began a new life, telling yourself you’d honour his memory and sacrifice. 

But when Steve handed you a file one day, crinkled all around the edges and stamped with fading Russian letters, all the breath was stolen from your lungs when you flipped it open. 

You thought you would die right then and there. 

The devastating details of Steve’s childhood friend, one James Buchanan Barnes, were all there, transcribed onto two letter-sized pages of black and white. You stared hard at a series of old photographs, of a young handsome sergeant who still smiled, of the Winter Soldier, frozen in time inside a cryogenic chamber. 

And after all those years of bloodshed, after a literal lifetime of agony, smoke, carbon, and flame, as the two of you finally stood in the same room again, only one of you remembered. 

In fact, he looked right through you, as if you never existed at all. And while you knew full well that it wasn’t his fault that he couldn’t remember, you couldn’t help the wave of resentment that washed over you, nor the immediate surge of regret that would follow. 

He looked like a frightened child standing in that room, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted as if he might scream, and you could no longer will yourself to be angry. 

This man had saved your life, even though he had been given every possible reason not to. You resolved right then to never tell anyone, that the truth would die with you one day. Bucky would never have to know that you had met before; it was your way of atoning, of thanking him for a gesture that had meant everything to you but now meant nothing to him. 

The Soldier who had offered you a tiny morsel of affection and sympathy in a place that normally held none was no longer there. The look in his eyes were blank, compared to the raw, aching thing in your chest that had been shaped by his absence, by what you thought was his death. 

Despite the longing, the undeniable pull despite the chasm of history and time that lay between you, Bucky had felt nothing for you in that moment. 

But still. 

Still, you fell. 

Because it was impossible to know who Bucky Barnes was—for real—underneath all that trauma, and not love him. 

He had a crippling sense of humour. His comedic timing was brilliant, if you were being honest. Always prepared with the best quips, paired with just the right amount of sarcasm, complete with a hint of a smirk that hinted at the mischievous boy he used to be. 

He painted in secret. He never told anybody, but every so often you could smell the scent of acrylics lingering on his clothes. You liked to imagine him in his room, mixing colours on a palette, painting whatever came to mind. 

Sunny yellows, peach pinks, and creamy oranges for sunsets. Soft lavenders, mint greens, and deep crimsons for the most delicate flowers. 

Sky blues, for the shade you’ve always believed his heart to be. 

He liked to read. And what you particularly loved about Bucky is that he was indiscriminate when it came to choosing his reading material. You found notes scrawled in the margins of books that he’d leave all over the compound, on the pages of romance novels, science fictions, fantasies, and thrillers. 

A lot of the time, the notes weren’t even comprehensive. You would smile to yourself when you found a simple exclamation mark next to a passage in Frankenstein, or a heart hastily scrawled beside a particularly breathtaking paragraph in The Song of Achilles.

He tried to pretend like he didn’t, but Bucky cared. You could see it in the way he smiled at Steve, in the way he awkwardly but warmly patted Wanda on the shoulder on her bad days, in the way he put up with Clint and Sam’s good-natured teasing, and even in the way he could never quite look Tony in the eye. 

He cared with his whole being, this man. And it was why you couldn’t tell him. Eventually, he had come to care about you too. He would gaze at you a little too long, as if he could recognize, not you, but the sorrow permanently etched into the tired lines of your face. 

He started standing a little closer to you, in elevators, meetings, in the quinjet just before your next mission. His eyes started scanning rooms and hallways whenever he entered, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding until they landed on you. 

He started calling you by your name. Something told you that was particularly important to him. With each time your name left his lips, emotion crept under your skin, with one in particular threatening to breathe new life back into your weary lungs. 

But there was a very real problem. The further you fell, the more he broke your heart. How could someone be your life-saving solace and the source of your heartache all in one fell swoop? 

And the worst part wasn’t that he had ultimately left without even a word of warning, not even a note hastily scrawled before his departure. It wasn’t the familiar pang of hurt when it occurred to you that Bucky didn’t feel even an ounce of what you did, or that you weren’t high enough on his list of priorities to even think about telling you himself, or that you had to find out about his plans through someone else. 

No—the worst part was, while the Winter Soldier had saved your life, Bucky Barnes made you want to live. As far as you were concerned, that was his biggest and only sin. 

So, you pull away from his hands, one warm and one cold against your back, the ones that make you feel things you thought you put aside a long time ago. Hands that could turn back time, make it feel like you’d never been hurt in the first place. Ones that could piece your heart back together if you would just let them. 

These are the hands that you could belong to, if only you could be brave enough to run towards him instead of away. 

But you aren’t. 

“How long was I out?” The air in the room shifts as you shift back on the bed, angling your body away from him and pulling the quilt back up to your neck, creating a chasm in the room that feels like miles. 

“Almost a full day,” he replies, sitting statue-like, a figure carved out of remorse and rugged edges softened only by the firelight. His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching as you try not to make eye contact, each passing second of silence landing like a hammer to your heart. 

You always told yourself that you could live without his love, you never dreamed of having that. But the one thing you can’t live without is his happiness. 

You’ve gotten used to the pain and the hurt, but it was time for him to put all of that in the past. You don’t even want to think about the devastated look he’d give you if he ever found out about the past you share, that you were the only one still cursed to remember. 

And while it hurt to see him leave, you knew how suffocating New York had become for him. The pursuit of his peace of mind took priority, and you knew it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Saying goodbye to Steve, leaving behind the place that used to be home, and turning his back on an ever persistent sense of duty. 

You know that if he knew, he would have stayed. But that wouldn’t have been right. You weren’t, still aren’t, a person strong enough to stand at his side, not when you yourself are falling apart. 

Bucky lifts his hand, a hesitant gesture, into the tension-filled air. Every instinct tells you to bridge the gap, to erase the cool expanse of sheets and distance with the warmth of your touch. Because he’s here now. He’s here, breathing, and real, and you want to hold him and never let go. 

“Please,” you hear him say, his voice breaking at the last second. You lift your head, his eyes meeting yours like a tumultuous sea meeting an immovable cliffside as you fight to keep your own gaze neutral. You find the weight of a hundred things unspoken in the beautiful lines of his face. “I can’t change the past, but I’m here now. Darlin’, if you’ll let me, I’m here.” 

You clutch the quilt closer to your chest, wanting to both hide behind it and throw it off you, to pull him close and feel him against your skin. But once bitten, twice shy, you hesitate to say or do anyhing. His hand descends slowly, but not onto your shoulder or your hand, but back onto the cold sheets. 

“Back then,” he continues, voice a gravelly whisper, “I wasn’t myself… not really. The Winter Soldier… well, you’ve read my file. He did things. Things I can’t ever forget.” 

His eyes meet yours, dark pools reflecting the torment of countless sleepless nights. Your chest tightens, recognizing the ocean of sorrow that thunders inside him, the one that is reflected back at you whenever you look in the mirror. 

“But here…” he trails off, as if not quite knowing how to explain. But you already know; nightmares like your very own, fragmented and splintered, must follow him like ghosts. And right on cue, his cat hops off the headboard where she’d been lazily lounging, laying down on the bed across his metal arm. 

Here, he isn’t unbearably lonely or painfully out of place. Here, there are no expectations, no pressure, of what’s normal and how to get back there. Here, he could just finally be. 

Despite yourself, the hardened ice around your heart softens into a gentle stream. Bucky does indeed look healthier now, his skin no longer waxy and almost grey from a chronic lack of sleep. His eyes are no longer sunken and hollow, but clear and bright despite the dreary northern climate. 

Nothing else matters now except for protecting the peace that he’s found here. You will do anything to keep it. 

You take his hand. 

A few hours later, after a short nap, Bucky lends you some clean clothes and feeds you some warm broth before redressing your wounds. You watch him as he goes back to his baking, which had been interrupted yesterday with your unexpected arrival. 

He hunches over his task, shoulders broad and imposing even in repose, the room lit by the soft glow of a single oil lamp. A five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw, lending him an air of ruggedness that belies the careful attention he gives to his pastries and doughs. 

Across the room, you inspect the cuts on your forearms, your movements deliberate as you dab at a particularly nasty one with a cloth. Bucky’s stitch work is impeccable, but there wasn’t much he could do about the pain as you try not to wince with each touch of the cloth. 

“Careful,” Bucky’s voice is quiet, almost lost in the cabin’s stillness. “That one looks deep.” 

“I’ve had worse,” you tell him, your tone a lot less clipped than it was earlier. Bucky offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Alpine diffuses the tension with a soft meow, as if begging for attention. Bucky lifts both his hands with a rueful smile, they’re both covered in flour, so she hops off the countertops and hobbles over to you. 

You pat at her back awkwardly, but enjoying the softness of her fur between your fingers. The corners of your lips are pulled up by some invisible force as she bares her belly to you, something you can only describe as joy. 

But the fragile peace is shattered like glass as the sounds of the first gunshot splits the air. The sound is distant, but also unmistakably close, reverberating through the trees. You freeze, your fingers flat on Alpine’s stomach, her paws curled around your hand. 

Then, there’s another. And another. 

Bucky’s head snaps towards the window, loaf of unbaked bread forgotten, as a bloom of orange fire paints the night sky. Your free hand instinctively goes to your side, seeking a weapon that isn’t there. You let out a quiet curse before you look towards Bucky, your eyes meeting in alarm. 

“Hydra,” you murmur, the name a curse on your lips, a reminder of a past that just refuses to die and stay buried. 

“What? But Steve went to the base, said he took down every single one of them there.” 

You curse again, running a frustrated hand through your hair. “Some of them must have followed me here. Maybe even called for reinforcements on the way, who knows.” 

“Shit,” he says as your gazes hold for a brief second, sharing a wordless understanding. There is time for pain, for grief, and for the tender blooming of something new later. But not now. Now, there is only survival. 

In the next breath, the cabin is a flurry of movement. You pick Alpine up just as the world outside the safe house erupts into a frenzy, but within its walls, time seems to slow as your instincts take over. 

With a swift motion, Bucky grabs the radio and barks into it. “Steve, we need an ETA. Our location is compromised; Hydra agents have got us surrounded.” 

“Damn it!” Steve’s voice rasps over the comms. “Hang tight, we’re only about twenty minutes out. The storm is starting to clear, but not fast enough—” 

“Just get here fast!” Bucky doesn’t have time to say more, dropping the microphone and heading over to a hidden loose floorboard in the corner of the living room, pulling out a rifle and a box of ammunition. 

“Kitchen counter, now,” he orders, voice low but piercing, eyes scanning for any sign of movement through the dirt-streaked window. Your response is immediate, knowing that you’re of no help to him with the extent of your injuries, but he still slides a loaded pistol across the floors in your direction. 

You grab it, folding your body behind the makeshift barrier with practiced ease, but your heart thumps harder and faster against your ribcage at the sinister drumbeat of boots on the forest floor outside. 

“Bucky,” you whisper, pulse racing. The sounds are close—too close, too loud, too many. Much like you were back at their base, there are too many of them and not enough of you. “We’re outnumbered.” 

The way his brows knit together tells you he knows you’re right. The two of you alone can’t hope to fight your way out of this. You have twenty minutes before the team arrives, but who knows if you even have that long. 

Bucky shoulders his rifle, quickly crossing the living room and pulling you out from underneath the counter. Instead, in one of the back bedrooms, he pulls aside the four-poster bed and the ornate rug underneath it, revealing a hidden trap door.

“Get in,” he orders after yanking it open, and with Alpine still cradled in your arms, you carefully lower yourself into the crawlspace. “Got your gun?”

“Yeah, right here,” you tell him. Bucky then tosses a blanket down after you, a welcome respite against the dank and musty interior. You wrap it around yourself before pushing yourself into the corner, careful not to pull too much at your stitches, making as much space for him as you can. 

But your heart drops when you realize he’s not moving, one hand braced against the door. “What are you doing?” 

He looks down at you, swallowing hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down nervously. “I need to buy us some time until Steve gets here.” 

“No,” you growl, letting Alpine drop out of your arms and onto the floor. You reach out to grasp his arm, the movement tugging at your stitches painfully, but you wrap your fingers around his wrist the best you can and pull hard. He doesn’t even budge. “Get your ass in here, Barnes.” 

“Yeah, and who will move the bed back? They’ll find us in seconds—” 

“You’re not going out there alone. There’s too many of them!” You hiss, trying your best not to shout. 

“We don’t have enough bullets between the two of us.”

“I don’t fucking care!”

“Darlin’—” 

“Don’t darlin’ me. You are not going.” Your voice cracks, tears suddenly blur your vision, surprising you that you’ve still got any left. “You can’t.” 

“Come on, I’m a super soldier,” he tries to grin, tries to lighten the mood with a joke that just falls flat. “I’ll be fine. Piece of cake.” 

“Please,” and for the first time in a long time, you are terrified. Fear grips your throat, seeps into your lungs, and every breath you manage to draw feels ice cold. “Steve will be here so soon.” 

“We’re out of time, doll.” He says, like it isn’t the most devastating thing he could possibly tell you at this moment. But he proves you wrong once again, in a single instant breaking down every single wall you’ve ever built around the pieces of your soul, brick by perfidious brick: “I love you.” 

You blink, wondering if you’ve heard him wrong. Are you filling in the gaps with your own wishful thinking? 

“I love you,” he repeats, brushing some of your hair out of your face. His forehead touches yours, his hand cradling the curve of your jaw. 

“No, you don’t. You’re just saying that to get me to shut up.” You bite back, not wanting to hear it. Not like this. The man just chuckles, like he’s talking to a pouting child, as if he knows your bark is worse than your bite. 

“Listen… I need you to know, leaving New York wasn’t about not wanting to be with you. It was about being someone worthy of standing next to you.” 

“You’ve always been—” 

“So, what kind of man would I be, sweetheart,” he smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, where tears brim at the edge of his lashes. “If I didn’t do everything I could to keep you alive?” 

“No, you can’t.” You beg, because despite his earlier claims that he’d be fine, it sounds like he’s saying goodbye. You don’t know if you can handle another one of those. 

“I don’t know why he did what he did. Galloway, I mean, and I’m definitely not sorry that he’s dead… but he did one thing right: he kept you alive out there. He kept you alive long enough for me to meet you.” He lets out this breathless laugh, brushing away some of your tears, mixed with some of his own. “Can’t let a Hydra agent outdo me, can I?” 

“Don’t do this to me,” Not again, not again, not again.“Stay!” 

“I love you,” he says again in response, accentuating each word with a kiss to each cheek, and then one firmly on your lips. He pulls away, eyes searching yours for another few beats of silence, as if he’s committing your face to memory. “Sometimes, I get the strangest feeling that I have for a really long time.” 

Then he pushes your hand away, closing the trap door on top of you with a dreadful thud. You hear the latch being flipped shut, the furniture being moved back to its usual spot, hiding your existence away from the world and all impending danger. 

You scream, but your cries get muffled against the floorboards, under a hailstorm of bullets, and the dreaded clashing of metal against metal. 

Bucky Barnes is a terrible man. 

One who repeats history. 

One who always tries to repent for sins that aren’t his. 

And worst of all, one who may never know that you love him too.

« Chapter 3 || Chapter 5 »

Taglist — @cjand10 @pbs-theundeadmaggot @nerdreader Please leave a comment or send me a DM if you’d like to be added to the taglist for this story. Note that if you ask and you are a blank blog, I will block you instead.

Notes — Okay, so events are moving pretty quickly, but I did say I didn’t wanna drag this out for too long lmao, and it was always intended to have only five chapters. The last chapter is coming soon! I'm hoping to have the finale posted on Friday.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x you #summer’s fics

[mccall-muffin]

The Lady and the Major - Part 3/3 // John "Bucky" Egan x OC

Summary: Bucky is gone. For Liz, a world fell apart. But being the daughter of a duke, there still are responsibilities.

Warnings: Language, loss, slight depression, family duties, family fight. FLUUUUFF

A/N: And now this little story comes to an end. It was fun :) Hope you enjoyed it!

Here is my Masterlist

Tags: @liebgotts-lovergirl, @softly-writes, @mads-weasley, @brassknucklespeirs, @softguarnere, @shesgonna

London, Early 1944

The vibrant correspondence between Liz and Bucky, once a source of joy and anticipation for Liz, has fallen into a distressing silence since October 1943. Each letter she sent without receiving a reply added another layer to her growing concern and heartache. Liz's letters, once filled with playful banter and teasing affection, have grown more earnest, culminating in a confession of her deepening feelings for Bucky—a letter that, like its predecessors, remains unanswered.

The once lively spark in Liz's eyes has dimmed, noted by all who know her but most acutely by Mrs. Baxter, who has served the Cavendish family for years and has come to hold a particular fondness for Liz. It's a quiet afternoon when Mrs. Baxter finds Liz in the garden, her laughter at something in a book not quite reaching her eyes, a shadow of her usual vibrancy.

"Miss Elizabeth," Mrs. Baxter begins, her voice laced with concern, "you've been ever so down lately. It's not like you to let the world weigh on your shoulders. Is it that young American soldier? You've not mentioned him in quite some time."

Liz, caught off guard, closes her book, a sigh escaping her lips. "Yes, it's Bucky. I've not heard from him since October. I fear the worst, Mrs. Baxter. But part of me wonders... what if he's simply moved on? Or found someone else? Or worse..." Her voice is a mix of sadness and fear, the possibility of Bucky being gone forever a thought she can barely entertain.

Mrs. Baxter, wise in the ways of the heart and the harsh realities of war, shakes her head. "Miss Elizabeth, the way that boy wrote to you, I can't imagine him simply forgetting about you or finding another. It doesn't sit right. Why don't you write to his superior? Just to ask, to know for certain."

The suggestion stirs a turmoil within Liz. The thought of reaching out to Colonel Harding, of whom Bucky told her, is daunting, not only for fear of seeming desperate but also for the terrifying possibility that her worst fears might be confirmed—that Bucky is indeed lost to her, either through death or by a change of heart.

"But what if I find out he's..." Liz can't finish the sentence, the fear of Bucky's potential death choking her words.

"Miss Elizabeth," Mrs. Baxter says, taking Liz's hand in her own, "not knowing is a torment all its own. It's clear you care for him deeply and living in this limbo isn't fair to you. Writing to that Colonel might bring you the clarity you need to move forward, one way or another."

Liz contemplates Mrs. Baxter's words, the wisdom in them undeniable yet terrifying to act upon. The possibility of learning that Bucky is indeed gone is a reality she's not sure she's ready to face. Yet, the perpetual state of not knowing, of holding onto a thread of hope mixed with fear, is its own kind of purgatory.

After a moment of silent contemplation, Liz nods, a decision made. "You're right, Mrs. Baxter. I'll write to his Colonel. It's better to know than to spend my days wondering 'what if.'"

Mrs. Baxter squeezes Liz's hand reassuringly, offering a smile that's both encouraging and sympathetic. "Whatever the response, Miss Elizabeth, you won't face it alone. We're all here for you, always."

With a newfound resolve, albeit one shadowed by apprehension, Liz sets out to pen a letter to Colonel Harding, seeking the truth about Bucky's fate. It's a step fraught with the risk of heartbreak but also the only path toward peace, whether it leads to closure or rekindles a flicker of hope.

Dear Colonel Harding,

I hope this letter finds you well amidst the challenging circumstances that I know the brave men under your command face daily. I am writing to you with a heavy heart and a hopeful spirit, seeking information about Major John Egan, who I believe is (or was) under your esteemed leadership.

It has been several months since I last heard from Major Egan, and his silence is uncharacteristic and deeply concerning. We had been in regular correspondence until October of last year, after which all communication ceased abruptly. Understanding the nature of his duty and the risks involved, I am painfully aware of the potential reasons for his silence.

However, the not knowing has become a burden too heavy to bear, and so I find myself reaching out to you, Colonel, in hopes that you might be able to provide any information regarding Major Egan's status. It is my deepest hope that he is safe and well, but if that is not the case, I am prepared to face whatever truth there might be.

Major Egan spoke very highly of you and his fellow soldiers, and it is clear he holds great respect for the sacrifices and efforts of the 100th Bombardment Group. It is in this spirit of respect and concern that I reach out to you now.

Any information you can provide would be immensely appreciated, not only by me but by all who care for Major Egan.

I thank you in advance for your time and assistance in this matter and for your service to our countries. Please extend my gratitude and best wishes to the courageous men under your command.

Yours sincerely, Lady Elizabeth Cavendish of Wellington

Dear Lady Elizabeth Cavendish,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to you regarding Major John Egan. First, let me express my deepest gratitude for your kind words, the respect you've shown towards our unit, and the sacrifices made by our servicemen. It is the support and thoughtfulness of individuals like yourself that bolster our spirits in these trying times.

Regarding Major Egan, I regret to inform you that his plane was shot down during a mission over Münster, Germany, on October 10th. The circumstances were such that we have been unable to ascertain his whereabouts following the incident, and as of this moment, Major Egan is classified as Missing in Action (MIA).

This news is undoubtedly difficult to receive, and it is shared with the greatest sympathy and respect for your connection to Major Egan. Please know that our efforts to learn more about his status continue unabated, and any new information will be communicated to you as soon as possible.

Major Egan is remembered among his peers for his bravery, leadership, and the indelible mark he left on all who had the privilege of knowing him. In these challenging times, we hold onto hope and the belief in the resilience of the human spirit.

Should there be any way we can be of further assistance to you during this period, please do not hesitate to reach out.

With deepest sympathies, Colonel Neil B. Harding 100th Bombardment Group United States Army Air Forces

July 1945, Hyde Park, London

The park, with its sprawling greens and tranquil ambiance, serves as a refuge for her thoughts, a place where memories of Bucky feel both painfully close and achingly distant. As she walks beside Mrs. Baxter, her mind is only half-attuned to the conversation about her impending nuptials to Lord Henry Ashcroft, a man of good standing and disposition but whom Liz regards with a sense of resigned acceptance rather than love.

Lord Henry Ashcroft, chosen by her father, was a man of considerable charm and intellect, a diplomat who had spent much of the war negotiating on behalf of Britain. While Liz could appreciate his qualities and the comfort of their companionship, her heart remained untouched, locked away with the memories of a love lost too soon.

As Mrs. Baxter prattles on, Liz's attention is stolen away by a voice, a familiar timbre that cuts through the noise of the park and straight to her soul. "Planning your grand escape, Liz? Or just hiding out from all those wedding planners your father's set on you?"

The voice, unmistakably Bucky's, sends a shockwave through her. She turns, disbelieving, to see him leaning casually against a tree, that all-too-familiar smirk playing on his lips, his arms crossed as if he's been waiting for her all this time. For a moment, Liz is frozen, her heart caught between joy and disbelief.

"Bucky?" she breathes out, her voice a whisper lost in the wind. The world around her seems to come to a standstill, the chatter of the park fading into nothingness as she takes in the sight of him. He's thinner, the signs of his ordeal evident in his eyes, but it's unmistakably him.

Bucky pushes off from the tree, taking a few steps toward her with a grin. "In the flesh," he confirms, his eyes lighting up with the warmth she remembered so well. "I must say, I've had quite the adventure. But I always knew I had to find my way back to you, Liz."

Tears well in Liz's eyes as the reality of the moment washes over her. The pain of the past two years, the resignation to a life without him, suddenly lifts, replaced by a surge of hope and love so strong it leaves her breathless.

"But how? I thought you were—" Liz starts, unable to finish, the question hanging in the air, laden with the weight of untold stories of survival and loss.

"A POW," Bucky finishes for her, his voice softening. "It was... rough. But I never stopped thinking about you, Liz. Not for a single day. It's what kept me going, knowing I had to come back to see you again."

The revelation leaves Liz reeling, the pieces of her carefully constructed resolve crumbling under the weight of her emotions. Here, before her, stands the man she believed she had lost forever, a living testament to the resilience of hope and love.

Mrs. Baxter, sensing the magnitude of the moment, discreetly withdraws with the dogs, leaving Liz and Bucky alone in their bubble of reclaimed time.

Liz steps forward, the distance between them closing with each tentative step until she's close enough to touch, to confirm that he's real and not a figment of her longing imagination. Without a word, she reaches out, her hand trembling as it meets his cheek, the contact sparking a connection that time and circumstance had failed to sever.

"Bucky, I..." Liz starts, the flood of emotions rendering her speechless.

"Shh," Bucky soothes, wrapping her in his arms, his presence a balm to the scars left by war and separation. "We have time, Liz. All the time, we thought we'd lost. We'll figure this out together."

In the embrace of the man she never stopped loving, Liz allows herself to believe in the possibility of a future she had mourned as lost. Hyde Park, once a sanctuary for her solitary reflections, now bears witness to the resurgence of a love that survived against all odds, promising a new chapter for Liz and Bucky, one where 'what if' transforms into 'what is.'

In the opulent salon of Wellington House, the tension is palpable. The Duke of Wellington, a man of formidable presence and traditional values, paces the room, his anger reaching a fever pitch. The assembled group—Liz, her fiancé Henry Ashcroft, her brother Edward, her mother, and Bucky—watches in a mix of apprehension and disbelief.

"My daughter, marrying an American? A soldier with no title, no lands, no... no nothing!" the Duke bellows, his voice echoing off the walls, laden with centuries of history and tradition. "This is not a matter of mere preference, Elizabeth! It's about duty, about the legacy of the Cavendish name. An arrangement has been made with the Ashcrofts, a union that will benefit both our families."

Liz stands her ground, her resolve steeled by the love she has for Bucky, a love that has endured the trials of war and separation. "Father, I respect our traditions, but I cannot—I will not—marry a man I do not love. Henry is a fine gentleman, but my heart belongs to Bucky. I must marry out of love, not obligation."

Her plea falls on deaf ears. The Duke, red-faced and seething, turns his ire towards Bucky. "And you!" he accuses, pointing a finger at the soldier who has unwittingly become the center of the controversy. "Do you think you can just waltz in here and claim my daughter's hand? What do you have to offer her? You are a commoner, an outsider!"

Bucky, despite the hostility, remains calm, his respect for Liz and her family evident even in the face of the Duke's wrath. "Your Grace, with all due respect, I understand your concerns. I may not have titles or lands to my name, but I love your daughter and swear to devote my life to making her happy. Isn't her happiness worth considering?"

The Duke's response is a derisive snort. "Happiness? You speak of happiness in a world where lineage and alliances dictate our very existence. You are not suitable for Elizabeth. This... this farce ends now!"

Liz's mother and brother exchange troubled glances, the family torn asunder by the clash of duty and desire. Henry, for his part, remains silent, his own feelings a mixture of resignation and relief, having sensed Liz's lack of affection towards him.

The room falls silent as the Duke delivers his ultimatum. "Elizabeth, you will marry Henry Ashcroft as planned, or you will face the consequences. You will not defy the wishes of your family or the expectations of our society. This is not just about you; it's about the Cavendish legacy."

The weight of her father's words hangs heavy in the air, a gulf widening between tradition and the yearning of the heart. Liz, caught in the throes of an impossible choice, looks to Bucky, her eyes filled with a mixture of love, defiance, and the dawning realization of the sacrifices they must both be willing to make for a chance at a life together.

As she can't take it anymore, Liz flees the salon and her father and is quickly followed by her mother.

In the quiet aftermath of Liz's hurried departure, the salon becomes a stage for silent contemplation and uneasy alliances. As Henry speaks privately with the Duke, Edward shares a moment of understanding with Bucky, and the pieces of a complex puzzle begin to shift. The choices made in the hours and days to come will redefine the futures of all involved, setting them on paths none could have anticipated.

Edward, acknowledging Bucky's resolve with a nod, breaks the silence. "You've got guts, I'll give you that. Facing down the old man is no small feat," he comments, a hint of respect threading through his words.

Bucky, his determination unwavering, responds with a sincerity that speaks volumes of his experience and the depth of his feelings for Liz. "I've seen too much, lost too much, to not fight for what truly matters. Liz... she's changed everything for me. This time in captivity, it made me realize life's too short for regrets. I need to spend mine with her, no matter what."

Edward sighs, a look of understanding crossing his features. "I get it, I really do. But you must understand our world... it's governed by rules, by expectations that have bound families like ours for centuries. It's a tangled web."

Meanwhile, in Liz's room, the atmosphere is thick with desperation and the weight of impending decisions. Her mother, the Duchess, attempts to provide comfort, but Liz's turmoil runs too deep for simple reassurances. "I can't do it, Mother. I can't marry Henry knowing that Bucky is alive and the one I love. It would be a lie, a life built on pretense. I'm not like you; I can't hide my feelings or live a lie."

The Duchess, faced with her daughter's anguish, feels a pang of sorrow for the constraints their world imposes. She knows the Duke's stubbornness all too well, his unwavering commitment to duty and legacy. Yet, in her heart, she understands Liz's longing for genuine happiness. With a heavy heart, she reveals the only solution she sees.

"There is one way, Elizabeth. You must elope with Mr. Egan. It's the only path to true happiness if you're sure he's the one. Your father... he may never forgive you, but this is your life, and you must choose how to live it. But you have to know, if you decide on this, there is no coming back."

The suggestion of elopement, radical and fraught with the risk of scandal and estrangement, hangs in the air like a lifeline amidst stormy seas. It's a testament to the lengths to which love compels individuals to go, challenging the very foundations upon which their lives are built.

For Liz, the idea is both terrifying and liberating. The prospect of defying her family, of stepping outside the protective yet confining boundaries of her world, is daunting. Yet, the chance to build a life with Bucky, to embrace the love they share, is a beacon of hope in the darkness of her predicament.

As the vast expanse of the Atlantic stretches out before them, the cold ocean breeze tangles through Elizabeth's hair, a stark contrast to the warmth of Bucky's arms around her. His kiss on her cheek is a gentle reminder of the new reality they've stepped into together—a world away from the grandeur of Wellington House, a future uncertain but theirs to shape.

Bucky's voice, filled with affection, breaks the silence. "You sure you're okay with this, Lizzie? Leaving everything you've known... for me?"

Turning to face him, Liz's eyes meet his, shining with a resolve that belies any lingering doubts. "Bucky, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. With you, I have everything I need. You are my home now."

Bucky's smile in response is one of relief and love, his hand coming up to caress her cheek. "Liz, you've given up so much. I promise you, I'll spend every day making sure you never regret this decision."

Their conversation, intimate against the backdrop of the vast ocean, is a testament to the strength of their bond, a love that has transcended societal norms and the expectations of their respective worlds.

Flashback: In Liz's room, the Duchess's hands are steady as she helps pack the bags, her face a mask of resolve. "Remember, you're stronger than you think, Elizabeth. You're making a brave choice, for love. That's something I've always admired in you." As Bucky is led into Liz's room through the servants' corridors, his eyes quickly find Liz, his expression a mixture of surprise and admiration. "Lizzie, are you sure? This means leaving everything behind—your family, your title..." Liz steps close, her hands finding his. "I've never been more certain of anything, Bucky. As long as I'm with you, I'm where I belong." Her mother's voice, soft yet urgent, interrupts their moment. "You must hurry, my dears. And be careful." Handing Liz some money, she adds, "This should help you get started." She puts her arm on Bucky's. "Take care of my daughter." Bucky nods. "I will. Always." The goodbye is swift, a final embrace shared with her mother before Liz and Bucky slip out into the night, embarking on their journey towards a new life.

As Liz reaffirms her commitment, Bucky's eyes soften, the weight of her sacrifice not lost on him. "Lizzie, you're my world. I'll make sure you have all the happiness you deserve."

Their kiss, passionate and full of promise, seals their vow to each other. As they stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace, the future unfurls before them—not as a path laid out by lineage or duty, but as a journey they'll navigate together, bound by love and the shared courage to defy expectations for the chance at true happiness.

"We're in this together, every step of the way. I love you, now and forever," Bucky whispers, his words carrying the weight of an oath, a pledge of a lifetime together, against all odds.

And Liz, gazing into the horizon, her heart full, knows that no matter what challenges they may face, their love will be their guiding light. "I love you too, Bucky. Here's to our new beginning."

#Masters of the Air #MoaT #John Egan x OC #Bucky Egan x OC #John Egan x reader #Bucky Egan x reader #John Bucky Egan #BoB #Callum Turner #Sorry not sorry

[bonefall]

What are Tallstar's thoughts on how things play out? Now that his surprise pick kicks of a civil war and ends up not mattering in the slightest, probably gonna be a awkward conversation between him and Onestar when he dies

He regrets it massively. A change that I think is major but everyone else will probably consider minor is that Tallstar will never "reassure" Onestar that he was correct.

Tallstar quickly vanishes after his death, he goes to StarClan briefly but then leaves. In truth, he's gone to be with Jake, but it's a mystery to everyone else. All Onestar knows is that when he receives his nine lives, Tallstar's life is short and feels almost like a platitude, and then he is bizarrely absent from dreams and omens.

(If he even stays THAT long. It's still a bit up in the air but I think I'm going to have him catch the sabotauged muirburn, Mudclaw's trial and damnation, and Onestar's nine lives)

It's finally sinking in now, that everyone he's given power and personally brought into the fold of the Clan has been ruined by it.

He returned to WindClan and left his mate, Jake. His son Flytail became his political rival and snapped a ShadowClan warrior's neck in cold blood. He lost so, so much family in the WindClan Massacre. And now his hasty choice has caused THIS.

Tallstar wants peace but was never willing to do anything TRULY hard to get it. He was still going to keep the Mothermouth Moorland that WindClan had fairly won. He never campaigned to bring back tunneling. He saw Mudclaw's xenophobia earlier but didn't change his popular deputy in a "hard time." He has always been reactionary, not proactive...

And there's a thread there, between him and Onewhisker. Friendliness and the desire to be the leader that your Clan wants you to be.

So how would he DARE to ever be angry with Onestar? After what he did to him?

Tallstar checks in as a spirit frequently, especially when Jake's descendants (NOT Firestar in BB they are unrelated) wander around the area. Onestar doesn't know it, but the old leader IS watching him, protecting him even. When Onestar dies, Tallstar finds him before the fetcher does, and invites him to come along on a wander.

But most importantly, in that moment, he apologizes. He thrust a weight onto Onestar's shoulders that never should have been there, and he's had to pretend to be strong for too long.

#BB!Tallstar #BB!AVoS #BB!Onestar #Better bones au #Tallstar’s Collapse #There is also a very meaningful pun in Clanmew about One's name #Which Tallstar says at his death #''Just before you became Wholewhisker (Arrahussk) I forced you to become The Only Star (Ul-arrashai)'' #One's parentage has also been overhauled in BB and his name comes from a heartbreaking lament from his father #His mother died in childbirth along with stillborn siblings #He was The Only Kit #Ul-arramew #The guy's whole life has been lonely

[elmundodeflor]

There isn't a part of his body that is safe from harm. Every muscle, every crevice and cartilage burns like he has a soaring fever— pounds and stings worse than in any other battle he's fought.

Is it over yet...?

His cheeks are red, flooded with his own cries of pain. As the silver thread that makes up a stream from across the driest of valleys. It all hurts. It all stings. It all burns.

Damn.

He winces, cleans up his tear-tracks with the back of his hand. If he had to compare this much pain to something— anything— really, it'd sure be a black hole, he figures. A force deadlier than gravity that makes him wanna cave into his very own misery.

"They're dead stars, I've read.", Hanji'd told him once, as they'd pointed up to the skies. They were set out to camp for mission, and Erwin had put them both on watch duty. "They bend time and space, and start swallowing everything that's around them! Kinda crazy, huh?"

Their voice fades into an echo, and the vision of them two reaching for the stars is water that slips through his fingers. It's all gone. All set. All done. And now, he's left with nothing but a black hole sitting in his chest. A growing pull that threatens to swallow what little there is of him.

Is it over yet...?

He looks through the blur. The air smells of fire, like a hundred-year drought that brought the land to its end. He can taste it, on every inhale of his lungs: it'll take another hundred years for hope to bloom again. It'll take two thousand lives for dreams to part through all this death.

Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji... where are you...?

Are you guys watching...?

Is it over yet...?

His heart clenches, then expands and explodes into the glimmer of a billion different supernovas. There's not a single frame of him that's not empty now. Not a simple trace that hasn't been replaced by utter brokenness.

He falls to his knees, lets his body give in to the shake. Yes. For the first time since he's been taught how to combat, Levi Ackerman allows himself to fall. Rapid. Vivid. Painful.

His skin bleeds when it touches the floor; his throat so closed he can barely breathe. Perhaps, this, he tells himself—this endless spiral of ache— is exactly what happens when a soldier loves. It's the pieces of himself he's lent to the fallen, that now have been lost. The stubborn ways of the soul, to be so foolishly selfless now he's nothing but a living ghost.

He glances up at the skies, there where a ray of sun makes its way through the clouds. Will the black hole in him come and take him, too? Can it bend time and space, and make life the way it was?

He thinks about it for a second. Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji; everyone he'd ever longed for, had believed in this world. They had bled, and sworn, and resigned to war, so that the rest could see peace, even if just once. Would it be fair for him to wish he was gone, light as a feather, then? Did that mean he had to persist through existence, still? Even with this void eating him up inside?

He takes another look around. He has no answers, just yet. But, in the midst of destruction, he can make up the contours of something he's always known.

Something that brings warmth to the cool that always lays after stars are born.

Erwin, Mike, Petra, Hanji...

Are you guys watching...?

This is the result...

Of all of your devoted hearts...

And after that, he’s swallowed into the infinites of a black abyss, too.

READ THE COMPLETE FANFICTION HERE

"The Tale Of The Butterflies", a story where Hanji Zoe survives The Rumbling, is out now on AO3!

#levi ackerman #hange zoe #hanji zoe #levi #hange #hanji #erwin smith #petra ral #mike zacharias #fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 fanfic #levihan #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #angst #light angst #angst with a happy ending #drabble #fluff #comfort reads #hurt/comfort #canon compliant #canonverse #post canon #the rumbling #post rumbling

[digitalstowaway]

I want to see Lan Xichen having a breakdown right before the sunshot campaign

He gets back home. He's sect leader before he even sets foot in what's been reconstructed of Cloud Recesses.

He's 19.

He has duties to sort out. He has people asking him questions. His uncle waits for his answers and when they come slowly, answers for him.

He's 19.

Wangji is melancholy. His leg is slow to heal. Lan Xichen remembers hearing his leg break. Remembers how he looked up at the Wen Clan with fury in his eyes.

Wangji is 17.

Lan Xichen watches him sleep some nights. They share a room for the first time in their lives until there's more space. It's awkward, but they make do. Lan Xichen doesn't mind the company. Wangji sleeps heavily those nights, exhaustion running through him. Lan Xichen takes note of how his face is sharpening.

Wangji is only 17.

Lan Xichen has a rushed ceremony, and he's officially sect leader by the long checklist of the Lan Clan. He sits patiently as his hair is threaded through a new headpiece. It feels heavy. His uncle tells him he'll get used to it.

He's 19.

His father's funeral ceremony is later than it should be. There's nothing to be done. The Lans, who cherish order, have no qualms about pushing it back until it can be more honorable. Wangji is oddly solemn. Only Lan Xichen sees he's mourning, though he doesn't understand why. His uncle is stoic. Lan Xichen doesn't feel particularly sad for his father but grieves for himself.

He's 19.

There's talk of war.

He's 19.

He gets his own rooms again, finally. He moves into the newly built Cold Room. He feels his father's ghost and funny enough, he thinks, his father was always a ghost to him.

His uncle requests him for dinner. Before they eat, there's a list of expectations as sect leader. New information on the Wen Clan. Lan Xichen picks at his meal when it comes and then, even though he's barely eaten in over a month, grief and uneasiness settling too heavily in his stomach to leave space for food.

He runs outside and vomits halfway through the meal. His uncle follows him. He pulls Lan Xichen's hair, covered in bile, away from his face.

For the first time in years, his uncle puts him to bed. And for the first time in years, Lan Xichen cries. It's chest-rattling, gut-churning sobs. His uncle tries calming him through lectures, through rules. But after a while Lan Xichen feels a hand on his head. Just like when he was a kid.

He screams once. He can't hold it back. Everything is wrong, and he doesn't think there'll be any relief. He's been waiting for it for a month, and it never comes. It never comes. It never comes.

He feels his uncle's fingers tighten around his hair.

His forehead ribbon is untied. His hair is let down. It feels like permission.

He cries until he's exhausted--and he didn't know he could get more exhausted, but now he's so tired his bones hurt. His head aches. His throat feels torn.

With every part of his body throbbing in synch, he falls asleep. It's not restful. Restful sleep will come later, much later, and not last for long.

Lan Xichen learns that night that his life isn't one for peace.

He's 19.

#mdzs #lan xichen #grandmaster of demonic cultivation

[starrygetou]

clingy asf!stsg who literally needs to be ripped away whenever they kiss. it’s never just a quick kiss ang go, they always do a peck and then it turns into them tonguing each others throats for hours.

it’s especially bad whenever they have to go on separate missions, holding up the travel lines in an airport bc they act/feel like they haven’t seen each other in eons and they’re coming back from war.

sentimental!stsg who always keep some sort of good luck charm on their persons at all time. satoru keeps a small scale from suguru’s curse dragon in his pocket, and suguru keeps that eraser he threw at satoru all those years ago when he finally mastered his Infinity technique.

retired!stsg who loves to visit jujutsu tech to see the new generation come up. the kids always get so excited seeing THEE Satoru Gojo, but gojo always makes sure to mention and emphasize how it was him and suguru who did it all together. suguru always appreciates it especially after he left and how he was essentially black listed from the jujutsu world, but was only ever starting to get mentioned again after coming back. suguru also is a heavy advocate for making sure the new generation of sorcerers have support, mental health wise. he was the one who paved the way for guidance counseling and official grief counseling for the sorcerers and mandatory debriefings with mental health professionals after longer/more involved missions.

growing old!stsg who eventually move into the countryside to live the rest of their retirement in peace. they own a small patch of land and suguru taught satoru how to do some farming. satoru loves this newfound sense of pride in being able to grow crops from seed and soil to acres of produce.

growing old!stsg who always takes strolls around the property. satoru having a habit of picking flowers during the walk and putting them in suguru’s now graying hair.

growing old!stsg is still playful. suguru sending weak little curses to annoy gojo if he’s out in the fields or doing housework. gojo always threats to exorcise them and suguru says he doesn’t really care anymore, since his life as a sorcerer are behind him. gojo has a full circle moment and breaks down crying in suguru’s arms, realizing that they survived and lived to old age together.

STOP HERE IF YOU WANT HAPPY FEEL GOOD ENDING

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

they have their final meal that night, cooking each others favorite foods before watching some of their favorite movies. they barely watch since they’re too busy reminiscing their youth. both getting equally emotional and holding one another like their lives depend on it. they take one last bath together, not even really in the mood to do anything other than bathing each other. satoru taking extra time to brush suguru’s hair, feeling every strand between his fingertips, attempting to remember what was going on in their lives when suguru’s hair was at that specific length—what struggles they had, any friends they had possibly lost, everything.

when it’s time for bed, they get comfortable together in their pjs. satoru finally getting rid of his lavish 1000 count silk thread pjs for some simple beat down sweats and tank top that’s been well worn through the years.

they fiddle around with comfortable cuddle positpositions before satoru says,

“thank you.”

“… for what? if i may ask,” suguru says with his signature smile. still having that same sparkle in his eyes after everything he’s been through.

“for never giving up on us.”

suguru doesn’t even know how to respond other than gently squeezing satoru’s hand underneath the sheets.

“i love you.”

“i love you.”

they exchange a final, long kiss before resting their foreheads together. falling asleep for one last time in one another’s arms.

#jjk #jujutsu kaisen #geto suguru #jjk geto #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #satosugu #jjk fanfic #gojo x geto #jjk drabbles #jjk angst #stsg makes me so incredibly ill #stsg finally getting the happy ending they deserve