#i've not written much in a while

[laurenkmyers]

winteam bathroom coda (ep7)

just a short, unbeta’d continuation of the bathroom scene with a little added smut, enjoy.

***

As soon as the door slams shut Win’s hands are everywhere, all at once, stroking Team’s face, pulling his hair, gripping his shoulders, his waist, his ass.

Team is overwhelmed, like he always is whenever Win’s mouth starts devouring his. All thoughts of anything fly straight out of Team’s head, taken blissfully over by the feel of Win’s body against his.

Team doesn’t know how Win manages to manoeuvre them as gracefully as he does in such a small space, but one minute they’re trapped standing as close as humanly possible in the cramped cubicle, barely room to pant into each other’s mouths, and the next he’s being shoved down onto the closed toilet seat and Win is on his knees between Team’s spread thighs working open his trousers.

“Lift your ass.” Win growls.

Team doesn’t need to be told twice, he immediately arches up off the seat and let’s Win pull down both his underwear and his trousers until they’re both stretched taut around his ankles. Win looks up at him and his eyes are blown black, no sign of colour left behind. It sends a shiver down Team’s spine.

Win leans in and starts sucking hot, wet kisses along Team’s trembling inner thigh, climbing higher and higher until he gets closer to where Team really wants him. He’s already painfully hard, aching and desperate when Win wraps his hand around him and starts pumping as he sucks a bruise into the crease where his thigh meets the rest of him. The rest of the bruises Win left a week or so ago have already faded and Team smiles as he imagines pressing down on this new one to feel it burn.

He quickly becomes impatient, “Hia,” he whines, “…please.”

Win’s hand stops its slow pumping motion, and his mouth disengages from its chosen path. Team whines again because this is not what he wanted at all.

“What do you want, Team?” Win croons against his thigh, “Tell me.”

Win’s commanding tone always makes Team’s insides squirm in the best way.

Team is shaking now, so turned on he can barely produce anything other than another elongated, “Hia…”

Win chuckles darkly, softly nipping at the tender skin in response.

“Tell me what you want, baby.” He says. “I can’t give it to you if you don’t tell me what it is.”

Team huffs out a low groan, and takes a handful of Win’s hair, pushing him to where he needs him.

“I need your mouth.” He eventually manages to croak out.

Luckily for Team, Win is already ten steps ahead, wet lips slide all the way down his cock until he hits the back of Win’s throat. Team chokes out a moan and holds on for dear life pulling out the hair tie keeping Win’s hair out of his face, not that it matters much, with the iron-clad grip Team currently has on said hair. The tie is redundant now anyway.

 ***

Win holds Team at the back of his throat for longer than is strictly necessary for breathing and then pulls off panting, a string of saliva still attaching his swollen pink lips to the glistening head of Team’s cock as he looks up at Team’s blissed out face.

Win smiles crookedly, licking his lips and bending back down to tease the tip with his tongue, swirling it around the head before dipping into the slit for a taste. He feels the already strong grip on his hair tighten to the point of painful as he slides the rest of the way back down Team’s impressive cock. He hums as the weight of it once again hits the back of his throat, and he feels the vibrations travel through Team’s body in a shudder, resulting in his boy making harsh thrusts in and out of his mouth. Thank god he perfected the art of deep-throating a long time ago otherwise he’d be gagging around Team’s cock right now with how hard he’s pushing to get further inside.

Win loves going down on people. And he’s really fucking good at it. He knows that the most powerful position he can be in is between a person’s thighs, knows just the right amount of pressure to use to tip his partner over the edge. And that’s what he wants right now. He wants Team worked up and pliant, wants to make him come, to clear his mind and feel all the things he’s feeling.

The words from earlier float back into his head as he concentrates on bobbing his head up and down Team’s slick cock, ‘if you’re not sure, then prove it…’ Win hums into the upwards motion in agreement, I’ll prove it, he thinks. ‘If you like him, then tell him…’ Win swirls his tongue along the underside which earns him a sweet moan from his sweet boy, ‘if you love him, then tell him…’, Win pulls back slowly with a soft pop and lavishes the tip of Team’s cock with soft kitten licks to show his affection.

Tell him. Tell him. Tell him.

Okay, so Win’s never really been great with words about his feelings, always preferring to use actions to show a person how much he cares and he’ll continue to show Team he means it by doing just that.

He starts with a mind-blowing orgasm.

Because that’s something he can do.  

Because that means he doesn’t have to think too hard about the rest of it.

[yuukirita]

So about Killing B-127

Imma be honest- actually no one told me NOT to do this.

https://www.tumblr.com/yuukirita/764457936468754432/two-bumblebees?source=share (the og post were I talked about this)

So imma do it- HOWEVER. It won't be in the main DeceptiBee au. I might not even write it. But I will DRAW IT. Probably.

You can keep reading the DeceptiBee au and be assured that Bee won't die- but when that fic is done I might do an alternate ending with it where Bee does die- like a series.

But i'll write it in a way You don't need to read the previous fic to understand what's happening. That first chapter is gonna recap and compress the story and it won't reff the previous fic other than 'Bee was a decepticon who died'

I guess that Au would be called 'SecondBee au' or 'TwoBees au' since theres another one. idk i'm bad at names.

So about this Au, it's in the tfone continuity. Where Bee choose to follow megatron when he got banished. He died. War raged on and then another Bee is forged right before Primus peaces out. And then a lot of bad things happen to him C:

I don't remember which continuity Tfone is attached to (it can't be the bayverse don't lie to yourself) but Imma say that the endgame to this is Earthspark (because it's the happiest ending we're getting so far) so I might even write to that part because since new bee and megatron are on the same side now I smell some good sad times.

What do we think? does any of this make sense to yous?

Does this make you exited? Dreadful? Tired?

If you stumble upon this and you want to make your own- feel free (and give me the fragging link so I can read it) Bee doesn't even need to be a decepticon before he dies. Endless possibilities.

P.S. no telling when I'll be making content for that Au cuz I'm working on deceptibee rn- Next chapter is out tomorrow. hug hug

P.P.S. Just a small- SMALL look at what this au could be

Megatron could not believe his optics. In front of him, on the screen, stood a scout, painted yellow, with horns, an autobot logo were a deceipticon brand should be. The same, the same, optics he'd seen fade in front of his very own. He'd been caught on camera and Shockwave had given him the footage.

"He. Replaced. Him." His servos balled into fists "Another usurper." When would Primus cease taking his fallen friends and produce failed facsimiles to torture him with? After all this time...

It only justified his actions further. He would not be deceived.

[noonemonitorsmyscreentime]

What I think is kind of interesting is that if Dean Casca Highbottom, seeing exactly how good of a student Young Coriolanus Snow was, had taken the boy under his wing instead of despising him and trying to get revenge on a boy that never knew his father (and who only had of his father the words of others about the great man that he was), he might have had a good helping hand in stopping the games he so deeply despised.

It would have been, at the same time, quite a revenge on Crassus Snow to use his son to dismantle the Games the man helped implement. Not only that, but it would have offered young Coryo a person to depend on during his most formative years where he had to grow up under the immense pressure of keeping up appearances, taking care of an ailing grandmother and fighting everyday to keep himself and his family fed.

What Casca failed to realise during the 10th Games was that there weren't 24 tributes, but 25. Snow was fighting for survival just as much as the rest; of course, with the caveat that Snow was never in danger of losing his life. But, for a boy who had for all his life to survive instead of to live, those two might have been the same thing. In saving himself, Coryo would also save Tigris and his grandmother, while all the other tributes were saving mosty themselves since they would be going home with nothing to show for winning the games other than their lives and some (crippling in some cases) trauma.

Maybe things would have played out differently, maybe not, but we have seen time and time again through all four of the Hunger Games books, the power of a kind gesture: Peeta with the bread, Rue healing Katniss, Katniss singing to Rue, Mags sacrificing herself, Boggs treating Katniss like a young traumatised girl when no one else did. Who knows if Snow (and, in turn, the rest of Panem) wouldn't have benefited from it?

[forcedhesitation]

astarion origin playthrough worth it just for all the extra moments where he does the "sad wet cat" face

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: THE GREAT CITIES DUOLOGY by N. K. Jemisin.

[crispycreambacon]

[Image Description in the Alt Text]

Ever wondered what happened to the puppets stuck in the Wondrium Arena?

So did the Professor and his meat shield/bestie westie, Ryan. Instead of waiting for an answer, they planned to get the puppets out of there. They even argued with God over it, or rather the Professor did since Ryan was too mentally out-of-it from the absolute absurdity of this situation.

And what did God give to them in return for winning the argument? A bus. To drive to the Wondrium Arena with. ‘Cause what better way to rescue a bunch of dead puppets than crashing a bus into their purgatory?

— ☆ —

I'm happy to announce the release of my first AO3 fanfic: Seatbelts, Everyone!

As you can see from the blurb above, it's a one-shot crackfic about the Professor and Ryan rescuing the puppets in the Wondrium Arena by crashing a bus into it. 'Cause why not?!

This fic has it all! We got:

Ryan learning how to drive a bus via WikiHow!

God being the absolute worst!

Silly puppet interactions!

Existential crises occuring throughout the fic!

An honestly heart-warming ending?

Y'all the line between silly jesting and sincere genuineness is so blurry in this fic. So if that all sounds like a jam of a time, you can read the fic via clicking here! Or clicking the title. Or searching up "Seatbelts, Everyone!" by crispycreambacon on AO3.

Thank you so much for checking it out! And even if you don't, I hope you enjoyed the comic. May you all have a fantabulous day!

[amogus-real-not-clickbait]

here's some benreys for y'all!!! it's meal time little ones!!!! nobody starves today. i provide

also random gordo he's here too i guess-

[byanyan]

okay. okay. it is done.

lmk if you see anything weird or think something should be written better!! also blanket content warning on the bio bc there's a lot of heavy fuckin stuff in there, though it is all marked (i think. hmu if i missed smth). same goes for the timeline but that's all written more matter-of-fact and less detailed so i just slapped a cw at the very top of the page

[the-way-astray]

alright everybody can we please stop tagging me/talking about me in the notes of pro keefe/sokeefe posts. i know strieefe has made it so that it's really funny to talk about how much i love him and how much i'm in denial when i say negative things about him under those posts (and that's all in good fun and not the problem), but we have to think about the fact that the ops are just trying to make a positive post and probably don't want a keefe hater in their notes /srs

[lunarharp]

into the deep end - 30k T orufrey fic, focusing on memory trauma, disability, and romance.

the sweet oblivion of the victim, the poisoned freedom of the witch.

for one moment - it had felt like two parts returned - the needed reunion of two disparate halves. no more secrets, no more pain.

the moment you get to give back what you never wanted to take. that moment, under the night-blooming flowers, when they had both let out the same single broken sigh of relief.

but they were never whole to begin with, were they?

qifrey swore he wouldn't say 'sorry' to this man any more if he could help it - sorry is cheap now. he didn't want to be in a position ever again where you only have 'sorry' left. so he just looks down into the threads of his blanket, strains his eye until it hurts, feeling his insides - his throat, heart and head - burn with pain. he expects more, but olly says nothing.

olly says nothing.

[pers3phone399]

sorry babe can't talk rn i'm letting another fanfic completely overtake all of my waking thoughts

(it's "Methyl Nitrate Pineapples" and its sequel "Cherry Bomb Alchemy" by @fablecore (razbliuto on ao3) if you like One Piece OC stories and one (1) emo Surgeon of Death you should go read it too)

[blorbologist]

Re-watching Calamity (for ~research~) and this time around Patia has really stood out to me. Of course Cerrit and Laerryn and Zerxes are showstoppers, but I decided to pay more mind to the other three members of the Ring of Brass, and just... Patia Por'co, guys. Patia Por'co.

Patia's relationship to what she knows (and does not know) is, I think, the pure distillation of knowledge is power.

She carries all her knowledge, all of Avalir's knowledge, with her, levitating, all this power at her fingertips. I think that there's something to be said with her about how generational power and knowledge are so often intertwined - children of alumni having easier access to the same academic leg up as their parents, knowing who to know, having the ins and outs of how this works handy. I don't believe any of the other members of the Ring of Brass come from backgrounds like this, and if not it's fitting that the only one that does is the one most tied to knowledge. On top of being an elf to boot, something which must amplify the consolidation of resources throughout the years.

[Shunting the rest under the cut bc oops this got Long]

I think it's interesting, too, how Patia seems extremely adept at navigating the lies and half-truths of Avalir's politics, yet reserves honesty for her friends. If someone lesser than they knows what they shouldn't, she will take that power away from them. On my relisten, I'd forgotten that one of the memories the Ring of Brass analyzes tries to throw Patia under the bus, and how quickly she shows Nidas memories proving that she did as right by him as she could. And the reveal that she and Zerxes tried to bring back Evandrin, and upon the failure she removed the painful memory at his request.

(Mechanically, too; as a wizard, her knowledge literally is her power. That's the wizard thing, baby, and if Laerryn exemplifies a wizard whose INT is intellectual skill/problem-solving, then Patia is probably INT as memory. Streetsmart and booksmart besties. Also revealing herself to goad Dean Hollow into popping back in, only to immediately Sphere her and cause the bitch to get eaten by her own spell? Maybe that's a stretch of my 'knowledge is power' bit, but it's too fucking cool of a moment not to remind you of it.)

The first time she died, it was for knowledge. Touching the Tree of Names, and she never did let it go (would she, if she could have?). When she died - that first time - did she meet the Raven Queen?

Patia's direct tie to quite possibly the second-most knowledgeable being in the Exandrian mythos (behind Ioun, but I'd argue you know a lot to handle fate and death, on top of being a wizard in life) feels very deliberate to me. The Raven Queen, the mage who did what no other could (except Vecna a long-ass time later, and only for like a day or two), was at least a contemporary. Perhaps a teacher, or mentor, or admired idol. And now Patia can't even remember her name.

It's funny how much knowledge was actually taken from Patia, between that name and her parents'. Just as she removed knowledge from others. No matter how powerful you get, even with a protective ring, you are always at the mercy of your predecessors. What they chose to do with knowledge. And what Patia chooses to do, now.

In her last moment alone, she relates this knowledge to selfishness. Her grandfather's decision to make a city fly because he and others could. The Gau Drashari's decision to keep all information about the Tree of Names secret. While I disagree with her a bit, it really rounds out knowledge is power - because it's hoarded, it's made a tool for selfishness and control. And Patia acknowledges it likely always will be selfish, but for now at least she can break this cycle.

She breaks Avalir, the model of it her grandfather holds, and sends the Librarium with all the knowledge she carries to Maya.

(I'll note that Maya probably doesn't know what the orb is or does, so sending the model library is a great way to help get that message across, too, on top of the meaning of the moment.)

When it comes time to send all of Avalir's knowledge away, it's not some mage acquaintance from another city she sends it to. Hells - she doesn't even teleport herself out, with it, to ensure its protection and proper use. She sends it to a child, a teenager, the daughter of her friend. Someone with no power, who will have nothing but her family in the Calamity. I can't quite pin down why she choose Maya. Because a teenager is innocent, uncorrupted by power? Because she wanted to give the family of her friend leverage, knowledge to rebuild, a fighting chance?

There's so much Patia did not live to know. She points it out herself that she never found love, or became a parent, all for the sake of Avalir, for knowledge, for power. To maintain the legacy that preceded her. Excellent DMing on Brennan's part to take the quiet moment, as the sphere is sent to Maya, to then put Patia in the place of a child, one robbed of the knowledge of who her parents even were.

And yet. As she sends all she has ever known away, she still reaches for it. Almost wants it back. Almost.

Her story begins and ends with a wish: happy Replenishment, grandfather. And on that fateful day, in place of the stolen tithe she and Laerryn and Nidas have been shuffling around the city, she gives her life to save the world. and she gives away the knowledge to rebuild it.

And there's nothing else she needs to know.

IDK. I think we should talk about Patia more.

[becca-e-barnes]

I've been loving the thought of Bucky getting kind of possessive recently and honestly, it's way too hot

Because I love the thought of him dropping you onto the bed and barely giving you a second to think before his lips are back on yours and his bodyweight is pressing you into the mattress.

"Such a good girl for me." He hums between bites to your neck, letting himself take the extra few moments to ensure he's left a trail of bruises in his wake.

But he's right and you know he is. You're only a good girl for him.

One of his hands trails its way up your bare leg, starting at your knee. It moves painfully slowly, the wait making you more desperate than you thought possible in such a short space of time.

"Bucky, please." You whine, begging for more, begging him to really touch you instead of just the featherlight graze of his fingertips.

The very tip of his index finger drifts over the thin lace of your panties, admiring that they're soaked through with evidence of your arousal. "Is this all for me?" He teases, tapping gently on your clit through the slick fabric, watching your expression because touching you like that just isn't enough.

You nod but that's not the response he wants and you know it. He wants to hear you. So you indulge him.

"I'm so wet for you." You whisper, a little embarrassed but the way he kisses your shoulders reassures you.

He brings the slick tip of his finger to his lips, making sure you're watching before he lets it slip into his mouth, making a show of the way he indulges in your arousal. You hear him groan quietly before he shuffles down the bed, pulling your panties off and tossing them onto the floor.

"God, you're beautiful." He trails two fingers in gentle circles over your clit before replacing them with his mouth. His tongue flicks methodically over the most sensitive part of your body, lapping like this is all he needs. For a second, you think it might be.

Your hands find their way into his hair, desperate to pull him closer. You can't help but notice that his tongue feels so different to his fingertips, despite the fact he uses very similar motions. His tongue doesn't offer the same friction or pressure but it's a truly wonderful feeling in its own way.

Half of the excitement of this is watching the way he loses himself in the taste of you. You feel him groan against your sex, his eyes squeezed shut and you know he needs this. He needs to feel the way your body reacts to each calculated flick of his tongue. He needs to feel you come undone against his mouth and he's determined to make you do just that.

His fingertips dig into your hips and thighs, his grip matching the intensity of his mouth and everything about this feels Heavenly. You know he's going to leave you marked with little crescent shaped indentions from where he's gripped you too tightly and his blunt fingernails have bit into your flesh but part of you loves the thought of it.

"You taste beautiful. You're such a good girl." You hear him mumble, kissing the insides of your thighs, taking a second to catch his breath, his fingers taking over in his mouth's absence.

"I'm your good girl, Bucky." You whine, leaning into his touch and you feel his lips curl into a soft smile against your skin.

[misericorsalvator]

An Epitaph

Henry didn't know where he was. It was cold, freezing, but that was all he could tell, from the sharp chill that tore through his damp clothes, to the frigid air that felt like icicles in his lungs when he breathed. Even if he was someplace familiar, it would have been impossible to tell through the veil of rime in the air, the thick hoar that coated the ground. But wherever he was, he had to find shelter. soon, before his limbs grew any number that they already were and he lost the three fingers he had left on his right hand to frostbite. It took a good deal of walking, trudging through the snow, before he found something resembling sanctuary. A rocky hovel dug deep into a mountainside he hadn't even noticed was there. The crooked mountaintop loomed far overhead like a wind-swept pine tree, towering over the barren expanse and shielding the small patch of land near the cave's entrance from the worst of the snowfall. It was a narrow fit, the opening more narrow than a coffin, but it opened up into a wide chamber beyond, dark, lit only by the little light reflecting on the snow outside.

Panic stabbed at him suddenly. That chamber felt familiar, though he couldn't recall from where. The rockface of the walls was smooth, man-made, and the stalactites hanging from the domed ceiling above were unnatural, all the same length, jagged and sharpened to fine points. But he had no time to waste on the unnerving interior. The weather outside was getting worse, the wind howling like wolves on a hunt, and soon his shelter would be just as cold and dangerous as the outside. He had to think, find a way to keep the warmth in. Henry returned to the entrance. He twisted around in the narrow space as best he could and began piling up snow with his numb hands, stacking it, pressing it into shape, mouthing breathless curses to himself, until he had built a solid wall halfway up to his neck. It should last. He didn't know for how long, but at least for now, until he could catch his breath. It had to last.

Henry slumped against the wall of the cave. The barrier he had built offered some protection, but he could still feel the cold creeping in, seeping through the gaps and cracks in the snow. A damp chill gnawed at his bones, freezing the air in his lungs. He knew he had to keep moving, to do something, anything, to stay warm and awake. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Not here. Not now. But his limbs were leaden and his body creaked in protest with every movement. His teeth chattered as he tried to think, tried to remember where he was and how he had gotten there. The harder he tried, however, the more his thoughts seemed to slip away, like sand through his fingers. Panic clawed at his chest once more as he looked around the cavern. The walls seemed to close in, the smooth stone shimmering with a thin layer of rime frost. The ceiling above with the unnaturally sharp stalactites, loomed over him like a mouth full of fangs. He had to get out.

Henry pushed himself off the wall, his legs shaking beneath him. The snow was piling up faster now, further in through the entrance than the wall he had built, and he frantically began to shovel it away with his hands, trying to clear a path through the narrow gap. He shovelled harder, floundered, grappled til his fingers were too numb to move, but for every tiny hopeful opening he made, more snow took its place, as if the storm outside was determined to bury him alive. The cold was unbearable now, seeping into his very soul. Outside, the wind roared, a feral sound that echoed through the cavern and made the air thick with cold. Each breath now was a knife to the chest, each inhale burning his lungs. The snow crawled closer, blocking the entrance fully, and began to cover the cave floor inch by painful inch, forcing the hunter back step by painful step.

Henry's mind was reeling. He stumbled further into the cave, away from the encroaching cold, the bones of his legs creaking in protest. The deeper he went, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, the smooth rock pressing down, suffocating. The quiet there was unnerving, an oppressive stillness that made him painfully aware of his own laboured breathing and the pounding of his heart. The silence of the grave. For what felt like an hour, he pushed himself forward against the stone walls, cowering under the stalactites which were now low enough to graze the top of his head. No matter how far he went, the snow followed close behind, blocking the way back. Henry's movements grew slower, more sluggish, until he could no longer outrun it, and that white frost began piling up around his boots. He felt the fight leave him, his breathing weakened, his heartbeat slowed.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw it—a single snowflake, delicate and perfect, drifting down from the ceiling above. His breath caught in his throat as he watched it fall, impossibly slow, through solid rock. It glowed faintly in the dim light and Henry’s eyes followed its descent, almost hypnotized, until it landed softly on the ground. On something dark, something that wasn’t stone. He crouched down, his stiff knees cracking in protest, and wiped away the snow, his fingers brushing against a cold, unyielding surface.

A hand.

His hand.

His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at himself, at his own lifeless body, crumpled and broken, half-buried in the snow. The wounds were horrific—deep gashes and punctures that were draining the life out of him-- and the realization hit him like a sledgehammer.

This wasn't real.

The snow, the cold, it was all in his head, growing blurry as his brain ran out of oxygen. And the cavern wasn’t just familiar—it was the place he was dying, right now, in the real world. The place where his body was lying, bleeding out into the cold ground, his blood darkening the stone ground.

For a third time, panic surged through him, but it was laced with a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. The wind howled louder, and now Henry could make out voices, battle cries, screeching and yowling in twisted satisfaction. The snow now poured into the cave through the solid ceiling above, burying everything in its path. He wanted to claw his way out, to escape this nightmare, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. The snow was too thick, too heavy, pressing down on him from all sides. As his vision began to blur, the walls of the cave pulsed, breathing with a life of their own, in tandem with his own slowed breaths. The snow continued to fall, endlessly, burying him, until all he could see was white. And then, from the heart of the storm, he saw a figure—a tall, imposing silhouette that moved with unnatural grace, cutting through the blizzard as if it were nothing. Henry tried to focus, but his mind was slipping, the edges of his consciousness fraying like old cloth.

His final thoughts drifted to Bran. A deep guilt welled up inside him. He wouldn’t make it home for Christmas this year. He wouldn’t see his boy’s face light up when he opened his presents, wouldn’t hear his laughter echoing through the house. Regret gnawed at him, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. In his last moments, as the darkness closed in, Henry barely registered the sharp pain in his chest—a bite, cold and searing, as if winter itself had latched onto his heart, and his eyes froze over with unshed tears until the world faded and he breathed his last.

In a long-forgotten catacomb in Wales, as the last drop of Henry's blood soaked into the humid ground, something ancient stirred. Beneath the layers of earth and stone, within the crypt that had long been forgotten, a pair of eyes snapped open. After centuries of entombment, something awoke. The blood of the dying hunter seeped into its consciousness, filling it with the remnants of Henry's life, his memories, his regrets. And once the blood had ran dry, the ancient knight rose from his tomb, his eyes burning with a cold, unholy fire.

He tore through the killers, the blood-thirsty beasts who had chased their prey to the ancient tomb, splattering the walls with their undead blood that burnt to ash, until none were left. Then, he looked down at the broken body of the hunter who had unwittingly become his saviour. With a grim sense of purpose, the knight knelt beside Henry’s lifeless form. He whispered words in a dialect long dead, a prayer, perhaps, or a vow. Then, with a reverence reserved for fallen comrades, the knight lifted the hunter’s body and carried him deeper into the crypt, where heroes were once laid to rest, where the knight's own tomb stood, broken apart from within. The hunter was gone, his spirit entwined with the ancient knight’s own, but his legacy would live on, honoured by one of the very creatures he had once sought to destroy.

The knight sealed the tomb with a final, solemn gesture, then left the catacombs behind and stepped out into the warm summer night, into a world which had long outlived him.

[pencilofawesomeness]

Guys I'm having such a bizarre moment. I didn't expect to win like this, or to have my personal headcanons be confirmed so directly, but I also feel simultaneously robbed because Akutami is reaching into my head /jk

We received so little about Sukuna, but those brief brief brieeef moments of existentialism really caught me and I've thought about him for so long because of it. He was a fantastically terrifying villain, but there was always that dissonance there, between some of his words and actions, that portrayed that aimless longing and hurt and what that meant as a characterization point, and I'm honestly so hyped we turn around and get this in 271:

(scanlation for this panel because I think it gets the sentiment across better)

Followed by

I'm—

Y'all I started my draft for my Sukuna Reincarnation AU months ago and I never expected canon to validate me. They leave it easier and more open-ended, of course, but I'm coming on the record to say I wasn't crazy for my stretch of a character exploration and also I called it.

I won't go into the specifics of my "study Sukuna like a cockroach" notes now I just wanted to come grab the mic and announce that I beat Akutami to it >:D /lh

I'm being a good noodle and not stretching myself thin by starting a new multichap now, but I've had With the Storm in the works since January, and in light of the end of JJK and this lovely little tidbit, I'm tossing a sneak-peak from Chapter 7 because why not:

But maybe it could be. Maybe, just maybe, Uraume could accept this proffered hand and continue to hope.

---

Yet… things were different now. Things changed. Uraume changed, Sukuna changed, and even though they were still themselves, there was a myriad of shifts that piled on their shoulders until something gave way. Maybe a subconscious part of Uraume had braced for that to be a crash, but instead, Sukuna had been nothing but accepting and open. It only made them more nervous about losing him, just as they feared losing Pops. Uraume was not used to wanting, or hoping, but there was a powerful need in their chest that childishly demanded that they should get to keep both their kinder father and this happier Sukuna close, even if that may not be possible.

They nodded, not trusting their words at the moment, and Sukuna relaxed slightly.

“Good. Though that reminds me… You never really answered my first question. What do you want to do? With this life, I mean.”

There was that want again. Uraume felt the pull at their lungs until it was unbearable. They knew what he was asking; the question didn’t hinge on his involvement anymore, just them. Sukuna said he wanted to live peacefully, so what, then, was Uraume’s answer?

As much as they felt like a coward saying this, maybe that was okay. Sukuna felt the same way, after all. “I like this life too…” Uraume answered, and it was very different saying those words aloud. “Pops isn’t a shaman at all, and he’s good company and a good father. If I wasn’t able to find you, or you were not of this world, then… I would stay as his family.”

“That’s good,” Sukuna agreed, lifting yet another anxious weight from their chest. “I get that. Nobody else in my family are shamans either—at least, not really—and they’re all good people. It’s a good life, and even though I would have never expected it… I don’t want to lose it.”

It was amazing how similar they were, then and now. Uraume…really shouldn’t have worried about a lack of understanding. Sukuna didn’t have to say it, but it was clear that their thoughts had wandered down a similar road yet again. Their families, full of normal people living normal lives, were an unexpected treasure; to willingly become a monster, to become a scourge upon the world for whatever reason, would forfeit that. More than that, having people to care about made the desire to spread destruction lessen, rather significantly. Maybe that hurt and rage and bitterness was still there, in between their ribs, but in the ones that were dead and buried—a part of them, but also not quite there anymore, like when a scar ceases to constantly itch and ache and becomes only a mark on functioning skin.

They didn’t have to be monsters anymore. There were calmer, kinder things available to want—available to receive, even.

“This is so weird,” Uraume blurted, staring at their small hands and thinking of the strange miracle their lives turned into.

Sukuna barked a quick laugh before it was muffled into something like a snicker. “I know, right?” He leaned back in a stretch, his face catching the sun and lighting him in something that wasn’t a fire, but equally bright. “It’s not bad though.”

It was weird, to be a child, to be without some far-off goal, to be loved and happy, in the sense that it was absurd and foreign and absolutely unexpected. It was a breath of fresh air after years and years of having frozen lungs. Weird, surprising, but unmistakably good after so long of believing that no such term, deceptively simple, could have ever been applicable.

“Not bad at all,” Uraume agreed, a bright and blooming thing in their chest as their life began to slot into a new place. Still open-ended and perhaps a little terrifying for it, but Pops accepted them, and Sukuna accepted them, so maybe they could truly accept themself now, and whatever that will look like.

[crescentfool]

having the hc that minato is ace is incredibly funny sometimes when you think about how ryoji is oh so very bi because it's like. "ah. death stole my ability to be attracted to people," in the same way that ryoji stole minato's eye color and energy level. like wow, thanks ryoji, you just keep finding things to steal from minato!