#to valhalla we go

[darkaac]

Fin.

[thepreciouspurrsian]

Mirage Basim vs Valhalla Basim

[valhallavalgrace]

hint hint I'm currently working on an ask about Leo's powers but I did feel very inspired to do a flash-forward fanart of protective valgrace in battle ft fire powers... he'll get there, I promise

[glouris]

what I'm gonna hope for (in a very delusional way) is that eivor and havi did not just spend their last days frolicking in vinland for no reason, but were looking for a new way to send both their asses to the 21st century, find and beat basim with hammers (lovingly), and then help with the new solar flare crisis maybe.

[thou-babbling-brook]

words cannot express how mad I am that I actually really like Basim in Mirage

[theflameisgonee]

i've been thinking about a erke/stowe/eivor arranged marriage plot for two days now i'm so down bad for this ship i don't even particularly LIKE arranged marriage as a trope

[worstloki]

Loki's favorite Sabaton song?

(Can't be Swedish Pagans because that's Thor's favorite)

i don't listen to music so this is not a good question for me but also I don't think the bros would listen to stuff with heavy Christianity symbolism and the paganism would be like. a gag for them?

[tyrannuspitch]

i need to think more about asgardian religion. but i also need to sleep. but ummm thor's faith as a fundamental need vs thor's willingness to radically rebel and leave everything behind vs thor's awful tragic soul-crushing life vs loki's tendencies towards doubt and nihilism vs loki's occasional stark black and white patriotism vs loki condemning himself while thor refuses to let him go while their RELIGION apparently condemns him too..... i am rotating it all in my mind

i know it's loki who says of himself he wld go to hel even after an honourable death and he's maybe not the most reliable source, like maybe there ARE interpretations by which valhalla is not Just Point Blank Space Racist... but i am also just Intrigued by the possibility of a thor who DOES think loki is Fundamentally Damned but loves him regardless

[motherfactorin-pi-face]

Ohgod, the official Pokemon account on tunglr is about to find out that the entire Internet on one day in February 2025 just. Collectively decided that AZ (yes, AZ; 3000 years old AZ; formerly homeless man and now hotelier AZ who got reunited with his ittybitty War Veteran flower-fairy bestie; "former philosopher-king who had one hell of a mental breakdown when his ittybitty flower-fairy bestie (whom his mom gave him before she passed on) got involuntarily drafted and killed in a war using Pokemon as literal weapons that is known to have started when his brother declared war hoping to get the crown and the resources" AZ, "may in fact have resurrected aforementioned Tiny War Veteran Bestie and obliterated half of Kalos in one hell of a Woobie, Destroyer of Worlds incident via an Ultimate Weapon fueled by Forbidden Pokemon and Human Transmutation and which by what we are TOTALLY sure is Coincidence (/s) resembles the little trillium his bestie holds" AZ, "Said Literally Monumental Heckup resulted in his fairy bestie HECKING OFF FOR THE NEXT THREE MILLENIA resulting in a Completely Different Breakdown AND birthing an entire family of timelines in the Pokemon many-worlds model of physics" AZ, "subsequently abdicated the throne and became homeless via 3000 years of wandering to make up for that LITERALLY monumental heckup, including (it is implied) coming up with the idea of using the fallout from aforementioned heckkup to give the Draconid people the idea for mega-evolving Rayquaza to calm Primal Kyogre and Primal Groudon down and thus likely being involved in the development of Mega Evolution on some cultural level even if it WAS independently discovered in Kalos centuries later" AZ, "is also known to, via the same traditional cultural knowledge of the Draconid people, to have brought what is heavily implied to be a sapling of Xerneas' tree to Hoenn and planted it like Johnny Xerneas-seed--and said tree took root, and now there is a known colony of those rare trilliums at the base of that tree" AZ, "probably was actual pen pals with N's prior incarnation" AZ, "literally has Pokemon in addition to his ittybitty war-veteran bestie that are older than many COUNTRIES" AZ, "arguably the most interesting man in the Pokeverse" AZ...yeah, him) is the New Tumblr Sexyman and there is absolutely Nothing that God (Arceus), Satan (Giratina), or anyone else can Do to dissuade them

What are Tumblr’s thoughts on AZ?

[cowes]

not the 'did you fuck my mum' scene

[bladesofkyber]

get in besties, new Bear McCreary blog post just dropped

[tobythetrashytrash]

I'm finally playing Valhalla again, but since it's been a little over three years since I last played, I started from the beginning again 💪

So here's my favorite photos so far!

[rukia-writes]

Dad! Poseidon x mom! Reader

The story continues x x

Plot: Poseidon’s boy twins do everything together but now one has decided he wants to do other stuff leaving the other brother alone. So, Poseidon tries to fix their fighting.

Poseidon knew this day would come.

The day when one twin would want to go his seperate way. One twin was always more outgoing than the other, so Poseidon knew one day that relationship between the two would change.

The outgoing twin would want to go outside and play, while the other twin would want to stay inside and play games. The outgoing twin would want to see Hades in Helheim while the other twin wanted to see Zeus on mount Olympus.

Once Poseidon and (name) noticed that the Iess outgoing twin was feeling left out, which led to the current situation.

“Let go!”

“No! You let go!”

In the boys playroom, the twins were fighting over a toy. Not just any toy, it was a doll of Poseidon that they got from a popular toy store in Valhalla. Both liked the toy, and now they were fighting over who got to play with it. The two caused such a ruckus that both parents entered the playroom and separated the two.

(Name) tried to smooth things over by getting another doll of Zeus and handing it over the usually reserved twin although that didn’t work. Poseidon, offered to take the outgoing twin outside. This worked well as the small boy smiled and got stars in his eyes wanted to go outside and play fight with fake swords with his father.

This seemed to catch the other twin attention as he wiggled out of his mother grasp and held his father’s leg and wanted to go outside as well. The other twin told his brother that he couldn’t go and the continued to fight.

So, carrying both boys in his arms Poseidon took them outside to play. Which later on, Poseidon told his wife that they continued to fight.

Like any father, and a father that also had brothers he knew how fighting with siblings was a natural process.

Still, Poseidon had a plan for his son’s constant fighting.

A day at the beach.

The twins loved the beach, no matter how they felt the beach was their favorite place. (Name) could definitely tell the twins worked well better, as they made sandcastles and collected a few seashells.

“I found a pearl! I’ll give this to mommy.”

The outgoing twin held up a small pearl in victory and planned on giving the gift to (Name) but the other twin snatched the pearl from his brother’s hand.

“I found it! I’ll give it to this mommy!”

“No, I found it!”

The two began to fight once more on the calm and peaceful beach. Before (Name) could stop to the two, Poseidon had snatched both boys, one in each arm and walked off to have a little talk with them. Leaving (Name) behind with the pearl in her hand.

Looking at it carefully, it was actually a diamond.

Thinking to herself her sons had good eyes.

Away from where (Name) was standing Poseidon dropped the boys on the ground. Both landing on their butts softly, and once they looked at their father they knew they were either in trouble or they were going to get a talking to.

Which was the latter.

“What’s the problem with you two?”

The twins heard their father ask them, then both looked at each other then away with a slight pout on their face. Poseidon, knew the two would do this as he knew his sons. The two weren’t like him as a kid, so while this was new for him he still had experience with fighting siblings.

Zeus taking his toys.

Adamas accidentally breaking his weapon.

Hades …well, the two got a long rather well and the two never fought. Except, when he went to Helheim and fought all the titans by himself. Which, Hades could have died luckily he didn’t. But even that wasn’t a fight.

“Well, mommy says we should talk things out..I just wanted to be close to you brother.”

The reserved twin confessed with a little tear in his eye, making the outgoing twin smile as he hugged his reserved brother.

“But we are already close!”

Poseidon saw the two hug and decided to clarify for his son.

“He means, he felt left out.”

“Ohhh.”

It was like a light bulb went off for both boys, the reason for their fighting was one was scared that the other brother would leave him.

“I won’t leave you out anymore.”

“Good, and no more fighting.”

“No more fighting!”

Both boys cheered “No more fighting!” In unison and hugged it out. Making their father proud, as he gave a small smile.

“Good, now go tell your mother.”

Upon their return the boys and Poseidon found (Name) taking it easy on the beach with an umbrella to shade her and Proteus to fan her as she laid down on the sandy beach.

“Aww! I’m so proud of you two!”

Hugging her boys the two promised not to fight anymore and to always be there for each other. Making both parents feel happy.

Poseidon noted that while the two twins they were different and because they were different they could still work together and that made him feel proud.

Also, he thanked (Name) his wife for telling the boys to talk about their feelings. That was something Poseidon had trouble with, but was starting to come around the idea of talking it out.

Later that night, as the two parents send the boys off to bed (Name) kissed the top of their foreheads and told them how proud she was they were getting along.

“Mhmmm, no more fighting. Because I’m your favorite, right mommy?”

“…No. I’m mommy’s favorite.”

“…No, I am-“

The twins went back forth with each other as their mother tried to get a word in, once again Poseidon spoke first.

“Enough. You both agreed to not fight anymore. Besides, I am her favorite.”

“…Oh, no you’re not!”

“Yes, I am. I always have been.”

“You’re delusional.”

Both twins called their father delusional making their mother hold in her snicker as Poseidon knew for sure the twins were definitely his.

“I beg to differ, you are the delusional ones.”

The three went back and forth with their taunts until (Name) intervened and kissed their foreheads again as well as Poseidon’s forehead.

“I love all of you the same, now it’s time for bed.”

The three agreed to disagree with the outgoing twin muttering under his breath he was the favorite but Poseidon heard him and replied back with “I’m her favorite.” Which made both the twins answer with “You are delusional.” As they stuck their tongue out, which made Poseidon kiss (Name)’s cheek and told the twins good night, causing the twins to get upset.

The night was anything but peaceful, hopefully tomorrow would be better.

🍂Rukia-Writes🍂

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 12: Mount Olympus] [Series Finale]

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/medical stuff, a totally relaxing and lovely destination wedding!

Word count: 5.6k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

“So what’s your plan?” Jace asks as you peer into the tiny circular mirror of your makeup compact and manically blend out your eyeshadow, three shimmering earthen shades by NARS: Gold Rush, Ashes to Ashes, Valhalla. The flight attendants were kind enough to let you stuff yourself into your dress at the back of the plane; there wasn’t enough room in the bathroom. “You’ll wait until the priest does the whole ‘speak now or forever hold your peace’ thing and then object in front of everybody?”

That is a horrifying prospect. “I think I can catch Aegon right before the ceremony, like when he’s walking from the hotel to the beach.”

Jace checks the time on his phone, raises his eyebrows, shakes his head. Through the window, you can see that the plane is descending through cumulus clouds—cotton-ball fluffs kicked up by the trade winds that blow in from the east—and the ground is moving closer, an island of emerald green foliage and shallow turquoise seawater before the plunging abyssal drop-off of the continental shelf.

“Maybe they’ll be running late,” you say hopefully.

“If sunset is at 7 p.m. like Google said, they won’t have much wiggle room. If they’re delayed longer than five or ten minutes, they’ll be getting married in the dark.”

“We can make it,” you insist, determined to will it into reality.

“And then you’re going to...what? Tell your old, rich, terminally ill agent that he should marry you instead?”

“I don’t really know what I’m going to say.” You’ve never been much of a planner. “But I’ll convince him to stop the wedding somehow. I’ll tell him how I feel.” I’ll be honest. I’ll be real.

Jace is skeptical. “Okay. Great.”

He scrolls through his phone; now the plane is low enough for him to get cell reception. You open Spotify and put in your earbuds, stare out the small oval-shaped window, and blast Lose Yourself as loud as it goes.

Turbulence, touchdown, taxiing to the gate; when the pilot indicates it is safe to move around the cabin, you and Jace are the first passengers in the aisle. The door opens and you sprint through Providenciales International Airport, blessedly small, only one terminal and nine gates. There are a line of taxis waiting outside for tourists. You and Jace scramble into one of them, tossing your small carry-on suitcases into the trunk. You give the taxi driver the name of the resort and several crumpled twenty-dollar bills yanked from your purse so he’ll rush. As swaying palm trees and an increasingly blood orange skyline rush by beyond the car window, you check the time on your phone: 6:19 p.m.

The resort is only ten minutes from the airport, but there is a long line of taxis waiting to drop off their passengers. You and Jace get out and start running, toting your rolling suitcases. You careen into the lobby, ask an alarmed employee where the wedding venue is, and are pointed to a set of automatic sliding glass doors. They open onto the beach, a vast stretch of sand and a grove of palm trees, and then in the distance—right at the brink of the glimmering dusk waves, as if they are about to topple in—you spy a hazy sea of people in white chairs and an archway shrouded in prismatic blooms of foreign, tropical flowers.

“That’s gotta be it, right?” Jace pants, but you’re already flying over the sand dunes, pitching and wobbling in your wedges, your suitcase bumping along as you drag it behind you. The sun is vanishing and the stars are coming out, tiny freckles of silver light in a rage-and-lilac sky. Gulls swoop and circle overhead. The glittering waves creep closer towards high tide. You over-rotate your left ankle as you stumble down an embankment of sand, and an old wound wakes back up like a dragon, like a vampire, a monster that opens flesh with fangs.

You and Jace stagger up to the edge of the ceremony, and elderly, scowling guests twist around in their wooden chairs to condemn your lateness. Under the archway at the front of the congregation, an officiant is standing with the happy couple in white. Becca is wearing one of those very expensive gowns that is supposed to look effortless: lace, strapless, clinging to all the right places. Aegon is in a linen suit that fits him perfectly, but the wind has torn his hair from its gel. He is holding a microphone and smiling as he tells the story of how he and Becca met. He hasn’t seen you yet.

“What are you doing?!” Jace whispers to you. “Say you object!”

“I think that part already happened,” you say. Then you sink numbly into an empty chair and after a moment, Jace sits down beside you. The nearby guests frown disapprovingly as you both gasp for air after your futile race across shifting sand, your hair disheveled and your clothes damp with sweat, your electric yellow gown that Baela once criticized as being a prom dress, Jace’s Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants. You awkwardly shove your suitcases under your chairs. And you think, tears stinging in your eyes, ocean wind burning in your lungs: I’m too late.

“It was a charity gala in Encino. She had a date and I had a date,” Aegon is saying, and an endeared chuckle rolls through the audience. “But Becca brought one of those miniature lint rollers in her purse, and she ended up following me around all night trying to fix my suit. That really left an impression on me, how attentive she was, how naturally giving and kind. And by the time the party was over, we had somehow both abandoned our respective dates.” More laughter, more charmed, yearning sighs. I shouldn’t be here, you think; it’s not something meant for you to see. These are the phantoms of someone else’s past, they’re the bricks of a future that has nothing to do with you.

Now Becca has the microphone, and she’s talking about how she saw Aegon’s movies when she was young but she never believed she’d meet him in real life, but then she did and it was like her wildest dreams had come true because he was so handsome and funny and smart, and he filled her home with a warmth she’d never known before.

I want to leave, you think; but then Aegon spots you from where he stands under the blooming archway and he beams, the dying light radiant on his face, and gives you a little wave. Like a reflex, you smile back. What else can you do? Then Aegon’s eyes flick to Jace and he frowns and turns his attention back to Becca.

Becca is telling the guests that she and Aegon are a team, and that they are facing his diagnosis together. In reply, there are solemn nods and murmurs of admiration. Far from you, up in the front row, you spot Aemond—black suit, tidy hair despite the breeze—leaning over to whisper something to his mother, who is dabbing at her eyes with a Kleenex from a travel-sized pack. Becca is saying she is honored that Aegon chose her to be his partner at this crucial juncture in his life. She is saying that she won’t let him down.

The rings are brought forth by a lumbering, wheezing Pekingese with a small velvet pouch tied to its collar. The officiant pronounces them husband and wife. The couple kiss, Becca smiling as her long dark tresses blow in the wind, still somehow miraculously untangled and frizzless, Aegon perhaps a little sheepish, breaking the kiss first. The crowd applauds and the bride and groom are escorted away by a fleet of photographers to take pictures. The rest of you are led off to the cocktail hour, a large white tent full of tiny tables and surrounded by torches that provide beacons of flickering light as the last rays of sun vanish from the sky.

Jace orders a beer from the open bar; you get a lemon drop you barely touch. Waiters weave among the guests with trays of Caribbean hors d’oeuvres: Johnnycakes, conch fritters, jerk chicken on skewers, plantain chips with mango salsa, coconut shrimp, curried mussels. A troop of hired musicians are playing maracas, box guitars, and conga drums.

“What are we going to do now?” Jace asks.

From a corner of the tent, you’re staring vacuously at where Helaena is dancing with her children, laughing, twirling, jumping up and down. “I don’t know.”

“I mean, are you still going to try to talk to him, or...?”

“I don’t know, Jace.”

“We need a hotel for the night, so we should make reservations somewhere. And those plane tickets were roundtrip, right?”

“Yeah. We’re flying back tomorrow.”

“Because your movie starts filming on Monday.”

“It does.”

Jace whistles. “Busy weekend.”

You’re not confident you can reply without crying, so you don’t say anything.

“Well,” Jace says. “If you need anything, I’ll be over by the build-your-own-taco bar.”

You check your phone: nothing but five missed calls from your parents. They must have seen you charge the plane tickets to your credit card. You swallow noisily and then ask Jace in a miserable squeak: “Can you please make a reservation somewhere? I’ll pay you back.”

“Okay.”

“Not this resort.”

He smirks beneath somber eyes, like he pities you. “Got it.” He saunters off, then immediately returns. “Wait. The only credit card I have on me is Baela’s, and they make you show ID when you check in.”

You sigh. “Forget it. I’ll handle the reservation.” If my parents haven’t frozen my card by then.

“Cool,” Jace says, and is gone again.

You lurk in the corner Googling hotels and sipping your lemon drop, waiting for Aegon to reappear. There is a group of beautiful, influencer-type women nearby, drinking champagne and taking turns snapping photos of each other in front of an elaborate flower display and issuing stern directions: Move to the right, fix your hair, your hand looks weird when you put it there. In the center of the flowers, there is a glowing pink neon sign that reads happiness.

“Oh my God, it’s so sad,” one of the women says as she scrolls through the pictures her friends just took of her, searching for the perfect image to post.

“So sad,” the others mutter in agreement.

“Like, Becca is absolutely incredible for what she’s doing.”

“Can you imagine?” a woman in a short orange dress muses. “Sneaking around to surprise your fiancé with his-and-hers ancestry test results, freaking swabbing his cheek for DNA while he’s asleep, thinking you’re going to bond over both being part Italian or something, only to find out he’s dying?”

One of the friends looks at her a tad smugly. “Becca did tell you she was Native American.”

Orange dress lady rolls her eyes. “She’s like two percent!”

Becca breezes into the tent and is immediately descended upon by fawning wedding guests, who gush over her dress and her vows as they gulp champagne and nibble on hors d’oeuvres. From across the room her eyes meet yours—only for a moment—and she grins, incandescently triumphant. She won, in even more ways than she knows.

Where’s Aegon?

You peer around the tent; he doesn’t appear to have returned with Becca. You find all the members of Aegon’s immediate family, and you find his former clients Steve, Fatima, and Angus...but you can’t find him.

Is he still outside? Is he alone?

You watch Becca mingling with guests until she turns so that her back is to you, and then you slip out of the tent and into the night, torchlight and moonlight and the endless opaque sheen of the Atlantic Ocean. You don’t see anyone.

Where would photographers take romantic sunset wedding pictures?

Right by the water, of course. You trot down towards the waves, your wedges slipping on the sand, your left ankle throbbing. You pause to take off your wedges and carry them instead.

“Aegon?” you call, but all you hear in reply is the dull primordial roar of the ocean.

You keep walking, gingerly stepping around fractured seashells that could cut your bare feet, and then at last you find him at the water’s edge: pensive, sitting with his legs crossed and his white linen suit filthy with wet sand, chomping on a piece of Juicy Fruit.

Aegon looks over and smiles weakly. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hi.” You plop down next to him, your yellow dress billowing out around you: V-neck, voluminous tulle ruffles, a high-low hemline that stops in the front just above your knees. The air is hot, humid, threaded with distant sounds of laughter and music; the stars are getting brighter. “You know where you’re supposed to be right now, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I told Becca I needed a minute to decompress. It’s good to see you.” And then Aegon adds, a joke with something weary and aching underneath: “Although I don’t think I invited your boyfriend.”

“So guess what.”

“What?”

“Jace is actually my roommate Baela’s boyfriend.”

Aegon is taken aback; then he absorbs it and chuckles, delighted. “And that’s why he went back to your apartment after the gala. Not because you’re fucking.”

“Exactly.”

“Why’d he fly all the way out here with you?”

You shrug. “He’s bored. He’s unemployed. He misses Baela and needs a distraction. He likes free food. And we might sort of be friends now.”

Aegon nods and gazes out over the ocean; when calm waves break and bubble up over the sand, the froth covers your feet. Under the moonlight, you can see the deepening creases around his eyes, the weight that he’s lost in his cheeks, all the small ways in which he is disappearing. You wish you could touch him; you don’t know if he’d want that. “I thought I would feel relieved afterwards, like I knew I made the right decision,” Aegon says after a while. “But I just feel the same way I did when I woke up this morning.”

“How did you feel this morning?”

“Like I missed you.”

You peer down at the sand, where you have been drawing tiny stars without realizing it. “Aegon, I didn’t come to Turks and Caicos to watch you get married,” you confess. “I came here to change your mind. But I was too late.”

He looks at you, startled. “What were you going to say?”

I hadn’t decided yet, you think, but of course now you’re out of time. You take a deep breath and begin. “I was going to tell you that I have read and watched more about Huntington’s disease in the past three weeks than I’ve ever learned about anything, and there was never a second when I felt that I didn’t want to be with you through all of it.”

Aegon shakes his head and studies the waves, his blonde hair blowing in the wind, his turbulent blue eyes glistening.

“And I wouldn’t give up acting,” you continue. “I would film my movie, and I would do the promo stuff, and then I would...you know...I might slow down for a little while so I could spend time with you while you’re still...while you’re still really here. Not because you need me to, or because I feel obligated, but because I want to. You’re the only person who believed in me. I believe in you too. I believe you still have a lot of good days left. ”

Now Aegon is watching you again, his face unreadable. The low omnipresent rumble of the ocean fills every gap, every microcosm silence.

“And we could do IVF and have a healthy baby, and you’d be able to meet them, and your family and I would have them forever, and I know they’d be wonderful because you are. They’d be kind and warm and real, and the world would be better off with pieces of you in it. And when you’re dead...” Your voice breaks and you have to stop, close your eyes, collect yourself. Then you press on determinedly. “When you’re dead, Aegon, I’ll be in my thirties, I’ll be younger than you are now, and I’ll have my whole life ahead of me. So don’t think that you’re taking anything away from me because you’re not. You’re giving me the time you have left. And I could never think you’re a curse.”

Then suddenly you can read him: he has seen this vision too, he has haunted this ghost-life from corners and doorways, he has longed savagely to inhabit it. “You have to put me away somewhere when I get bad,” he says quietly. “I’ll pick a place and you’ll put me there, and you won’t visit, and you’ll protect people from me. Yourself, my family, our child.”

“I will,” you promise, not sure that you are telling the truth.

“Okay,” Aegon says.

“Okay...? What does that mean?”

“It worked. You’ve convinced me.” He smiles and takes your hand, the one that has been drawing stars in the sand. “Let’s go home.”

“But you just got married.”

“That’s not always a permanent condition, sunshine,” Aegon says, and when he kisses you the warmth of it is all-consuming, and you are home in a way you never were with anyone else, not in Minnesota, not even in Los Angeles, and this is a place that once you’ve found you can never leave. Your fingers are grasping the white linen of his suit jacket, drawing him closer, needing every minute he has left. He tastes like Juicy Fruit, sweet and bright like sunlight. His hands are gliding beneath the weightless tulle ruffles of your yellow gown.

You protest with your words, though not with your body: “Aegon, it’s your wedding night.”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your lips, your face, your throat. “It’s insane, it’s wrong, it’s impulsive, but I love you. And I don’t want to waste any time. And my dick is working right now, so...”

You laugh as you fall back onto the sand, waves nipping at your bare feet, Aegon whisking away your silk panties, positioning himself between your thighs, discovering that you are already wet; you know exactly what he’s going to do for you, you have no doubts where he will take you.

“I appreciate how easy this dress is to get under,” Aegon is purring through your windswept hair as you moan, the sand cool and soft beneath you.

“You remember the limo?”

“I remember the limo very fondly.”

You are tugging off his suit jacket and wrestling with the buttons of the shirt underneath. He is yanking the straps of your dress off your shoulders, needing to see you, to touch you, to taste the salt of the sea spray on your skin, to know for the first time that who he loves is who he’ll get to keep.

“Oh fuck,” Aegon sighs, dropping his head in defeat. “I don’t have a condom.”

“I can’t get pregnant tonight,” you tell him in a breathless rush. “I’m getting my period in like two days, I already have cramps, my uterus is useless. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

And he’s here again, grinning, euphoric, lost in you. He sees the stars you’ve drawn in the sand, then glances up at the night sky full of constellations. “Stars above, stars below,” he whispers, and kisses you deeply, his hips rocking as he eases into you—slow, kind, perfect—and neither of you are going to last long tonight, and that’s okay. You’ll have other nights. You have more time.

There is a horrified shriek and then an emptiness as Aegon pulls away from you, and you turn to see her standing on the sand: Becca with her white lace wedding gown, rings sparkling on her left hand, a long dark shock of hair that streams out behind her as gales of wind blow in off the Atlantic Ocean.

“Becca,” Aegon begins.

“You bitch!” she hisses, and then dives for you, hands clawing, teeth bared. You scream and hide behind Aegon, cowering on the sand as he stands and fixes his pants, holding up his palms to stop his wife. When she tries to skirt around him to get to you, he blocks her. “You can’t do this,” Becca tells him, and now she’s sobbing. “There are things I can look the other way for, but this, Aegon, this?! It’s our wedding. It’s our day. Send her home. Make her leave now.”

“Becca, this isn’t going to work.”

“What are you talking about?! We’re married!”

“And I thought that was the right thing to do.” Aegon’s voice is calm, patient, apologetic...but unmovable. “I really, really did. But I was wrong.”

Becca is thunderstruck. “But I’m the one you chose,” she says. “I’m the person you want to spend your last years with. You could have had anyone, but you chose me. Not her, not your family, but me. Because I’m the one you trust, I’m the one who has earned this. Because you love me more than any of the others.”

In reply, there is only Aegon’s silence, only these sounds: the ocean, the wind, the faint far-off festivities of the cocktail hour.

When Becca speaks, her voice is frail and childlike. “But I did everything right.”

“I didn’t,” Aegon says. “But I’m going to try to from here on out.”

She reels backwards, several unsteady steps in her flat sandals that glint with crystals. She touches her hands to her face, like she’s hoping it will wake her up. “This can’t be happening.”

“Becca, I am so sorry. About everything.” And in his words is the weight of every wrong he’s ever inflicted on her, the absence of everything she was denied. There is no changing the history; there are only new pages to be written. “You deserve someone who can give you what you want.”

“Fuck you,” she pitches at him, snarling through tears. “I can’t believe you. I hate you.” And then she whirls and flees: kicking up sand, weeping as she wonders what she’ll tell her friends.

Aegon exhales, collapses onto the sand, rubs his face and drags his fingers through his hair. You reach for him, a palm to his chest, bare from where you opened his shirt. Beneath your hand, his heartbeat is thunderous. “Aegon...are you alright?”

“I’m going to have a lot of uncomfortable conversations in about ten minutes,” he says. Then he turns to you, cradles the curve of your jaw, ghosts his thumbprint across your lips. “But I’d like to stay here with you until then.”

And there as the frothing star-speckled waves soak your gown and Aegon’s suit, he finishes what he started; and you finish too.

~~~~~~~~~~

Flashbulbs strobe and reporters clamor. On the red carpet, you pose for photographs with Santiago, Chloe, Dusty, and a dozen other people from the cast and crew. You wear a Versace ballgown, massive and gold and glittering. You chose your eyeshadow to match: Too Faced and Natasha Denona, Golden Light and Ray.

The film wasn’t out of post-production in time for Sundance, Berlin, or South by Southwest, but it was ready for Cannes in May, and now Tribeca at the start of June. Next will be Venice, and then Toronto, and then the long march of awards season in the fall and winter. The nationwide theatrical release will be in July. There is already Oscar buzz; film critics are writing that you are all but guaranteed a Best Actress nomination.

Reporters are shouting your name, because they know who you are now. You have a very lucrative advertising campaign with Cold Stone Creamery. You did a segment on Good Morning America where you taught the hosts how to make ice cream, giggling as they spilled sprinkles and Oreo pieces all over the floor. Your Grey’s Anatomy episode was one of the highest-rated of the season. Sometimes when you’re out and about in Los Angeles, people will ask you for autographs. When you see pictures or video clips of yourself, you are effervescent, ever-smiling; you don’t even remember doing it. It’s just what happens.

“Can you tell us what this experience has been like for you?” a cheerful correspondent from E! News asks as she holds a microphone to your glossy red lips. “Going from being completely unknown to a breakout star in just the past few months?”

���I’m so grateful for everyone who has helped me get to this point,” you say. “On this film, I got to work with people who were so passionate and genuine and kind, and it really affirmed my faith in what I’m doing with my life, and that I belong in this industry, and that so does anybody else who has a dream even if no one believes in you yet. You just have to find people who believe in you. I have a wonderful agent, her name is Kristen, and my manager Tim, and my stylist Aurora, who indulges all my super uncool ideas...I am so thankful to have a team who are working so hard every day to make this possible.”

“And I’ve heard you have a certain nickname on set, is that right?”

You chuckle and nod. “It is, yeah.”

“People you work with call you Sunshine, because of your enthusiasm and positivity!”

“My husband started that,” you say, beaming. “When we met, almost exactly a year ago. And then I guess he did it so much that other people started picking up on it.”

“Well, it certainly suits you. And your husband...he’s here tonight, isn’t he? I think I spotted him around here somewhere...um...oh yes, there he is! Hi, Aegon!”

He waves from the sidelines, butter yellow suit, sand-colored hair slicked back from his face. He walks with a cane now, because he’s getting unsteady on his feet; but you found one that makes him smile. In the spherical knob of the handle, transparently clear glass, is suspended a Mario figurine leaping up to catch a star. Brandon, who is standing with Aegon, waves too. He has been promoted from receptionist to executive personal assistant, which means that he and his boyfriend were able to purchase a house in Venice Beach. When you’re working, Brandon makes sure that Aegon doesn’t lose track of time, or forget how to get somewhere, or lose his phone or his keys or anything like that. At home in Los Angeles, Aegon is still holding on to his office in Elysian Park. When he’s feeling good—clear, bright, in control—he makes calls to help out aspiring actors he bumps into. Other times, he just plays his Nintendo 64, exercising his motor skills to keep them for as long as he can. And then when you’re free you pick him up for ice cream, or In-N-Out Burger, or lunch beside a tank of antagonistic oscars in Chinatown.

“And how do you feel about how well this film is being received?” the E! News correspondent asks. “Its rollout is just getting started, and it’s already generating so much publicity! That must be very exciting for you. I’m sure you’re being offered roles all the time now.”

“It’s such an honor, every review, every award, it shows the cast and crew who poured so much into this movie that their efforts and talents are being recognized. But you know...” You hesitate. “I think...for me personally...it’s really nice to feel like I’ve proven myself with this project, and that if I want to take some time off to spend with my husband, I have that flexibility. I can dip in and out of acting and take the roles I feel I have the bandwidth for, and know that something like this—an extremely inspiring and fulfilling but also demanding role that requires travel and long hours—is always there waiting when the time is right.”

“Of course, of course,” the woman from E! News says, her tone sympathetic. Everyone is aware of Aegon’s diagnosis, though they are usually tactful enough not to mention it outright. They also politely ignore the messy timeline: a destination wedding, a clearly unamicable split, another marriage the day after the divorce was finalized. In the aftermath of what happened on Turks and Caicos, Becca cut her hair and posted a number of angry poems on her blog with titles like The World’s Shortest Marriage and Deleted Pinterest Boards, but she recently started dating a Formula 1 driver five years her junior and she seems to be doing a lot better.

It’s time to go inside. You profusely thank the E! News correspondent and say goodbye, then Aegon joins you so you can walk into the screening together, his palm on the small of your back, you leaning into him to whisper: “Did I do okay?”

And Aegon slides his black aviator sunglasses out of his suit jacket and puts them on—You are so bright, sunshine—and smiles proudly as he kisses your cheek. You wear matching gold bands on your ring fingers, simple and subtle and etched with suns and stars.

Afterwards, you fly home to your house on Apollo Drive in a neighborhood called Mount Olympus, just west of Hollywood and east of Beverly Hills, a quick hop southeast on the 101 to Elysian Park, less than an hour from the Targaryen mansion in Malibu when traffic isn’t too bad. The house, built in the 1960s, was a relatively modest two million dollars, three bedrooms and all one story so Aegon can get around when he needs a wheelchair. He has a residential long-term care facility picked out for when he is in the late stages, and you and Aemond lie adamantly and say you’ll send him there, because that’s what Aegon wants to hear.

On the mantle above the fireplace, there is a vase full of dried sunflowers and a plethora of framed photographs from your courthouse wedding: Brandon and his boyfriend, Jace and Baela (still a bit flabbergasted that you made it after all), your new best friend Chloe, Aegon’s mother and siblings smiling, your parents shellshocked but nonetheless hell-bent on making a good impression, Tripp toasting champagne with Daeron, Clara glowering because you somehow managed to beat her to the altar. If you have the first grandchild, she might actually kill you.

Now you and Aegon are in the waiting room, early for your appointment, and a soft dreamy Red Hot Chili Peppers song called If is plucking from the Spotify playlist the receptionist has pulled up on her computer screen. You reach into your purse to get the snacks you packed, because you’re always trying to put weight on Aegon the same way he once plied you with vanilla lattes and Cherry Cokes and boneless spare ribs and cheeseburgers...and still does sometimes, when he remembers. He takes a Honeycrisp apple and feels the weight of it, marvels at the red skin striped with green and gold, recognizes the absence of a recollection, something he describes to you as a black void he falls into, chasms that open up in floors and sidewalks.

“There’s a story with these,” Aegon says.

You smile. “Yeah, there is.”

“Remind me?”

“Later.”

He grins and winks. “Not suitable for public conversation. I get it.” And he bites into the crisp sweet flesh, juice shining on his lips, and then he offers you the apple: an indelible muscle memory, a moment that still lives in him somewhere. You take a bite over the same spot, your tongue and teeth grazing the outline of him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Targaryen?” a nurse says, summoning you, and you follow her to the doctor’s office.

When you only have a few years with someone, every day is a gold rush. And so weeks ago when Aegon did his sperm collection, you went with him into the room, straddled his lap and stroked him until he finished into the plastic cup, his fingers between your legs, your lips to his ear; because when he can get hard, neither of you want to waste it. Your contribution—follicle stimulation and egg retrieval—was less pleasant. The hormones made you feel like a stranger in your own skin, sluggish and gloomy, and you were sore after the procedure. But Aegon was wonderful, ordering takeout and snuggling with you on the couch as you watched the Twilight movies together and giggled about how ridiculous they are.

He had murmured like an apology: “It’s my fault we can’t do this the way normal people do.”

“Yeah. I wish you could just come in me four times a day.”

And he had burst out laughing, because he loves the way you put things: too much honesty, effortlessly real.

Today, the doctor has results: four viable embryos, three of which tested positive for the HTT gene mutation. But one is healthy; one has broken the curse.

“What do you think?” Aegon asks you; but the hope is so bright on his face, a life he once believed was forbidden.

“I think we should do it,” you answer.

The doctor congratulates you both and slides the necessary paperwork across the desk. Aegon’s hand begins to shake as he signs his name. You reach out to steady him; he looks at you and smiles.

[caernua]

bf left to the states for a month i'm excited to go back to full tumblrina by the time he comes back

the way fresh dragon age drama sent me running back to tumblr

[sarahscribbles]

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐮𝐩, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞

𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐱 𝐟!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟒.𝟔𝐤

𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐲 @inklore

𝐋𝐨𝐤𝐢 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The God of Mischief is laughing beside you. 

It’s quiet against the happy chatter of the TV but still sends a rush of warmth straight to your heart - like taking a straight shot of Tennessee whiskey on a winter’s evening. It’s nothing like the bitter, sardonic sound he reserves for most of the team - this laughter is light and joyous and unquestionably happy.

It’s…nice, and it’s quickly becoming your favourite sound in the world. 

Much like how Loki is becoming your favourite person in the world. It’s been gradual, like the first blooming flowers of spring, and, if you’re being honest, entirely unexpected. Only a few months ago Loki was nothing more than a thorn in your side. Now, you can’t imagine your life without him. 

In a short space of time, he’s become your best friend and your confidante; he’s the first person you want to run to when you have a bad day, the first person you want to run to when you have a good day, and, steadily, he’s starting to feel like home. 

He isn’t a monster intent on destruction or a ticking time bomb ready to explode.

He’s just Loki, the man whose happiness is slowly becoming yours.

His chest bounces beneath your ear again. You have no idea what the narrator has just said, but it was evidently something that Loki found amusing, and his laughter pulls an easy smile across your face. “I love hearing you laugh,” you murmur quietly, nuzzling even further into his side. 

Maybe it’s because the man who so many people are still quick to call a villain is reclined back on your sofa with his legs stretched out on the massive ottoman, maybe it’s because he’s cradling you to his cashmere clad chest like he never wants to let you go, or maybe it’s because of the random kisses he’s been pressing to the top of your head all evening. 

Whatever it is, you’re overcome with softness for him. Behind the aloof, icy facade is a golden heart, and you’re seeing more and more of the goodness that lies within it every single day.

“Is that so? Then we should watch your little mortal box more often, darling. It’s rather endearing to hear Midgardians attempt to understand Asgard,” he reponds, mirth lighting up his voice while his fingertips trail softly along your upper arm.

He misses the fond roll of your eyes only because something else has caught his attention that he must pass comment on, and you listen enthralled while he explains the actual differences between Valhalla and Fólkvangr. You’ve both been watching this documentary on Norse mythology for over an hour, and Loki has spent a large chunk of it pointing out every wrong detail no matter how small. 

Each deep, exasperated sigh and pronounced click of his tongue has you giggling like a child beneath his arm, to which he squeezes you that little bit tighter. He’s proud of himself, and it makes you wonder if he’s actually annoyed by the portrayal of his home or if it’s all an act to make you laugh. 

With Loki, either is highly likely. 

“Do you know what amuses me, darling?” he says lightly, still trailing those elegant fingers along your arm. You expect to hear something more about what the documentary has gotten wrong, but that’s not what comes. “A few months ago, you actively despised me. Now, I believe you would climb into me if you could.” His voice is soft, leaving no room for you to doubt that he’s only teasing. 

You burrow deeper into his embrace. “I didn’t despise you,” you reply with a small smile.

His arm tightens around your shoulders again and something warm and golden blooms in the pit of your stomach. It’s too soon to call it what you know it is, but you feel the flame burn brighter with every second you spend with him.

The man you’re currently twisted around is brilliant and loving and your heart fits right in the palm of his hand. It’s safe there, you know. You trust him, even though everyone you know has warned you not to. 

It’s one of the easiest things you’ve ever done. 

Loki’s chest rumbles with laughter again. “Darling, you despised me,” he repeats, but you know he’s smiling along with you. 

You pretend to huff, but reach out to poke his side, delighting in the way he squirms beneath your tickling touch. “I didn’t! I didn’t like you, but I didn’t despise you, either,”

“That knife you threw at me in the training room after Yule begs to differ,” he shoots back seamlessly, while you force back laughter at the memory of his face frozen in shock at your expert aim. 

You shrug lightly into his chest. “Natasha told me I needed to practice more. 

“Darling, I can assure you she meant to practice on inanimate objects. 

You tilt your head back to peer up at him with a teasing smile. “You were inanimate; you were standing in the doorway.” 

Loki releases an exasperated sigh but wraps both arms tightly around you to pull you fully into his lap. “Little menace,” he replies while you pretend to squirm in his grip. It only makes him grip you tighter until you’re clamped inescapably against his chest. 

Through the rich material of his sweater, you can feel his firm chest and the taut muscles of his stomach. The man is a work of art, yet it’s you who's straddling his lap - an unremarkable mortal. 

He smiles at you as you continue to admire him, and it’s a smile that’s almost shy. “What’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours, hmm?” he asks quietly, resting his hands on your hips.

“You. Thinking about you,” you answer, watching the faint tinge of pink that colours his cheeks. 

His hands slide up from your hips only a fraction until he can dip his thumbs underneath the hem of your shirt to trace absentminded circles on your bare skin. It’s an innocent touch, but it sends something electric shooting along your spine. 

“Oh? Do elaborate, darling,” he purrs. 

Loki’s eyes are sparkling with amusement, but you can read the need for praise that’s swirling deep beneath the surface. It’s one thing you can’t deny him. 

“I was thinking about how beautiful you are,” you tell him, sliding your hands from around his neck to stroke his biceps. “And how lucky I am,” you continue. 

The muscles in his neck flex and you feel your resolve crumble to dust. It’s been calling out to you from the moment he pulled you into his lap, and you can no longer deny yourself the luxury of pressing your lips to his skin. 

Loki’s broken inhale is instant and his fingers curl tighter around your waist. Your teeth are quickly grazing along his throat while you suck a bruise into his skin. You want to mark him, to stake your claim on him. 

You want to leave no doubt that this god - this beautiful, wonderful man - is yours. 

“Darling, you need -,” he begins, but it melts to a moan when you run your tongue along his neck. “Darling,” he tries again. 

You silence him with a kiss. It’s slow and deep, and when you tangle your fingers in his hair to tug it, he rolls his hips experimentally against you. The hard length of him presses wondrously against you, coaxing your hips to grind down on top of him. Loki’s breath catches in his throat while he kisses you, and you know what’s coming before he even opens his mouth. 

“Darling, anymore of that and -,” 

“I’m ready,” you interrupt him, cupping his face in your hands. “I’m ready.” 

His eyes soften as they take you in, scanning your face for even a breath of hesitation. “Are you sure?” he asks, while his thumbs return to stroking your sides. 

“Yes,” you answer firmly, resting your forehead against his. “No more waiting. Please.” 

In one smooth movement, his arms are wrapping around your middle to press you tightly against him. One strong hand weaves its way into your hair while his lips find yours again. There’s a new hunger to his kiss - it’s raw and possessive and filled with a need that has been simmering beneath the surface for months. 

You expect him to flip you onto your back and finally make you his right here on the sofa, but his hands eagerly begin to run down your back and grip beneath your thighs. Suddenly, he’s on his feet and your legs are locking around his waist. You can’t help but giggle against his lips, because he’s not letting you break this kiss even for a second. 

“Beautiful thing,” he whispers into your mouth, effortlessly carrying you from your living area and down the hallway toward your bedroom. 

The Norse mythology documentary is long forgotten. 

His lips stay locked to yours until your back hits the bedroom door, and only then does he break away to curse as he fumbles with the handle. You laugh quietly - because for some reason it’s oddly endearing - and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. 

Loki wastes no time in kicking the door closed when you’re finally through. Vaguely, you notice a faint green shimmer cascade over the wood as it settles in the doorframe, but it’s pushed from your mind by the frenzy of kisses that Loki is pressing to every inch of your face. 

“Do you know,” he murmurs, trailing a haphazard line of kisses along your cheeks, “how long I’ve wanted this? Wanted you?”

His admission fans the flames of desire burning fiercely in your stomach. How have you lasted so long without inviting him into your bed? How have you not had this man again and again until his name is seared into your soul? How have you not realised how fiercely he burns for you too?

“Then take me. Please,” you murmur against his lips. 

His answering smile is soft and gives you another swift kiss. “Begging won’t be necessary, darling.” 

With surprising gentleness, he lays you on the bed amongst your pile of pillows. Your legs fall open instantly for him, to which he quickly climbs between. There’s a hesitance to his movements, almost as if he’s scared to lay a finger on you. 

“I’m not going to break,” you say with a smirk. “You can touch me. I need you to touch me, Loki.” 

Your hands find the hem of his sweater, coaxing it along his back until he’s helping you pull it off. You’ve seen him shirtless before - many times - but your fingers still reach hungrily for his chest. Loki shivers beneath your touch and pride blooms happily in your stomach. 

An unremarkable mortal you may be, but you have a god shivering beneath your fingers. 

Slowly, his hands slip underneath your shirt, and cool fingers glide along your stomach to push it over your head. His eyes travel appreciatively over you before settling on your breasts. 

“Enchanting, beautiful thing,” he says, leaning to press his lips to your neck. 

The reverence in his voice has a rush of heat pulse between your thighs while you grasp his strong shoulders. Too many times, previous lovers have made you feel like you were nothing more than an object, something that was conveniently there for them to fuck. 

Not with Loki, though. The man has barely undressed you and he’s treating you like the most precious thing his hands have ever held. 

Boldly, you reach for his belt, shooting him a suggestive smirk while you unfasten it. He lets you work, diving in for another blistering kiss as you undo the button and open the zipper. The taste of him on your tongue and the feel of him beneath your fingers is electrifying, and there’s a newfound urgency in your movements as you try to push his jeans off. 

After a few strategic tugs they slide over his hips, granting you the freedom to run your hands greedily over the firm swell of his ass. You can’t help but moan shamelessly into his mouth while simultaneously squeezing him with both hands. He’s a work of art beneath your appreciative fingertips. 

Something close to a growl rises from Loki’s chest and he gently nips at your bottom lip with his teeth. “Are you trying to seduce me?” he purrs lightly. 

Grinning, you squeeze his ass again. “It’s been my evil plan all along.” 

“Ah! I’ve been bested by a beautiful little devil!” he teases and lowers his lips back to your neck. 

His kisses are slow and deliberate and punctuated by the occasional nip of his teeth. You know what he’s doing; you know that every mark he’ll place on you tonight is a claim, a message to anyone who looks that he’s finally made you his.

The molten beast of arousal burns fiercer between your thighs. You hope and pray that you’ll be covered in his marks tomorrow. You want everyone to know that you belong to him.

Loki interlocks the fingers of one hand with yours, all while slowly trailing a path of kisses along your chest and down your stomach. It’s silent adoration - a god worshipping his mortal - and he only stops when his lips meet the waistband of your leggings. You feel him hesitate, feel him run the pad of his thumb across the material while he lifts his eyes to yours.

It only takes you a second to realise he’s asking for permission. 

You nod quickly and breathe out a quiet “yes.” 

Loki presses a final kiss to your stomach and gently squeezes your hand. He lets go to hook both sets of fingers into your leggings, taking great care not to jostle you around while he tugs them - along with your underwear - easily down your legs. You’re suddenly bare before him and, stupidly, you feel a rush of nervousness pulse through you. This man has slept with gods and goddesses and beings more beautiful than you can even imagine. 

How can you compare?

Glittering green eyes travel hungrily over you. The earlier softness is still shining there clear as day, but now it’s swirling and mixing openly with undisguised lust. It causes a gentle heat to burn beneath your skin and, almost subconsciously, you attempt to cover yourself. 

But Loki is having none of it. 

His hands reach to clasp yours and he folds your fingers easily between his, pinning your arms to the mattress. “You are the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on,” he says slowly, making sure you hear every word. 

“Are you trying to seduce me?” you repeat his question back to him, though even you can hear the shakiness of your own voice. 

Loki’s answering smile is infectiously boyish. “Is it working?” 

He can likely hear your heart thundering in your chest, but you still reply with, “maybe. I’m not sure yet.” 

“Hmm, perhaps I need to try a little harder?” he says, still grinning impishly.

His hands slide to gently grip your wrists so he can guide your arms around his neck. It’s such a simple gesture, but it makes your heart swell in your chest because he trusts you enough to touch him. You hum contentedly and tangle your hands loosely in his hair, twisting silky strands around your fingertips as he drops his lips back to your chest.

His kisses are slower now and the warmth of his lips lingers like a dream against your skin. It’s as though he finds his pleasure from simply kissing you, like that alone is enough to send him freefalling into bliss. It’s a heady thought that has your back arching, greedily searching for more of him or maybe offering up more of yourself. 

You aren’t entirely sure. 

Loki’s lips travel lower in tandem with his hands that are curled around your middle. His touch is so intoxicating, so wonderfully addictive that you can’t stop the quiet whimper that slips from between your lips. You feel him smile against the skin of your lower stomach, feel his thumbs trace tiny circles against your hipbones, and when he hovers just millimeters from your cunt, you automatically hold your breath. 

When nothing happens you flick your eyes questioningly down to his. 

Loki is gazing at you with desire storming in his eyes, so much so that they’re almost completely black. He looks like a man starved and doesn’t break his gaze from yours as he bends his head to lick a firm, slow stripe along the length of your cunt. Electricity crackles almost joyously through your blood, setting every inch of you aflame and pulling a shameless moan from the depths of your throat. 

Through the haze of your desire, you feel Loki gently squeeze your hips. “Ok?” he asks quietly. 

The laugh you release is short and strangled. “Y-yes! God, yes!” 

A wolfish smile curls across his face. You watch transfixed as he dips back between your thighs, never tearing his eyes from yours as he buries his tongue in your cunt. A volcano of pleasure erupts in your core, twisting through every inch of you with each skillful flick of his tongue. You groan, you whimper, you grip Loki’s curls so tightly that you’re surprised he isn’t howling from the pain. 

“Ugh…fuck!” you groan when he slips his hands beneath your ass to pull you closer. 

His mouth is warm and wet and talented - god, it’s talented - and when his tongue begins to lap over your clit you can’t help but buck and grind against his face. You feel him hum appreciatively against your cunt, and he swirls his tongue firmly over your swollen clit once, twice more. 

“Loki!” you whimper. “Fuck, Loki, keep doing that! Please!” 

He’s only too happy to grant your request. His tongue traces swirls and patterns endlessly against your clit. It’s just enough pressure and just the right rhythm that the coil in your stomach quickly begins to wind tight. Every expert flick and swirl of Loki’s tongue is like diesel to a flame, setting your core alight until you’re completely engulfed by him.

If you died right now, you would greet death happily. 

Loki continues to lap at your cunt like a man starved, and when your back arches off the bed, he slips his hands further beneath your back to clamp you firmly against his warm mouth. It’s pleasure like you’ve never experienced - white hot and all consuming - and before long you’re balancing beautifully on the edge. 

“Loki…Loki, please…I’m…m’ gonna come!” you say, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea. 

The first tendrils of your release are licking through your core and each tiny cry that passes from your lips only encourages the god between your legs. The warm wetness of his tongue laps perfectly at your clit, making stars begin to dance at the edge of your vision, but when he moans against you - a deep, satisfied rumble of sound - you know you’re gone. 

Your orgasm engulfs you suddenly and without warning. The force of it sends your eyes rolling in your head and your hands tangling in Loki’s hair like a vice. His name leaves your lips in a scream to the heavens, and his head doesn’t stop bobbing between your legs until you’re panting and boneless on top of the mattress. 

Amidst the lavender haze that has settled around you like a favourite blanket, you feel Loki press a soft kiss to your still sensitive clit. It makes you jolt and pulls a strangled sound from deep in your throat, but then his thumbs are drawing lazy circles over your hip bones. 

I’m here. 

His lips begin a slow path from between your thighs, pressing gently and haphazardly along your stomach and between the valley of your breasts. He kisses across your collarbone and dips below your chin, making sure not to miss even an inch of your throat. 

Never in your life have you felt more desired.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs before his lips find yours. "Worthy of the gods.” He kisses you deeply and the taste of you is still heavy on his tongue. It’s electrifying and only serves to reignite the flames of arousal that he’s only just quenched. 

You can’t help but giggle against his lips and reluctantly break his kiss. “The only god I want is you,” you say quietly, cupping his face in your hands. 

He gazes down at you silently, looking as though you’ve just placed the secrets of the universe in his hands. It’s both endearing and heartbreaking - that he’s struggling to believe he’s the one you want - and it fills you with a renewed purpose to ensure this man never goes to sleep feeling unwanted. 

You tug him back down until his lips are back on yours. His kiss is slower this time, languid, as though he wishes to use every last second to commit the taste of you to heart. 

A god drunk on the taste of his mortal. 

“Touch me. Please,” he rasps, breaking from your lips for only a second. 

It’s a plea you’re only too happy to answer. Slowly - because you want to enjoy every last inch of this man - you slide your hands from where they’ve been resting on his biceps. You marvel at the broadness of his shoulders and drink in the smooth expanse of his muscled back. Lightly, you trace your fingertips along the hollow of his spine, delighting in how he shivers beneath your touch.

But it’s nothing compared to the deep, appreciative moan that tumbles from his lips when your hands once again squeeze the smooth swell of his ass. 

You laugh into his mouth and rest your arms back across his shoulders. “You are so beautiful,” you whisper, raising a hand to brush some stray curls behind his ear.

He catches your wrist before it can rest your hand back on his shoulder and presses a kiss to the centre of your palm. “You, my dove, are a treasure amongst mortals,” he says softly, all while positioning himself between your welcoming thighs. His forehead finds yours at the same time his cock nudges teasingly against you. “Let me pleasure you, darling, please. Let me give you every part of me.” 

Easily, you wrap your legs around his waist where they fit like a missing puzzle piece. “If you don’t, I’ll be very upset,” you tease him. 

He grins widely so widely at you that the corners of his eyes crinkle endearingly. “Well, we certainly can’t have that,” he replies, and slowly, you feel him begin to ease into you. 

You inhale deeply as the blunt head of his cock slips inside you. It’s barely anything at all but already your head is rolling back on the pillow and your eyes are slipping shut. You knew Loki would feel good, but nothing could have prepared you for just how good. 

You want to lose yourself in the feel of his body in yours, but before you can even draw breath two cool fingers are on your chin, encouraging you to tilt your head forward. 

“Keep your eyes on me, my darling,” he commands softly and you instantly snap them open. “Good girl.” 

His eyes don’t leave yours as he eases himself fully inside you, giving you all the time you need to adjust. He’s big, and every added inch has you clenching joyously around him if only to hear the groans that spill from him each time you do. 

“Fuck,” he groans, dipping his head between his shoulders when you clench particularly hard. “Little vixen. Beautiful little menace,” he continues, dropping haphazard kisses to your cheeks and chin. 

When you can take no more of him he coaxes your hand from where it’s been clamped to his shoulder, clutching it tightly in his own as though he fears you’ll melt beneath the cotton sheets. 

You can’t stop the small smile that tugs at your lips. “I’m not going anywhere. I promise,” you assure him, giving his hand a squeeze. 

A quiet puff of laughter escapes him and he dips his head. You see the sheepish look that settles across his handsome face and your heart swells for him, for this man who has known more loss than many would deem fair. 

You’ve barely left his side these past few months, but still he fears that he’ll lose you. 

“I know,” he answers softly, sounding unmistakably embarrassed. “Forgive me. Sometimes…sometimes I still struggle to believe that someone like you chose someone like me.”

Your free hand is instantly cupping his cheek and your thumb is caressing his flushed skin. Does he know that you feel the exact same way? “I will always choose you,” you tell him firmly. 

He hasn’t even been yours for a year, but you know with unwavering certainty that you would follow this man to the ends of the earth and beyond. 

Loki presses his cheek into your palm and leans in to steal another chaste kiss from your lips. “My darling mortal,” he murmurs with a roll of his hips that has you groan. “My beautiful girl.” 

You can’t look away as he expertly begins to build you up. You’re lost to the pretty gleam of his green eyes as they hold yours and how stray strands of ink black hair fall to frame his face; lost to the way his jaw falls slack when you roll your hips to meet his and clench around his cock; lost to how your name falls like spring rain from his lips, like it’s the only word he’ll ever need to know. 

The edge crests like a wave in your core within minutes, each ripple making you dig your heels into his ass in a desperate attempt to pull him closer, deeper. Your climax is bubbling white hot in the pit of your stomach, promising to drown you in pleasure like you’ve never known if you can just tip over the edge. 

“Loki…,” you cry, twisting a hand into his hair for leverage. “Loki…I’m ready…please!”

His hands grips yours like a vice. “Look at me,” he pleads, and your eyes quickly settle back on his. “Cum for me, my darling.” 

With five words, you go soaring off the edge. 

Your orgasm rips through you like a storm, each blinding wave of pleasure submerging you deeper until tiny white stars begin to dance at the edges of your vision. It’s all consuming and so powerful that it robs you of almost all your senses, though you’re vaguely aware of Loki burying his face in your neck as his own climax pulls him under. 

He’s ruined you for anyone else. 

As the final ripples of your release fade in the aftermath, you can hear Loki panting in your ear. You untangle your hand from his hair to stroke it and turn your head to press a light kiss to his temple. 

“Fuck,” you breathe out. It’s all you're capable of saying as you lie boneless on the bed, still basking in the warm afterglow of your orgasm. 

“Fuck.” Loki echoes, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him. 

You burrow happily into his side and feel him drape an arm around your shoulders. His heartbeat is still thundering beneath your ear - something that makes pride blossom in your stomach. 

“Darling?” Loki speaks up after only a minute of silence. 

“Hmm?” you hum back, excitement already beginning to fizz between your legs. 

“I’d like to do that again…if you don’t mind.”