#Tranquil hideaway

[raginispa-0565693279]

In the bustling city of Sharjah, amidst the fast-paced life, lies an oasis of tranquility and rejuvenation – the Sharjah spas. If you’re in search of a serene escape from the daily grind and want to experience the epitome of relaxation, look no further. This ultimate guide will take you on a journey through the world of spa bliss in Sharjah, with a special focus on the delightful offerings of Ragini spa.

[kaustubh-wankhede]

Embark on an enchanting journey with our curated list of the Top Romantic Beach Resorts in Sri Lanka. Indulge in idyllic sunsets, pristine shores, and unparalleled luxury. Each resort offers a unique blend of romance and relaxation, from secluded hideaways to opulent retreats. Immerse yourself in the soothing waves, savour delectable cuisine, and create lasting memories with your loved one. Explore the magic of Sri Lanka's coastal paradise, where love meets the gentle caress of the ocean.

[duncanrawlinson]

Tranquil Hideaway https://bit.ly/3wYyLvL

[viridescentelf]

In your debt

Young druid Halsin x Reader

Ever since I saw the young Halsin art above by @ozumii-fucking-wizard, I have been obsessively staring at his gorgeous damn face (thank you so much for this version of him, I am hopelessly in looooooove)!

Enjoy young Halsin healing you~

Part 2

Warning: Blood, Violence, Swearing

-----

You ventured through the forest, wanting to escape the loud bustle of the city. Carrying your heavy instrument on your back, you strode through the man-made trail into the thicket, to your usual spot you decided was your permanent hideaway.

You knew the forest was home to a druidic group, who adopted young lost children. You never encountered any druids on your many trips here, but you knew they were aware of you: sometimes you found some foraged fruit and vegetables at your spot, packaged neatly with strings or in small sacks. Someone left you these gifts. You assumed they liked your music, since you often came into the woods to practice some new songs you were crafting. You weren’t sure if the children were this fond of you or if it was some druid who kept leaving trinkets. It didn’t matter really, you were grateful nonetheless.

Today, you hadn’t found anything left for you. This wasn’t too unusual; you never ventured here expecting to receive anything. You let the strand of your instrument slide down your arm, placing it next to your seat by the large oak. It was clear this spot wasn’t really used by others, the print of you sitting in the dirt only really matched yours. It always seemed undisturbed, like you left it, with the occasional gifted sack placed there.

You gazed at the lake, where fireflies danced happily over the dawn lit water. It was another pleasant morning and you took a deep breath, enjoying the lovely fresh air you rarely got to inhale. Baldur’s Gate was lively and exciting, but you were always drawn back to this place.

You started plucking the strands of your lute, absentmindedly, taking in the sunrise as the rays warmed your face. You felt the trees sway with your music, as if they were welcoming you back. The forest seemed more alive here and had a distinct personality. Childlike glee vibrated through the branches. The tranquility of this area made you sink back into the tree, leaning against its strong body.

Something boomed in the distance. You sat up with a jolt. Normally, the only sounds you heard here were twigs breaking or the wind whizzing through the glade. You looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise.

Another blast. This time, there was shouting that followed. Some sounded panicked, some aggressive.

You got to your feet, frantically, staring into the distance where you thought the brutal noises were ebbing from. There were screams now. And they sounded young.

Without really thinking, you started sprinting towards the cries. Clutching your lute in one hand at your side to keep it from knocking your hip, you darted through the brush. There were children screaming and wailing, getting louder and louder the faster you ran towards them. A loud, ugly voice was yelling at them.

There were other more distant shock waves bellowing: an ambush? Were the druids under attack?

You heard the angry voice thunder in front of you, as you slid behind a birch tree.

“Move it, you little shits! Or I’ll cut yer hands off!”, a goblin with a bloody handprint across his face snarled at a group of mixed children, who were huddled together, sniveling and trembling uncontrollably. He pointed a curved, dirty blade at their backs, as they sheepishly shuffled along.

“Can’t we just kill them and drag their corpses? They’re so fucking slow…” Another smaller goblin groaned, walking in front of the hostages.

“No, the drows say they need new slaves. We need ‘em alive,” he pushed a small tiefling in front of him, who let out a terrified shriek, “Faster! Before the stinkin’ druids catch up.”

They passed the birch tree, which was rooted opposite a cliffside. The rapids below reverberated up, making it hard to hear clearly.

Goblins were attacking the druids, the far sounds of crashing and clanging meant a fierce battle was commencing.

“They won’t be able to hold them back much longer, Izick,” the short goblin at the front was standing close to your hiding spot. You peered through the branches and saw the poor souls quivering wildly. Their faces were cut and stained with blood. You deduced whoever was watching over them had been murdered in front of them.

You weren’t a fighter. But you couldn’t let them take the children.

The small goblin turned to face the group; his back facing the tree. You grasped your lute hard, making the skin around it paler. You took a deep breath, preparing yourself for guaranteed pain.

This was an expensive instrument, too.

You pounced out of the woods into the clearing and slammed the lute onto the head of the unassuming goblin. It broke over his fat head, but the velocity had done its job. He fell to the side with a loud thud, letting out a last, gurgled groan. You kept hitting him with the remaining pieces of your improvised weapon, making sure he was dead. The blood pooled around him.

Izick was already running towards you, having pummeled through the victims without care, who all fell to the ground and held their heads to the dirt, whimpering and horrified.

You dodged the first swing of his blade, but knew instantly this wasn’t a fight you could win. You had nothing to fight with, except your fists, and you dared not get close to him as she flourished his disgusting weapon.

The goblin roared as he jumped towards you. You collided and felt a scorching pain in your stomach. He had gotten you, deep in your belly. You screamed. You both fell to the ground near the edge of the cliff. The goblin tried to pull the blade back out while he sat on top of you, but it was stuck. Izick cursed at you, although no insult really reached your ears. Your entire body centered around the searing wound in your abdomen.

The children were petrified. You saw the tears roll down their faces as they watched the pathetic scuffle. If you failed, they would suffer endlessly. You couldn’t allow him to kill you, before you saved them.

He lifted his fists to pummel you. His face was etched with determination, he would beat you to death if he had to.

Your arm moved instinctively. You grabbed his collar, before his fists met your face, and leaned your entire body weight to the side, where the roaring river called to you. It was the only way.

You felt the wind whistle past your ears as you fell with the goblin in your grasp to the depths. You both crashed into the icy water and you felt him drift away, as the muffling water slowed everything. Your body was being pulled to the side, the current dragging you uncaringly down the river. It pulled you violently from one side to the other, not tiring of its new toy, pushing you up and down like a ball. Weightless, you floated and let it take control, unable to do anything else.

Your thoughts silenced. The cold of your surroundings embraced you and you had no strength to resist. The pulsating pain from the blade kept you awake, barely.

After a while, you felt yourself bob up, your head bracing the surface. The sudden blaring of the river crashed into your ears as you gasped for air. Your eyes blurred. The water seemed to settle into a lazy tempo. You didn’t know how, but you kept your head above water. You saw red puddles waft after you.

The current carried you to a small bank, discarding you there as it continued on. You lay on the muddy earth, motionless, staring at the piercing blue sky that seemed to beckon you towards it. The blade still stuck out of you, you saw it move up and down as you breathed shakily. You couldn’t keep your eyes open much longer.

Your heavy lids fell, darkening everything. The pain slowly left, too.

You were dying. And you were accepting it.

Before the complete darkness, you felt tiny hands pressing on your aching belly. That spot felt warm and kind, as the last of your wits evaded you.

Quiet. Emptiness. Nothing.

Halsin’s lips clasped yours, as he breathed into your mouth, holding your nose. The moss on your puncture was absorbing the excess blood. The vile blade lay discarded to the side, already carefully pulled from you.

You convulsed and coughed out, life filling your face first and then gradually seeping into your weak limbs.

You blinked hard and opened your weary eyes.

Halsin met your gaze and placed a hand on your cheek, as his other etched glyphs into the air.

“You’re going to be alright…”, he said softly, as a green mist appeared suddenly from his hand, which he lowered down to your injury.

“Breathe…”, he commanded gently. You obeyed and took a shaky breath. Your body felt heavy. Even breathing was difficult.

You felt his hand pressing on your abdomen. Whatever he was doing, the agony was quieting because of it slowly. You watched him as he attended to your mortal wound.

He was beautiful. A few braided pieces of his long, honey hair fell effortlessly next to his face. The jade eyes were focused, but there was an air of kindness about them. You squinted at the embroidery on his attire. This was one of the druids.  He looked young, but the elf ears suggested he might be older than he appeared.

You attempted to speak, but could only let out feeble coughs.

“Don’t speak. This will take a bit to close up”, he looked down at you and smiled kindly. You blinked as a response, taking another deep breath as you felt the pain flee your body.

There was a brief silence, the only sound was the hypnotic whirring of his enchantments.

“You did something truly courageous back there. The children told me. They recognized you, the singer in the woods…they often spoke about you at bedtime”, he chuckled briefly, “Didn’t expect I’d meet you under these circumstances.”

You watched him, as he seemed to reminisce fondly. So, it was the children who left you gifts at your spot?

His other hand swished and another cloud of green wafted out of it. He placed that hand next to the other on your stomach.

“I am in your debt. You saved the little ones, when they were not your burden. Truly, you’re a real hero.”  

You didn’t know how to respond. You were also more than confused as to how he found you so quickly. You felt like you had been drifting in that river forever. And the druids lived deep within the forest.

Who in the Hells was this elf anyway?

“You are exceedingly lucky. Thaniel found you and tended to you before I made it here.”

You raised an eyebrow, coughing again.

“Oh, haha. Thaniel is the forest spirit here. He seems quite fond of you.”

A forest spirit? Your exhausted brain couldn’t process that thought. You couldn’t really contest the idea either.

The druid lifted his hands briefly, checking how far along the healing process was. Deciding it needed more time, he repositioned his palms. You observed him for a while in silence as he concentrated on the regeneration of your tissue. He was huge. You felt like a child next to him.

“Wh-who are you…” you croaked out faintly.

He turned to you, his eyes softening with a calm smile.

“I’m Halsin,” he put one hand on your shoulder to keep you down, as you tried to sit up at the response. It didn’t take much strength to keep you there. He smiled more widely, then turned his attention back to his task.

Halsin. You had heard that name before. Whispered by folk in the area, he was famous for his incredible healing abilities and knack for getting captured. You only knew one druid by name and that was him. A druidic protégé, yes. A fierce warrior, yes. But a bit different. People in town talked about the impulsiveness of the young druid, which caused the other, older druids to scratch their heads in frustration at his unpredictability. And that‘s who was healing you right now?!

Gods, you never imagined he’d be this dreamy.

You were probably dreaming. No, you were dead. Definitely.

No being was this beautiful.

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

... hideaway ...

[satellite-evans]

Not Again

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x reader

Summary: This time it is another sibling that interrupts benedict and Y/N during a private moment

Word count: 1.3k

Warnings: fluff, teasing, kissing

A/N:

This is the second part to Caught in the Act, I hope you all enjoy

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, recommendations, vents or questions are always welcome. I love talking to you guys about anything <3

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

You and Benedict decided to escape the bustle of the Bridgerton household by taking a leisurely stroll through the estate's expansive gardens. The fresh air and vibrant colors of the blooming flowers provided a sense of calmness.

The garden was one of your favorite places, a sanctuary where you could lose yourselves in the beauty of nature and each other’s company. The scent of roses and lavender wafted through the air, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves and made the flowers dance. The gravel path crunched softly underfoot as you walked hand in hand, Benedict's thumb drawing soothing circles on the back of your hand.

Benedict glanced over at you, a playful glint in his eyes. "You know, we could always hide out in the gazebo. It's secluded and peaceful."

You smiled, feeling a sense of adventure bubble up inside you. "Lead the way, Mr. Bridgerton."

The gazebo was nestled at the far end of the garden, surrounded by tall hedges and flowering shrubs. It was a charming, ivy-covered structure with a white lattice roof, offering a perfect hideaway from the world. As you approached, you felt a sense of calm wash over you, admiring how beautiful it looked.

As soon as you reached the gazebo, Benedict pulled you into his arms, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss. The world around you seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble. The soft murmurs of the garden, the chirping of birds, and the distant hum of bees created a natural symphony that seemed to celebrate your love.

"Benedict," you murmured against his lips, "someone might see us."

"Let them," he whispered back, his hands roaming your back. "I don't care."

In that moment, nothing else mattered. Benedict's touch was both gentle and possessive, pulling you closer as if he wanted to convey his love and desire through the embrace alone. His lips moved with a hunger that matched your own, igniting a fire that had been smoldering between you all day.

Lost in the intoxicating mix of passion and affection, you allowed yourself to melt into him, your hands finding their way to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. Every touch, every kiss felt like an affirmation of the deep connection you shared, a bond that transcended any embarrassment or interruption.

But just as the intensity of the moment peaked, the tranquility of the garden was shattered by the sound of approaching footsteps. You both jumped apart, hearts racing, turning to see none other than Anthony Bridgerton standing at the entrance of the gazebo, his arms crossed and an amused expression on his face.

"Well, well, well," Anthony drawled, his eyebrow raised. "What do we have here?"

You felt your face heat up with embarrassment. "Anthony, we were just—"

"Just what?" he interrupted, his tone teasing. "Enjoying a private moment in the middle of the garden where anyone could walk by?"

Benedict sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Anthony, do you ever knock before entering? Honestly, it's becoming a family habit."

Anthony chuckled, shaking his head. "Not for family. Besides, it's not every day I catch my brother in such a compromising position."

You buried your face in your hands, feeling utterly mortified. The humiliation of being caught again by a Bridgerton sibling was almost too much to bear. Benedict, on the other hand, looked more annoyed than embarrassed. "What do you want, Anthony?"

"I was looking for you," Anthony replied, his tone becoming more serious. "Mother wants to discuss the arrangements for the upcoming ball, and she insists on having everyone's input."

Benedict sighed again, clearly reluctant to leave your side. "Fine, we'll be there in a minute."

Anthony nodded, his expression softening slightly. "Don't take too long. You know how Mother gets when we're late."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you and Benedict alone once more. You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration.

"I swear, this family has a knack for showing up at the most inconvenient times," Benedict muttered, pulling you back into his arms.

You couldn't help but laugh, but it was a strained sound, reflecting your inner turmoil. "I suppose that's part of the charm of being a Bridgerton," you said, though your voice wavered slightly.

As the reality of the situation settled in, your amusement faded, replaced by a sense of vulnerability. "I can't believe we were caught again. First Eloise, now Anthony. It's so embarrassing, Benedict."

Benedict cupped your face gently, his thumbs brushing away the tears that had begun to form. "I'm so sorry, my love. I never meant for this to happen. I just wanted to spend some private time with you."

You nodded, appreciating his sincerity. "I know, and I love that about you. But you have to admit, this is partly your fault."

Benedict's eyes widened in mock indignation. "My fault? How is this my fault?"

You managed a small, teasing smile. "You're the one who insists on these secret rendezvous in places where your siblings have a habit of showing up unannounced. Maybe next time we should pick somewhere a bit more secluded?"

Benedict laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Point taken. Next time, I promise to choose a better location."

You leaned into his touch, feeling the tension dissipate. "Good. Because as much as I love our little adventures, I'd prefer them without an audience."

Benedict pressed a kiss to your forehead, his voice filled with affection. "Deal. No more surprise appearances by the Bridgertons."

As you approached the grand entrance, laughter from inside reached your ears, mingling with the clinking of glasses and the sound of light chatter. You exchanged a glance with Benedict, both of you sharing a quiet moment of relief that the embarrassing interruption in the garden was behind you.

Just as you were about to step inside, a familiar voice rang out from the doorway. "Well, well, well! What do have we here?"

You froze, turning to see Eloise Bridgerton leaning against the doorframe, a mischievous grin lighting up her face. Benedict sighed beside you, clearly resigned to yet another round of teasing from his ever-curious sister.

"Eloise," Benedict began, his tone a mixture of exasperation and amusement, "please tell me you're not going to make this any worse."

Eloise chuckled, stepping forward to block your path into the house. "Oh, I wouldn't dream of it. But I am guessing that the reason the both are you are so flushed is not because the two of you went running."

Your cheeks flushed pink, and you shot Benedict a playful glare. "Anthony told you?"

Eloise nodded, her grin widening. "No, but I am guessing what he witnessed is not much different from what I had a couple of weeks ago. Do tell dear brother and sister, do you both have a knack for getting caught in compromising positions?"

Benedict rolled his eyes good-naturedly, though a hint of embarrassment lingered in his expression. "Could we perhaps continue this conversation inside or never?"

"Of course," Eloise replied, stepping aside to let you both pass. As you entered the house, she fell into step beside you, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know, you're lucky it was Anthony who found you and not one of us younger ones. Gregory would have never let you live it down and Hyacinth would just keep asking questions."

You chuckled softly, feeling a sense of camaraderie despite the teasing. "I can only imagine."

Benedict shot his sister a pointed look as you reached the drawing-room door. "Eloise, I hope this doesn't become a family story."

She raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "Oh, but Benedict, stories like this are what make family gatherings so entertaining."

You exchanged a knowing glance with Benedict, silently acknowledging the truth in Eloise's words. Despite the embarrassment of being caught, there was a certain charm in the way the Bridgeton's teased and supported each other, weaving a tapestry of shared experiences and laughter.

[pixelmensupremacy]

Hideaway

A/N: Told you I had something prepared for the remake.

Word count: 3.9k

WARNINGS: Fem!reader, fluff, frottage, fingering, dirty talk, unprotected sex, cream pie

Countless raindrops landed on the roof and windows of the small cabin, creating for a somnolent ambience; endless flow of rain water- akin to a lively creek- flowed down the dust-stained glass washing off all of the buildup debris in the process. The not-so-distant echo of thunder rumbled through the ground, reminding of the dangerous presence that surrounded the small space; darkness had swallowed the light of day as the night had rolled around the corner and casted shadows upon the chill inducing grounds of the village and its outskirts.

Inside the miniature house the two agents were isolated from the danger of their hostile surroundings, oblivious to all that is awaiting them as they had given in to sweet slumber. For good or for bad that short lived moment of peace came to an end for (Y/N) as a wave of cool air brushed against her back, forcing her to stir awake. Standing up in the bed, she was suddenly reminded of the events leading up to this very moment; Leon’s horrific screams of pain echoed in her mind as she looked at him now laying, still asleep. Examining him with a quick glance, she noticed the unnatural, deep crimson coloring of his veins had completely disappeared; gently touching his forehead, she noted that his fever had also seemed to have gone away. Shivers ran down her spine as the cool breeze seeped through the cracks of the roof, yet they weren’t’ caused by just the cool temperature; the mysterious stroke her partner had experienced not so long ago had her question the unthinkable.

Brushing away any thought of the worst-case scenarios, she stood up from the bed and (Y/N) headed towards the woodstove; she frowned as she noticed the fire had burnt out. Luckily for her, amongst the ashes there was a good quantity of embers that would be more than enough to rekindle the flames. A content smile curled the corners of her lips once she felt the pleasant warmth caressed her cheeks; gradually, the temperature of the room rose. She glanced at Leon’s direction, only to notice his still sleeping form; she yawned as the sudden urge to join him aroused withing her. For a few moments she contemplated on taking turn to watch out for any hostile locals but she was quick to change her mind, for no one had found them up until now and she couldn’t help but feel sleepy just at the sight of her partner snuggled so comfy in the disgusting excuse of a bed. So, she laid back next to him careful not to wake him up; immediately, she was met with the heat that radiated from his body, luring her in. She rested her cheek against his shoulder blade and lazily wrapped her arm around his torso; mindlessly, she traced circles and other shapes on his torso.

It wasn’t long before the relaxation eased her muscles and her eyelids felt heavier and heavier with each passing second, though before she could fall asleep, she felt Leon move. Turning over on his other side, he was now facing her, his eyes were still tightly shut; his strong arms wrapped around her form, trapping her in a pleasantly warm, comforting embrace, his chin rested atop her head, pressing her ear against his chest. His heartbeat echoed in her ears in a consistent rhythm that just aided in her inevitable relaxation and his gentle touch on her tensed body lulled her into a state of utter tranquility, only for his raspy voice to abruptly anchor her attention.

“Morning, sunshine.” The words rumbled against her earlobe. His eye fluttered open and immediately searched for (Y/N) that almost disappeared in in his tight grip. “For how long have I’ve been knocked out?” He lazily rubbed his eyes, whilst his other hand still held onto her; she pulled slightly away so she could look at him. He looked just as perfect as usual though there was a hint of normalcy in him; his hair was a tad bit messy, the golden strands of hair fell in his eyes and nose in almost a casual manner. It was untypical look to their work environment, yet it seemed natural, domestic even and the more (Y/N) gazed at him the more she got used to it.

“A few hours maybe.” Her answer was sincere, for she too had lost track of time. His bare forearm covered his sleepy eyes, a heavy sigh escaped past his lips. “Though it will be great if we get moving now that you’re up.” She urged as the thought of their assignment reemerged in her mind and a sudden wave of anxious thoughts washed over her once again; though he only hummed and wrapped her, tightening his grip on her, with his nose- buried in her hair- he took a deep breath in, completely disregarding her demand.

“Just five more minutes.” He snuggled into her side so she was trapped in his suffocating embrace.

“Leon,” She giggled as a few strands of his hair tickled her neck. “We really can’t afford to lose any time. Every second counts.” She struggled to pull away; his glossy, baby blue eyes bore into her, his plump lips puckered out in a pout. She couldn’t help but smile at how ridiculous he looked, silently complaining akin to a needy baby- it was almost adorable.

“You can’t expect me to want to leave right after I woke up and especially when I get to wake up to that pretty face of yours. I swear first you got under my skin, then my bed. What’s next my pants?” His husky voice was calm and serious, causing a rush of blood to travel up her cheeks. Despite knowing Leon, his cheesy- cocky even- comments had undoubted impact on her that she did poor job in masking. And he was aware of that.

“First of all, that’s not your bed and you should actually thank me for getting your heavy ass over here! Second of all it’s not my fault you can’t focus on our mission, which by the way we have to get done unless we want to lose our jobs.” She murmured but her voice was muffled by his suffocating embrace, yet that didn’t stop her from trying; baffled by her persistence, Leon couldn’t hold back a giggle as he leaned in and pressed his lips against hers, immediately silencing her just as abruptly as the remark that caused her heated rant this time successfully putting an end to her murmuring. Hesitantly at first, she reciprocated, her fingers clung to his messy locks as she gave in to his irresistible charm; her legs tangled in his, where her pelvic bone rubbed against his firm, muscular thigh. A breathy moan escaped past her lips once he pulled away, his celestine irises bore into her (E/C) ones; the intensity of his gaze alone was enough to send electric shockwaves to where her sensitive core was flush against his thigh.

Hungrily, her lips searched his as her hand gradually slithered down between his shoulder blades, where she would graze his still clothed back with the tips of her nails all the while her other hand tugged at his hair, coaxing a whimper that resonated against her lips. Her mouth fell open once his hands roughly groped her ass, unintentionally allowing him access inside; the whimper that got stuck in her throat got muffled by Leon’s vigorous tongue exploring her hot mouth. It wasn’t long before (Y/N) felt breathless; her nails dug into his scalp and her muffled moans turned into whines of desperation. She gasped for air, yet her grip on his hair didn’t allow him to pull too far away for her liking; glistening string of their mixed saliva connected their plump lips, heat radiated from both of them, driven by the burning flame that was their desire for one another.

“You’re gonna be the end of me, Kennedy.” She panted out, her lips barely brushing his as the distance between them stayed ever so microscopical. In response, he only let out a breathy chuckle before his strong arms caught her hips and brought her atop of him. She yelped as she suddenly found herself straddling his hips and she sensed undoubted feeling of something poking at her inner thigh; a rush of boiling blood rose up to her cheeks. Her arms reached for the headboard, holding on the wood as she balanced her weight above him; her gaze unintentionally met with his lustful one. The gorgeous blue of his irises was almost evaporated, eaten away by the gaping raven of his pupils that threatened to swallow her whole.

“You look even prettier from this angle.” She whimpered under the impact of his hands spreading out her ass cheeks only for his fingers to trace the spot of her damp pants and the rumble of his voice resonating so close to her ear only aided in further ruining her already soaked panties. Slowly, his hands slid up her waist, where they toyed with the hem of her shirt just barely brushing the heated skin underneath the fabric; she did the same to his skin tight turtleneck she secretly came to love, especially now that he was robbed of the gorgeous, earthy colored leather jacket. Shivers ran down her spine as the air caressed her exposed skin; the scarce light that lit the room illuminated her skin, adding a mystifying glow to her already flawless form. Leon felt the pressure in his pants growing by the second as the sight of (Y/N), straddling his hips had him light headed; if it wasn’t for her slight movements atop him that made his cock throb, he would’ve though he was still asleep, caught in a blissful fantasy he would never want to wake up from.

Leisurely, her fingers slipped underneath the dark gray fabric of his shirt, slowly pulling it up all the while she made sure to touch and caress every inch of his skin. Underneath her, Leon fought the urge to let out a moan, caused by the attention she showered his body with in every aspect possible; her lips peppered the outline of his pecs with delicate kisses, trailing up to the base of his neck, where she darted her tongue all the way up to his earlobe before she planted a single, feather light kiss to his earlobe, whilst her hips steadily rutted against his hardened cock, causing her soft moans to tingle his sensitive ear. His grip on her hips was ever so tight, contemplating on whether to stop her from getting him closer to his peak embarrassingly soon or to give in to the pleasure that had them forget about all of their problems. His eyes rolled back into his skull as he surrendered to the sensation and let it fully consume him. Entranced by her intoxicating aura and her enchanting touch, Leon let her take off his turtle neck and even aided her in doing so, though the exquisite sight of his marvelously carved chest was far from enough for her; eagerly, she tugged at the band of his pants then her fingers went for the buckle of his belt. Before she could slip her hand underneath the thin fabric of his boxers, a sudden force stopped her.

“You aren’t playing fair, sweetheart.” The smugness in his expression was renewed, cockier than ever as his calloused finger pads brushed the warm skin underneath her shirt; an audible exhaled escaped past her gritted teeth as she quickly got rid of the piece of clothing, leaving just her bra. A new spark of lust was set ablaze in the baby blue of his irises at the sight of her luscious form, finally freed from the vexatious clothes that hid her full glory. Leon felt weak at the face of the sudden, strong urge to trace the outlines of her delicate silhouette and shower her with his attention much like how she did with him but in bigger, grander scale. Sitting up, he wrapped his arms around her back, caressing her bare skin all the while he pulled her flush to his own; their breaths collided into a hot tornado of unspoken emotions and desires, their eyes- drawn by an otherworldly force- locked together in an intense stare. Once again, their faces were just a mere inches away from one another, the closeness of the interaction- silent- caused their hearts to dance in delight.

“You sure you don’t wanna stay here for five more minutes?” He joked, yet the need in his eyes revealed the core of his question.

“Five minutes.” (Y/N) breathed out, the words caressed his needy lips; her eyelashes fluttered closed as she let her desires take control and disregard any rational thoughts that refused to leave her mind. As darkness engulfed her vision, she felt Leon’s presence flooding her senses with intense- almost unbearable- pleasure and she enjoyed every second of it. The feeling of his velvety lips caressing her skin and his hands wandering across her exposed flesh had put her in a drunken state, where her world revolved around him and how good he made her feel; it was what she could only describe as heaven on earth. Her head rolled back, allowing for his little venture to expand all the way to the valley of her breasts, where his hot tongue would circle around the hardened buds. A hum resonated in her ribcage, akin to a purr that only encouraged Leon to take things further; he sucked on her nipple, nibbling it all the while his fingers took care of her other one. Her fingers tangled in his golden locks, yet she didn’t dare pulling on his hair, in fear he would retrieve and deprive her of the sensation of his heavenly mouth on her.

Slowly, his other hand made its way to her pelvis; bumps covered her body as excitement rushed in her bloodstream. A breathy gasp left her agape mouth as she felt Leon’s hand, palming her aching pussy; she bit her lip in a failed attempt to hold back a moan at the sensation of his leather fingerless glove rubbing against her twitching folds. He pulled away from her chest to glance at her; her eyes were still tightly shut and her bottom lips was caught between her teeth, her eyebrows were furrowed together in a frown that Leon couldn’t quite interpretate but the wetness that dripped on his palm was enough of an indicator as to how she felt.

“Hey, are you feeling good?” The familiarity of his voice, along with the hand the wrapped around her throat, anchored her back to the present moment; his lips gently pressed against her temple, whilst his fingers teasingly toyed at her entrance. She nodded yes in an eager manner, which in return caused him to chuckle. “Speak up, baby. Let me know how I make you feel.” His voice soft and calm had her weak in the knees, whilst his cautions grip on her neck made her lightheaded; peeling her eyes open, she was met with the slight smile that curled the corners of his lips and the comforting, reassuring look of his baby blue eyes.

“Please, Leon..” She trailed off, a whine got stuck in her throat as she felt his finger pad just barely brushing against her bundle of nerves. “Please keep going.” She looked at him, her needy eyes locked with his lustful ones, her hands moved to his forehands, where she squeezed at the tensed muscles; he struck her with what had to be one of the most charming smiles she had ever seen, followed by a wink that had her heart skip a beat. She let out a breathy moan; her muscles tensed and her grip on his arms tightened, in fear she would lose her balance. A teasing finger pushed inside her fluttering folds, causing her nerves to tingle but not enough to relieve her of the buildup tension. A hum resonated near Leon’s ear as he started pumping his digit in a back-and-forth motion, maintaining a slow and steady pace; he kept toying with her drenched hole all the while his other hand slithered down her throat and chest, where he squeezed at the soft flesh of her breasts. (Y/N)’s body trembled and her hips began rocking, desperately fucking herself on his finger as the friction- or rather lack thereof- drove her crazy. Yet before she could even grasp the delightful sensation she was so deeply desiring, it disappeared altogether. She whined; her needy gaze locked on his smug expression that made her blood boil.

“Leon.” She moaned out his name, her head slightly tilted to one side and her gaping pupils bore into him; guilt and sympathy ate at his heart at the sight of her so riled up and messy- his favorite look on her. He brought his index finger to her lips, coating her bottom lip with her arousal, shushing her wordless pleads. Her curious gaze reluctantly darted at him, immediately noting the smirk on his face that told her everything. She took his digit in her mouth, her tongue twirled around it, tasting herself off of the rough pad of his finger. Leon hummed in approval as his other hand crept to her ass, groping it and bringing her pelvis flush to his; it was (Y/N)'s turn to hum as she sensed his hard cock rubbing against her folds. He pulled his finger out, resulting in a popping sound to echo across the small space as she was forced to release his digit.

“Good.” He praised, his low voice resonated right through her and her dripping pussy; his lustful blues scanned her whole form one last time before he switched their positions so she was beneath him. (Y/N)’s heartrate picked up and her breathing grew shallow as the adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream. Immediately, her hands found their place on his shoulders; Leon lined up his dick with her wet entrance, pushing in just the tip. Her nails dug into his skin, the hot air of her frequent breaths tingled his earlobe, yet he wanted to take his time. Leon peppered her face with kisses, whilst his arms cradled her smaller form against his; electric shocks ran through the two of them as their bare skins were flushed together. Keeping his azure irises on her, he observed her face as he slowly pushed in. She hissed through gritted teeth as the sensation of being so filled was too much for her body to handle, though there was no apparent sign of pain nor severe discomfort evident in her body language. Still Leon was careful as he pulled out almost completely, leaving just the tip in.

Underneath him, (Y/N) squirmed as he kept pulling out painfully slow only to push in a sudden, forceful motion; it had her back arch in want, whilst numerous pitiful pleads rolled down her plump lips akin to a prayer, asking for his mercy. Her sweet sounds dripped on his ears much like honey he couldn’t get enough of to the point he ignored his own, other needs as he was too focused on her, drunk from the melody that resonated across the room; her moans and pants mixed with the wet sounds of his cock gently sliding in and out of her drenched pussy were the only sounds Leon was able to hear. Only when she moaned his name did he snap back to reality and truly felt the need that had bottled up within him to the point where he couldn't hold back any longer.

Hooking his arms under the crease of her knees, he placed her legs on his shoulders as he pushed back in her all the way up to the hilt; another louder, high-pitched moan ripped through her throat as he hit the spot that had her seeing stars. Only after a few trusts (Y/N) finally could grasp the sensation of her climax nearing; her back arched once more, bringing her body closer to his as if she desired for their bodies to merge into one. It appeared that was also Leon’s wish for he wrapped one of his arms around her waist all the while the other held her back. Every slam of his hips against her hips had her body quiver as electric shocks of pure pleasure shook her entire form; her eyes were sealed tight though a few droplets of tears rolled down her cheeks, merging with the beads of sweat that coated her smooth skin. Her nails dug into his skin, leaving behind reddened crescent markings, and the sensation of her walls embracing his cock so perfectly had him in a state of pure ecstasy. The movement of his hips grew erratic as he felt his peak threatening to wash over him; the intensity got too much, causing a groan to resonate from his agape mouth. The grip of his fingers on her hips got tighter, which was sure to leave behind marks in numerous shades of blues and purples. The golden strands of his hair stuck to his sweaty forehead; his muscles were tensed and worked up, yet he kept going, blindly chasing after the ultimate bliss the both of them desired.

His name bounced off the walls as (Y/N) moaned loudly; her whole form shook as the coil in her tummy unraveled abruptly, sending a wave of pleasure to wash over her. Her walls fluttered and clenched around his throbbing cock, bringing him closer to his peak; Leon whimpered, his thrusts grew erratic, his vision got blurry as a sheet of bliss embraced his entire form. His release ripped through him; loads of cum coated her twitching pussy that milked every last drop of him. Breathless, he crashed down next to his partner with his cock still buried deep inside of her. (Y/N) hummed in delight as she snuggled into his side, where her head immediately found its place on his chest; her hand rested on his stomach, drawing circles on his constantly rising and falling chest. His heartbeat echoed in her ears as his heart and breath returned to its normal rhythm. He kissed her temple, whilst his arm wrapped around her form. Tranquility eased into them as they laid still in the aftershocks of their afterglow, until their peace was shortly interrupted by the buzzing sound of the broadcast. Leon groaned as he was forced to get up and searched the device in the disregard clothes on the floor; hopping in his pants, he picked up.

“Leon, it’s been six hours since our last transmission! I was started to get worried about you and (Y/N).” Curiously, (Y/N) looked at Leon as she heard Hunnigan’s voice.

“There’s nothing to worry about.” The smug grin on Leon’s face did little to hide what the two agents were up to and the mess that his hair was only made matters worse.

“May I remind you that you two are on duty. Have you found the subject.” He let out a sigh of defeat as he shook his head no. “Well, you better hurry up before it’s too late.” The call ended as abruptly as it had begun; the two agents stared at each other, sharing the same look of what could only be phrased as ‘we’re fucked’ on their faces.

[drabblesandimagines]

Tranquility

Joshua Rosfield x fem reader Minor spoilers, I guess? Fluffy fluff. Inspired by this request.

An exaggerated sigh comes from behind you, intent to draw your attention. You smile but continue to read, turning the page with minimal fuss.

You’ve been reading at the desk for a little while now, in the chambers the two of you have been assigned in the Hideaway. You’d be happy enough in the bunks, but Clive truly doted on his younger brother and he had organised a room formerly being used for storage to be repurposed – a bed, desk and chair quickly sourced and put in place.

Joshua is on strict bedrest under Tarja’s and Jote’s instructions. You hadn’t escaped orders either, been given a stern warning to leave Joshua in solitude– as if you’d want to delay him regaining his strength. You’d easily preoccupied yourself, having arrived at the Hideaway a few days prior with Jote and helping with various jobs. You were midway through bringing supplies in off the skiff when Clive had called your name on the pier, asking you to please go and keep Joshua company. It turns out Ifrit had found the Phoenix bent over on the staircase, coughing, a weary hand on the wall, determined to seek you out after being separated for so long.

It had been nerve-wracking to meet Clive in Tabor, Joshua’s sworn First Shield, especially with the unique courtship you and Joshua had. You weren’t betrothed or wed for that matter, but you lived as if you were, and you were sure the brothers would have so much to catch up on that Joshua might not have even had time to mention you. You’d heard so many tales of Clive over the years, knew how special the brothers were to one another and so desperately hoped to make his approval.

You shouldn’t have worried. As soon as Joshua stepped foot in the building, he’d strode directly over to you, pulling you into a deep, brief kiss, before taking you by the hand over to Clive and Jill.

Though a little surprised, Clive had been nothing but kind, considerate and welcoming in the time you’d spent with him after their return from Kanver and bout with Odin – the reason as to why Joshua was confined to his bed. 

“Darling, come here.” Joshua demands, softly. “Please.”

“You, my love, are meant to be sleeping.” You chide, eyes not leaving the page.

“Resting.” He corrects. “Which I would do far better at if you were by my side. Nay, in my arms, actually.”

You look over your shoulder to roll your eyes – he’s propped himself up against the pillows, his black shirt unlaced, hair a little mussed and looking so beautiful. You realize as soon as you meet his soft blue eyes that engaging with him had been a mistake. You can never resist that face. He could tell you to walk straight into the mouth of a Morbol in his loving cadence and, by Founder, you’d do it.

No.

You must steel your resolve. He needs to rest. The colour’s only started to return to his complexion in the last day or so and you do not wish to hamper any semblance of recovery.

You try and regain your composure. “I do not wish to be at the wrong end of Tarja or Jote’s wrath when-”

“My sweet one, I beg you.”

Mothers, you can’t resist that – even if you’d downed many a tonic. You pick up your book and get to your feet, before toeing off your boots, and make the short walk over to the bed to climb in besides him. He instantly takes your free hand, pressing his lips softly against the back of it.

“Thank you.”

“Mm-hm.” You hold your tongue, not wishing to encourage him further, though you know when it comes to Joshua and his affections he needs no influence to shower you in loving words and sweet gestures. You go to return to your book, assuming he’ll rest now as you read besides him. That, however, turns out not to be his intention as he plucks the tome out of your hand with nimble fingers and places it down alongside him, just out of reach.

“Joshua…”

“It has been so long since we could just enjoy each other’s company, although I know that was at my behest. And now we are here… Well, I admire and respect Jote greatly, but to be truly alone in your company has become all too rare an occurrence.”

The Phoenix’s attendant was nothing but loyal, but sometimes her presence grew a little… suffocating, through no fault of her own. She was tasked with Joshua’s protection – his healer, his blade, his warden – and you were nowhere near skilled as her in those areas of expertise. You greatly admire her for her patience with him too – it was certainly hard to rein Joshua in at times.

“No, you are right. It has been a while.”

It felt like you’d been trekking across the continent non-stop the past while, poking around Fallen ruins, researching where you could, before he’d, reluctantly, sent you to Tabor to reside under Cyril’s watchful eye as set out to infiltrate Prince Dion’s camp to seek his aid. Your reunion in Tabor had been all too brief – he’d then sent you to the Hideaway alongside Jote to offer assistance there whilst his new party set forth to Kanver.

And Odin.

You don’t like to dwell on that – that Barnabas had split the sea with a swipe of his sword.

How easily could he have split Joshua in two?

“We should savour these moments.” He says, softly.

He draws shapes on your palm – it’s a nervous habit, you’d noted. He used to dance flames between his fingertips before he discovered this settled him just as well.

“You are thinking too much.”

“Impossible.”

Often, you would catch him standing or sitting in place, an arm across his chest, his other arm balanced upon it whilst he cups his chin, deep in contemplation. Sometimes so deep in thought, you’d resorted to peppering his face in kisses to get him to return to you.

You’re too used to this particular look, the responsibilities of the Phoenix resting too heavily on his shoulders.

“I disagree.” You place a tentative hand on his chest, hovering over that burden encased within. “Are you in pain?”

“No.” You stare at him for a moment, gauging whether it was a white lie across his tongue. His eyes seem sincere as he meets yours – he could never truly lie to you.

You scoot forward and swivel, carefully placing yourself across his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck loosely and in returns he brings you in closer.

After all this time, his cheeks still flush a little to have you pressed against him.

“And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

“You need to rest and, to do so, you must take a respite from thinking of Ultima.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but you press your forehead against his before he can utter a word, and you move a hand to caress his cheek.

“And rather than exhaust yourself further chasing answers you cannot currently seek, mayhaps for now you can think of my touch and of how much I love you.” You whisper, tenderly.  

“Sweet one, that thought has never once strayed from my mind - this is all because I love you. I want you to have the world.”

“I already do. You are it.” You tilt his chin up, pressing a soft, tender kiss to his lips. There’s a phantom taste of iron – too many times had you kissed your Phoenix’s bloody mouth in relief. “So, please, rest.”

He buries his head into your neck then, pressing a kiss or two to your throat, making your heartbeat quicken. “Can we stay like this?”

“Of course, love. Just close your eyes, mm?”

He nods, nuzzling in softly, the tip of his nose tickling your skin. You smile, closing your eyes, being close to him, being held like this is always so relaxing, your worries evaporating. It isn’t long before your breathing synchronizes and the two of you are slowly lulled to sleep, feeling content, safe and loved.

--

Clive doesn’t knock, forgetting himself, forgetting he’d sent you to sit with Joshua earlier too, and opens the door in a hurry. He has a vial of freshly brewed medicine from Tarja to deliver, but the scene before him stops him before he can voice his intentions.

Joshua is asleep, for one. He hadn’t even stirred at the sound of door opening. The Phoenix is propped up against the pillows and you are still wrapped in his arms, one hand spread flat over his heart. Joshua’s head is against the crook of your neck whilst yours lays upon his, both deep in slumber. The two of you look so peaceful.

“It’s rude to stare.” Jill jokes softly, wrapping an arm around Clive’s waist. He smiles down at her lovingly before he presses a kiss to the side of her head. How sweet it was that he and his brother had been blessed with you and Jill.

“Yes. I forgot they’d be together – I was tasked with delivering Joshua’s medicine, but…” He trails off, it goes without saying he does not wish to disturb such a tranquil scene.

“It can wait.” Jill smiles at the two of you. “Joshua has all the medicine he needs.”

--

Comments, likes and reblogs make my whole day x

Masterlist . Requests welcome . Ko-fi

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

... follow me, I know a place ...

[kingstarkingslay]

DOMESTIC FULL MOONS ( vol 4 )

The night was damp and cool, a steady rain tapping softly against the forest canopy. A thick layer of mist hung low over the clearing, casting an ethereal glow in the moonlight. It was the night of the full moon, and the Marauders had once again gathered in their secret sanctuary.

Prongs, tall and sturdy, stood firm in the center of the clearing, his antlers like a natural shelter. Moony, still shaking off the remnants of his transformation, had nestled beneath Prongs’ broad form. The rain pelted down, but the large stag provided a protective canopy. Moony’s grey fur, now sleek and shiny, bristled with relief as he found some comfort from the wetness.

In contrast, Padfoot was reveling in the rain. The black dog bounded around the clearing, splashing through puddles and letting the droplets dance over his sleek fur. He leaped and rolled in the mud with the abandon of someone who had found joy in every drop of rain. His antics were a stark contrast to Moony’s more subdued demeanor.

Wormtail, ever the practical one, had found refuge in the hollow of a nearby tree. His small form curled up inside, leaving just a glimpse of his whiskers peeking out. He had fashioned a makeshift shelter with fallen branches and leaves, his little hideaway providing a dry corner amid the downpour.

The Marauders, despite their different ways of handling the night, were together. They had learned to find solace in each other's company, their bond strengthened by years of shared challenges and triumphs. Tonight was no different.

Prongs shifted slightly, ensuring Moony remained sheltered. The stag’s warm breath misted gently against Moony’s fur. The wolf occasionally glanced up, his amber eyes meeting Prongs' with silent gratitude. The rain pattered softly around them, creating a calming rhythm that lulled Moony into a state of peaceful rest.

Padfoot, noticing the tranquil scene beneath Prongs, eventually trotted over and nudged Moony playfully. His wet fur was a stark contrast to Moony’s damp, but he seemed intent on sharing his exuberance. Moony gave a tired but affectionate lick to his face, acknowledging the gesture with a soft, contented growl.

Wormtail, observing the scene from his cozy refuge, allowed himself a rare moment of contentment. Though he often took the role of the cautious observer, tonight he felt a deep sense of belonging. The bond between his friends, their unspoken understanding, was a comfort he cherished.

As the night wore on, the rain continued to fall, but the Marauders were warm in their unity. Prongs stood guard, Moony rested, Padfoot played, and Wormtail watched over them all. The forest around them was alive with the sound of rain and the gentle rustling of leaves, a natural lullaby for the small pack.

[natsuki-bakery]

⁎˚ ఎ Little! Kiku x CG! Ludwig HCs ໒ ˚⁎

Hi! Is it okay if i request Agere Japan hetalia with a caregiver germany headcanons? If so then that’s my request ^J^!! thank you so much in advance ❤️

Japan as an age regressor

•When regressed, Japan becomes even more quiet and reserved than usual. He prefers calm and peaceful activities like drawing, reading, and watching anime

•Kiku finds comfort in traditional Japanese items, such as plushies shaped like maneki-neko (lucky cats), origami, and yukatas. He often snuggles with his favorite plushie when feeling vulnerable

•He loves to create small, cozy forts or hideaways where he can feel safe. He fills them with soft blankets, pillows, and his favorite books or manga

•He enjoys simple, comforting foods like onigiri, miso soup, and dango. These familiar tastes help him feel secure

•Japan finds peace in nature. When regressed, he likes to take gentle walks in gardens or sit under cherry blossom trees, finding solace in the beauty around him

Germany as a Caregiver

•Germany maintains a structured routine for Japan, knowing that consistency helps him feel secure. He makes sure that meals, naps, and playtime happen at regular intervals

•Ludwig is very protective of Kiku, ensuring that he feels safe at all times. He is always there to offer a comforting hug or words of reassurance when Japan feels anxious

•Germany engages Japan in activities that are both educational and fun, such as building model kits, drawing, and simple cooking tasks. He encourages Japan to express his creativity and skills

•Germany is incredibly patient with Japan, understanding his need for quiet and gentle interactions. He never forces Japan to speak or act if he's not ready, always giving him the time he needs

•Germany includes light physical activities in their routine, such as stretching exercises or short walks. He knows the importance of staying active for both physical and mental well-being !

•Cultural Exchange : Papa Ludwig introduces Kiku to some of his own childhood favorites, like German fairy tales and traditional toys. This exchange helps deepen their bond and allows Japan to experience new forms of comfort and joy

Together

•Reading Time : Germany reads Japanese fairy tales to Japan before bed, using a calm and soothing voice. Japan listens attentively, feeling safe and cherished

•Art Sessions : They have regular art sessions where Japan draws his favorite characters or scenes, while Germany offers gentle encouragement and praise

•Nature Walks : They take leisurely walks in a nearby garden or park, enjoying the tranquility and beauty of nature. Germany ensures that Japan feels comfortable and protected during these outings

•Cooking Together : They cook simple Japanese or German dishes together, with Germany assisting Japan and making the experience fun and stress-free !

•Building Models : Germany helps Japan build model kits, a hobby they both enjoy. They work together patiently, and Japan feels proud of their shared accomplishments

If you're in the basic criteria , are DSMP fans, vivziep0p fans , h0tel/h3lluva b0ss fans, Owl h0use fans, St4r butterfly fans, Ghibli fans, ddlg/abdl blogs, nsfw/k!nk blogs, anti-agere blogs, or anti Christians/Christianity blogs : just dont interact !

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

... hideaway ...

(via a691bfc6f39cfa6ca3508f12217c3238.jpg (564×564))

[lueurjun]

━━━━ cupid’s pond. c.soobin

soobin x reader! — when you least expect it, love can find its way into your life; like a bolt of lightning, cupid's arrows can strike at any moment in the most unpredictable places.

deep into the forest where most dare to stay away, sits a pond which sparkles beneath the kind eye of the sun. lily pads dot around the water, bobbing gently with the quiet waves and the patch of grass dances smoothly with the breeze. a sweet symphony of birdsong fills the air, quieting it into an endless serenity.

not too far from the pond stands a majestic tree, its wisdom evident in the decades it has weathered. recently, it was blessed with the sight of something new—a budding love between two strangers who find solace in its quiet seclusion.

it was a chance encounter when you stumbled upon the pond a few months ago — more precisely, six months. a sunny lunchtime called for an escape into the depths of the forest — nothing to accompany you but the music streaming from your headphones that lulled you into a state of peaceful contentment. you had no idea how far away from civilization you had traveled until the stillness was broken by this tranquil body of water. and with no sounds of traffic or people in sight, it was the perfect spot to unwind.

the pond became your haven, a peaceful refuge from the worries of the world and an escape to a faraway land only the pages of a book could bring. you’d find solace in this quiet spot, burying your nose in literature and allowing yourself to be transported away from reality.

you had only stumbled upon the hidden oasis a week prior, but already it had become like a second home to you. here, you stumbled across soobin deep in thought beneath an ancient tree. a sketch pad was balanced on his lap and a kaleidoscope of coloured pencils lay scattered around him. he hadn't noticed your presence until you inadvertently let out a surprised shriek - it had been your secret hideaway, and you were surprised to know he'd found it too.

he hastily moved to apologize for intruding, explaining that he had been visiting this spot for months and was unaware that someone else knew about it. you assured him it was alright, gesturing for him to remain there since he had arrived before you. after a brief introduction, a peaceful albeit awkward silence fell between you two as you went about your business, occasionally engaging in pleasant small talk.

the two of you crossed paths more often after that, getting into a routine of sitting in each others presence beside the pond. soobin’s jovial jokes brought warmth to your heart and your snacks eventually doubled until it felt like a picnic just for the two of you. you found yourself eagerly anticipating these meetings, savoring the private moments that felt like a little slice of paradise.

six months later, a blossoming friendship was accompanied by two flourishing crushes.

it had been a crisp sunny day when cupid sprinkled his magic.

as usual, you arrived after soobin, but his face was not lit up with its familiar brightness. earphones plugged into his ears, the pencil in his fingers moved with vigorous strokes rather than his usual feather-light touch. the frown on his lips subdued his delicate features, and the shadows in his eyes seemed darker than ever before.

reaching down, you tenderly extracted one of his earbuds, successfully garnering his focus. His head jerked up abruptly and for a moment his expression was guarded, but then his whole demeanor softened as soon as your eyes met. instead of the usual practice of taking a seat opposite him, this time you plopped yourself down beside him. he couldn't help but allow a small smile to grace his lips.

you poked his dimple. “you look stressed, is everything okay?”

a breathy chuckle drifted into the wind at your action, sending the butterflies in your stomach absolutely feral.

“i had an argument with my friend, yeonjun. it’s left me feeling tense, sorry for not greeting you. i was lost in my thoughts,” he explained, his gaze conveying a sincere apology.

his voice was filled with warmth and sincerity, a soothing balm for even the most festering of wounds. he was always so compassionate; it was impossible to imagine him angry with someone. you couldn't even fathom the thought of him ever becoming raising his voice. he had told you all about yeonjun before, and the stories between them sounded like two inseparable partners in crime, making it easy to understand just how much this argument had impacted him.

there was a brief curiosity, perhaps your inner gossip, that prodded at you to ask what the argument was about—after all, we’re only human and curiosity is natural, but you knew better. it was soobin’s issue and if he wanted to tell you, then he would on his own accord.

“im sorry, is there anything i can do to help?”

he shook his head, declining with a simple but resolute no. while he was grateful for your kind offer, he wasn't sure anything could really help his somber mood. he shifted slightly and offered up the other bud of his earphones. "would you like to listen to some music with me?"

soobin’s playlist surprises you with its stark contrast to his persona, given the large presence of bebe rexha. It's almost amusing, yet it also stirs some strange sort of fondness within you. it makes you realize how little you know about him and just how much there is left to discover. you find yourself more intrigued by him than ever before and wanting to learn every single detail about who he is as a person.

the music cascades into your ears as you settle, and the once forceful strokes of his pencil become gentle as his previously annoyed countenance relaxes. you have never been so close to him before, yet there's something about it that attracts you; it's soothing. a sense of ease pervades your being.

so at ease that you naturally nestled your head into his shoulder, wrapping your arms around his firm biceps. soobin paused for a moment and just as you were about to pull away, embarrassed that you had gone too far, he gently set his head upon yours and you were certain you could feel the warmth of his smile. a contented calm washed over both of you as the two of embrace in a blissful moment, completely lost in each other's company.

it’s uncharted territory, but the way he draws a cluster of hearts at the very top of the page reveals that there may be more to discover in this newfound intimacy. a warmth and excitement builds inside you at the thought of venturing into something unknown, yet full of potential.

who would have imagined that the secluded pond, nestled away in a forgotten corner of the forest, would be the very spot where cupid’s magic was set loose?

[cottagelvx]

Step into a cozy sanctuary where every inch is infused with warmth, culture, and character. This tiny home marries tribal-inspired decor with the natural beauty of wood, creating a perfect retreat from the modern world. The handmade textiles, bold geometric patterns, and earthy tones transform the space into a tranquil hideaway. As sunlight filters through the windows, the loft above promises an intimate night of stargazing, while the daybed below beckons you to relax in pure comfort. From the rustic ladder to the handcrafted wall art, this cabin exudes a soulful, bohemian charm that makes it impossible to leave the serenity of the forest behind.

[allthedesiredusernamesaretaken]

... hideaway ...

[thetomorrowshow]

knowing what the cards were

hi besties enjoy (or scream at me)

cw: past major character death (and mourning thereof), violence, blood

There's a pond in Rivendell, down the face of the mountain a little ways, right in the thick of the pine trees that grow all the way down the side. It's far enough away from the main city (and any outlying buildings) that likely few have ever even seen the pond, a place too insignificant to be worthy of any sort of attention. Despite this, the pond and its surrounding trees have always been a beautiful, peaceful location. The pond has only ever had the clearest water, carried down through a small stream from the melting snow of the high peaks.

Now, in the dark of night, water skimmers skate along the surface; a couple of frogs sit on rocks at the edge. Otherwise, there's no sign of life. No fish, no creatures poking through the trees to find a drink here.

The pond is a small, unseen place of tranquility, particularly at this before-sunrise hour, when even the owls are sleeping in their nests. The night is still, the forest silent, and the pond a dark reflection of all the unheard and unseen.

And Scott, sneaking out of his bedroom window like a guilty teenager, goes to it.

He had discovered the pond in his youth, a quiet hideaway from his brother and his parents and all their politics. He hadn't gone there frequently, only when everything really became too much and he had to get out before he exploded.

The pond had always had a calming effect, apart from the real world, a tiny piece of grace and solitude.

He chooses it now as the place not for its seclusion, nor its beauty, but for its lack of living creatures.

He doesn't know what's going to happen when he uses the artifacts.

Again, Alinar had been frustratingly vague on how to use the artifacts. There'd been something about magic, and something else about learning how the artifacts interact with him, so Scott hopes that using them before facing Xornoth in battle will be all right. He doesn't really understand what it means when it talks about interacting with him, but a test run never hurt anyone.

He already sent Gem the instructions (recipe? Scott really doesn't know a lot about magical terms) for the crystal that they need to trap Xornoth. She and Katherine are going to be working together on that, as far as he knows. Lizzie and Joel are occupied with the war. Pix has been out of contact for weeks. Pearl is maintaining neutrality. Shelby hasn't responded lately.

So it's up to Scott to execute the rest of the plan, not sure who he can even turn to for support in this. After all, only the Champion of Aeor can unite and use the artifacts to trap Xornoth in the crystal.

Scott lands carefully on the mossy ground beside the pond, wings drawing up behind him. The moon has disappeared beyond the mountain, but the sun hasn't yet begun to rise. Perfect time for experimental magic.

Scott pulls his Cod-woven bag off his shoulder and sets it down on the moss, leaning it against a small boulder, then slips off his soft shoes and sets them neatly beside it.

He doesn't much care for the feeling of damp moss under his socked toes, but a glance at the grass to his left tells him that it would be infinitely worse (and far more wet) to stand there.

Should he even be wearing socks when he puts the boots on? Will that ruin the . . . magical connection, or something?

Scott strips off his socks and stuffs them in his shoes, just in case. Then he unlatches his bag and pulls out the boots, which he sets atop the small boulder.

They glow, he realizes, the runes casting a very dim blue light over the leather and stone beneath. Scott stares at the glow for a moment, surely only bright enough to discern due to the almost non-existent light cast by the stars above, then reaches into his bag again, where his fingers meet the chilled gold rods of the antlers.

He withdraws the crown as well, sets it on the boulder. It glows as well, just the slightest bit, the gold clear against the dark background.

That's got to mean something. Maybe all ancient, godly artifacts glow like that.

There's really nothing else to wait for. At any moment, a servant could come knocking on his bedroom door, summoning him for matters of war, only to find him missing.

He should pray. Right? He is trying to get Aeor's attention, after all. 

Haltingly, Scott kneels in the grass, grimacing when he feels the knees of his black trousers instantly become soaked. He's not really any good at praying, but he can give it a shot.

"Um," Scott says awkwardly. What is it the priests always say? "O Aeor, God of us all and of those below, God of the mountains and . . . and of the snow, God of the day that conquers the night, God that now slumbers until the world is returned to thy light. Uh. . . ."

The introduction part feels clunky and must actually be more ornate than that, but Scott can't quite seem to bring it to his remembrance, even with however many years that he's been hearing it. It's good enough, though, and now he ought to continue—but the prayers differ after that, a thousand and two different ones for any situation. And Scott, after he recited the main forty for his religious tutoring, made no effort to keep them memorized nor learn any of the others.

"Aeor," he says after a few moments of deliberation, dropping all attempts at following a prayer, "if I truly am your chosen, consecrate these holy objects now in me. Show me . . . show me the way. Help—help me."

Did Alinar ever kneel alone in a forest, praying for any help that his god would give? Did Alinar ever feel entirely inadequate for the job that he was faced with, for the mantle of Aeor's Champion?

Years ago, reading Alinar's tales, Scott would've laughed at such a thought. Alinar had been foreordained, had perfectly completed every task set for him. Never was there any doubt that the task at hand was beyond his reach.

But now that Scott's in the hero's story, he can't help but hope it's normal to feel like an utter failure. Normal to be scared. Normal to feel totally, utterly lost.

Scott stands, brushes off his knees, and pulls a boot on.

It fits perfectly, of course, his foot sliding into place with ease. He laces it up as tight as he can, the boot going a bit higher than halfway up his calf. The other is no different, though his fingers fumble on the white leather of the laces and it takes him a moment to get it pulled as tight as he wants it.

Okay. He has the boots on.

Next step.

Scott straightens, and with mounting anticipation and shaking hands, he lifts the crown of antlers onto his head.

He waits.

He doesn't . . . he doesn't feel any different, so far. Maybe . . . holier, maybe?

He flexes his toes in the boots. They aren't stiff at all, the leather well taken care of but fairly worn-in.

He tilts his head from side to side. The crown feels almost weightless, impeccably well-balanced. It isn't in any danger of slipping, either, set firmly on his head, fitting as perfectly as the boots do.

Now. How is he meant to test these out?

Scott takes a tentative step forward.

There's a sudden, crinkling-crackling sound from his feet—Scott looks down—

The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's frost under his toes. The edge of the pond is frozen.

There's absolutely no way.

He takes another step—more crackling, the ice spreads another foot down the pond.

Carefully, Scott puts some of his weight on the ice.

It holds. More spreads, even.

He puts both feet standing on the now half-frozen pond.

It doesn't even crack.

Ice magic, then. The boots have some sort of ice enchantment, likely written into the runes. That—maybe he's meant to freeze Xornoth? Freeze him, so that he can't get away from the whole crystal ordeal. Or maybe use the ice to freeze him to the crystal? 

And when thou hast the daemone at thy will, binde it to the cristyl.

That . . . that might be right. Right? It's probably more than normal ice, it's probably strange magical ice. Something that can bind.

Scott crosses to the middle of the pond. He's walking on water, practically. The pond is just freezing around him, making a large path for his next step before he's even raised his foot.

Jimmy would have found this so impressive. He would've stood on the shore and sputtered, mouth hanging open. Scott would've laughed, and held out his hand, and brought Jimmy out onto the ice to stand with him. And then, gazing at his perfect lover with his permanently-messy hair and his still-shocked expression, he would have kissed him.

And it's for Jimmy that Scott is going to end Xornoth.

He can't kill Xornoth, the book had told him that much. Their souls are connected, some sort of confusing reincarnation of spirits kind of thing that Scott doesn't really understand. He needs to bind him to the crystal in a ritual that he also doesn't understand, but if the boots have an ice enchantment to freeze Xornoth in place or attach him to the crystal, maybe the crown just gives him the magical authority to command Xornoth to go into the crystal? Or something like that?

Scott points at a sleepy-looking frog. "Don't move," he commands with all the power he can muster.

The frog doesn't move. But it probably wasn't planning on it, anyway.

And part of the intrinsic elvish magic that he already has is the strength of suggestion. If he tells someone not to move, really tells them, with power, chances are they won't move.

Will the crown just amplify that magic, then? Or will it make it literally impossible to break a command given, since the power comes from a god and not just a normal elf?

Well, at least he figured out what the boots do. He really ought to get back—he's already spent enough time away. A servant could have alerted the entire palace by now if they knocked to find him missing.

Scott heads back to shore and unlaces the boots, stepping out of them and into his own shoes (he doesn't bother with his socks right now, tucking them into his pocket). Then he puts the boots and the crown back in the bag, beside a small book that looks . . . unfamiliar.

When did he put a book in his bag? Especially one that looks so . . . ancient?

Frowning, Scott pulls it out and cracks it open.

The text isn't anything like what he's used to, blue lines thick and letters big, with no discernable spaces for words. It takes a moment of staring stupidly at the large letters before he has the sudden realization that this is a book in that form of Oceanic that he was meant to give Lizzie. He's already given her the book, but he remembers that it had a smaller book inside. It must've slipped out at some point.

He'll probably see her soon, right? War negotiations have constantly been taking him or one of his advisors to and fro, so surely there'll be someone to give it to her, if not him precisely.

So Scott puts it back in his bag amongst the artifacts and takes off, flying straight back to the palace and landing on his bedroom windowsill, crawling in.

Unnoticed, the touch of his fingers on the window frame leaves frost.

-

When Scott wakes up (blurry nightmares of chains and indistinct threats), he feels cold.

He must've left the window open. He's done that before, woken up to a little bit of snow on the windowsill after a late-night flight.

And his bed's been rather cold as of late, missing the heat of another body.

But when Scott opens his eyes, his favorite blue blanket is white.

He sits up, confused—and snow falls off of him in little showers, clumping onto his blanket in the creases.

Why is there—?

There's ice on his bedside table, just a thin layer of it. Snow on the bedknobs. Snow on the rug.

And the window is closed.

The low fire that's usually still a bed of hot coals in the mornings is emitting zero warmth, the coals black and cold. The lantern on his bedside table has gone out.

Scott throws his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the cascade of snow that falls to the floor. How did—what?

The boots.

Are they still active even when he isn't wearing them? But—had something changed when he put them on? Is there a way to turn them off?

Scott fumbles around his bedpost until he finds his bag hanging, from which he pulls out the boots and turns them over in his hands.

"Stop," he says, voice still heavy with sleep. "Just . . . don't."

Nothing changes. Did it work? Are the boots still freezing the room?

Nothing really looks like it's melting, but there isn't anything new in the room, either. Scott sets the boots aside (and they feel normal, they aren't covered in frost or anything) and stands up, stumping over to the fireplace on numb feet. He stokes the coals, trying to bring any bit of warmth back to the room, but there's absolutely nothing left to be brought back.

He doesn't keep a flint and steel in his room. Usually a servant cares for these kinds of things, but he doesn't want a servant in here to find his room frozen. How on Aeor's green earth would he explain that?

He has to have a flint and steel in his travel kit in the closet, right? Scott ducks into the closet, finds his travel kit thrown on the floor where he left it after the funeral. He picks it up, rummages through it for a moment. Sure enough, tucked into a part of the leather kit is a small flint and steel, right next to a small hunting knife and needle and thread. He pulls it out and heads back to the coals. He can do figure this out. No need to panic.

There's a little pile of logs by the fireplace, which he shakes the snow off of before tossing them in, hoping they aren't too damp or anything. That would be just his luck, the inability to light a fire in a frozen room.

Thankfully, they aren't too damp. It takes a couple of tries with his numb fingers to get the flint and steel to strike a spark, and another couple tries to get it to light, but it lights nonetheless.

Once the flame takes hold, the room immediately starts to feel a bit warmer, and Scott shudders as his fingers start to tingle with pins and needles. Right, that's taken care of. Maybe now he won't freeze to death.

And then he remembers that there's quite a bit of ice and snow in his room, which will all be melting shortly.

That might be even worse than all the ice, and it's with a panicked hurriedness that Scott starts scooping up the snow in his bare hands and running it to the window to toss it out. He gets a good bit of it (at some point he lifts his blanket off his bed and just shakes it out the window) out, but it's already starting to melt and he can barely feel his fingers and the rug squishes under his feet—

Knock-knock-knock.

Scott curses, wipes his hands off on his dressing robe, and has his hand on the doorknob before he realizes he isn't wearing his veil. He curses again, doubles back to his closet. He doesn't have time to pin the whole thing on, he doesn't have time for any of his—

Scott pulls a veil on over his head and doesn't even bother with any of the pins and ties. It's a long one, meant for trips out, but he just adusts it until his eyes are in the eye-slit and hopes that he doesn't have any hair sticking out.

Then he can get back to the door (he trips over the trailing veil, it wouldn't be long enough to trip over if he'd tied and pinned it properly) and crack it open, sticking his head out.

Surprisingly, he finds not a servant, but Galidre, a junior member of his council. Galidre bows, black robes sweeping the floor.

"Your majesty," they say, straightening. "A representative of the Undergrove is here to speak with you."

"Shubble?" Scott asks, a little bewildered. What does she need?

"Not—not the ruler herself, but an ambassador. I believe they are requesting sanctuary, Milord."

Sanctuary?

That doesn't make any sense. The Grimlands haven't really mobilized anything concrete yet, and as far as Scott was last aware, Mythland and the Lost Empire were both still attacking the Ocean Kingdom.

But Scott doesn't ask questions. He just withdraws and gets dressed (properly pinning his veil this time), then grabs all the towels from the washroom and lays them on his bedroom floor to try and soak up some of the water. Hopefully nobody comes in to clean his room or gather his laundry while he's out.

Last of all, he steps into his very normal boots, pulls on his black gloves, and sets his crown atop his veil.

Perfect. He looks the pinnacle of 'king-mourning-his-fiance', no doubt about it.

He misses Jimmy.

And just as Galidre had suggested, in the meeting with the representative of the Undergrove, Shubble's people are looking for sanctuary.

"There's so few of us, your majesty," the gnome implores, twisting his mushroom hat between his hands. "Less than eight thousand at our last count. We do not ask for you to provide for us, but if we could come to just the foothills of your lands, someplace safe for our children, we promise all able gnomes will serve in your armies."

That isn't asking much. It's asking far less than Scott would have asked, had the situation been reversed, and Scott's bruised heart aches at the humble plea. Can he even bear to turn them away?

"I will . . . I will discuss this matter with my council," Scott tells him, glancing between Galidre and Aphoras, the two advisors present. "I don't wish for any to be harmed while it is in my power to stop it."

If Shubble's worried, it means fWhip is getting ready to attack. Or maybe that Sausage and Joey are leaving their battle, hoping to strike Scott in his complacency. Something's happening soon, and the Undergrove cannot protect itself.

He doesn't want to uproot the gnomes from their new home. The gnomes had appeared in his childhood, three or four thousand of them moving from some unknown, conquered land to take up residence in their own small corner of the world. They've nurtured and cultivated that corner, built a city and begun farms and families, until it became what it is—a lovely little civilization beginning to thrive. To take that away from them would be cruel.

But he has to do it. To save them the destruction of their entire culture, he has to pull the gnomes away from everything they have.

He could make the decision here and now. His mind is already made up, he won't need to discuss this with his council.

But as the gnome hops down from his too-big chair, bowing deeply, Scott knows that there's another way.

He has to end the war.

-

Ending a war is easier said than done. For one, Scott still doesn't really know how to use the artifacts. The crown remains stubbornly unforthcoming with what its use might be, and the boots. . . . Well, the boots don't stop. The next morning when he wakes up, his room is frozen again—and the morning after that. Scott stops bothering to melt it and just pins a 'do not disturb' sign on the door, before moving to sleep in Jimmy's almost-untouched bedroom. That one freezes, too, as well as the sitting room, and Scott gives up on trying to stop the boots from freezing things and just piles blankets onto his bed and puts pans of hot coals in between the sheets for when he needs to sleep. Otherwise, he just stays out of his room and pretends like it isn't covered in ice.

(He doesn't notice, but frost spreads under his desk, and his untouched cups of tea ice over, and every tear he cries freezes on his face.)

(Others notice, though. Ilphas stares when a wave of Scott's hand sends a streak of frost along a wall; a servant cleans his office and is bewildered by the ice everywhere; the eldest of the palace begin whispering rumors of Aeor's Champion, remembering the old songs.)

For another, Scott doesn't really know how or where to meet Xornoth to defeat him. Does he just go outside? Call his brother's name? Hope the demon shows up, despite the wards around Rivendell preventing his entrance?

He really doesn't want to summon the demon. Somehow, that seems like a poor idea. Some part of Scott is certain that demons have the most power right as they've been summoned, and whether that's true or not Scott doesn't want to test. And he'd absolutely rather not have Xornoth in Rivendell.

The only thing he can think to do is meet Sausage's armies at . . . well, at the border of Mythland. It would be a bold show of support for the Ocean Kingdom—he would have either to march his army through Mezelea or sail across the ocean to reach Mythland. It should only be a move to make if he's certain that he's ready to fully enter the war, or if he's certain that Xornoth will be there.

And suddenly it doesn't really matter, because three days after the ambassador from the Undergrove arrives, he receives communication that fWhip has set out for Rivendell, thousands of soldiers at his command.

His hand is forced. Scott sends Gem a quick message, asking if she's been able to create the crystal. When she responds by gushing excitedly about the properties, he tells her to meet him at No Man's Pass, on the far East border of Rivendell.

It only takes two days to mobilize the advance party of his army, prepared as he has been to enter the war. He can but hope (and dread) that Xornoth will be there.

So Scott swallows down his anxieties about not being able to figure out the artifacts (and he really has tried, but he's only had them for a little over a week), swings the Codmade bag with both of them inside over his shoulder, and rides out to meet Xornoth.

With any luck, Aeor will guide.

-

It's a cold morning when Scott steps out of his tent, ready to treaty with fWhip.

Their armies had met the day prior, and both of their generals had agreed to a meeting between leaders to see if they couldn't come to an arrangement of some sort. So Scott steps out, dressed in his most moveable mourning clothes (a short veil tight enough to be almost a scarf around his face and head, a hood pulled over that, billowy black trousers and a belted tunic with an open-front surcoat) and the Boots of Alinar on his feet, the Crown of Alinar a conscious weight in the Codmade bag at his side.

And when he enters the treaty tent, set on a cliff overlooking a rushing river in the shadow of one of Rivendell's mountains, with Ilphas at his side and two guards behind him, there are more people in the tent than he expected.

fWhip he notices first, dressed in his usual black coat and scarf, standing between two guards of his own, elytra clicking idly. But next to him is Sausage (naturally Scott wants to kill him), and next to him is Joey.

Which is entirely unexpected, because as far as Scott is aware, neither of them brought their armies—or any sort of guard—with them. They must have flown over for this confrontation in particular, as if a war wasn't currently happening, as if their own soldiers aren't dying right now.

Scott can barely muster disgust past the fear (fear of what will happen, fear that it won't work, fear because these three men tortured him again and again and if all fails, he'll be at their mercy again).

Also present is Gem, wizard's staff in one hand, a leather bag swung over her shoulder, and Katherine, wings fluttering anxiously behind her.

"I'm here to keep the peace," Katherine says immediately. "I don't know why everyone else is here."

"I'm here because Scott asked me to be," Gem pipes up.

"I'm here to see my Xorny," Joey says obnoxiously.

It's less the idea of Joey dating a demon and more the idea of Joey dating his brother that makes Scott want to vomit. Out of all the men in the world, he picked Xornoth? And out of all the men in the world, Joey is his potential brother-in-law?

Sausage shrugs in a way that makes Scott want to kill him. "I just wanted to see it all go down!" 

"Me too," a voice says behind Scott. Scott whips around—Joel's standing there, looking entirely unrepentant.

He was counting on the fact that there would be some factors within his control, such as who was present—he had only anticipated himself and fWhip and Xornoth.

"All right, this is far too many emperors in one tent," declares Scott. His feathers are standing on end, all of his nerves jangling. This isn't good. Something is going to go sour here. Especially adding Joel to the mix. Joel is hotheaded at the best of times—in the middle of a war, in a tent with the enemy? Scott doesn't trust him to keep cool.

Scott almost doesn't trust himself to keep cool.

"It's like a House Blossom meeting all over again," Sausage says, voice cheery in a way that makes Scott want to stab him through the heart.

"Hey, I'm just here—"

"This does concern me, after all, it's about—"

"Well if it concerns you, then it concerns—"

"—for everyone, so they—"

"—is that Lizzie said that—"

"My lords and ladies, your presence is acknowledged and appreciated," Ilphas steps forward, checking over their shoulder at Scott. Scott nods his go-ahead—he's never been so grateful to have political, stuffy advisors who know how to be polite.

"This is, however, a meeting between Lord Smajor and Count fWhip, and as such, no other rulers are permitted to be in the tent during the meeting."

"Aw, come on!" Sausage whines. If Scott could kill him without breaking a million laws right now. . . .

But they all clear out, even as Joel walks backward, glaring hard at fWhip.

And Scott is left alone with the man (and their combined guards and Ilphas).

fWhip nods toward the table and two chairs that have been set up in the middle of the tent, a clearly-just-unrolled red rug underneath them.

Scott waits. He doesn't plan on implying that he's at fWhip's command.

After a long moment, fWhip shrugs and sits.

It's the little things.

After waiting a sufficient amount of time to establish that he is the one running this conversation, thank you very much, Scott sits across from him.

He's about to speak. He's about to open his mouth and demand a conference with Xornoth. He's about to end this war.

But fWhip leans forward, a small smile playing on his lips.

"I heard it wasn't exactly quick," he says lowly, and Scott has a moment of confusion—quick? what wasn't quick?—before fWhip continues.

"Not as long as Xornoth was gonna make it, of course," he says, eyes fixed on Scott (and goosebumps spontaneously appear all over Scott's body as he flashes back to those six days in captivity). "If Xornoth got your little fish boy, he was gonna make it long. I heard some of his plans—something about making you watch as he slowly skinned him—?"

Before he even knows what he's doing, Scott's on his feet, hand dragging fWhip up by his collar, pulling him halfway across the table as the man lets out a surprised, choked noise.

"Milord," says Ilphas sharply, tugging on the back of Scott's robe.

Scott shoves fWhip back in his chair (which rocks onto its back legs from the force), hands shaking—whole body shaking, trembling with something like the grief-stricken rage Lizzie had shown at Jimmy's funeral. He—just to casually—casually mention torturing his dead fiance and—and Scott knows he's doing it on purpose, he knows it's to get a rise out of him, and he finds that he just doesn't care.

fWhip's guards step forward, though, weapons raised, and with Ilphas firmly pushing down on his shoulders, Scott sits back down, his gloved hands balled into fists.

He isn't going to stand for this. He isn't going to let fWhip sit there and just speak such filth about his beloved.

But he can't do anything. Not yet.

It gives him a bit of satisfaction to see fWhip ruffled, collar upturned and hair out of place. But fWhip just fixes a stupidly smug look on his face and crosses his arms.

"Scott, we both know you can't threaten me anymore," he chuckles. "Not since I beat you, whipped you, branded you with my own signet . . . there's absolutely nothing about you that I find scary. You've literally begged me for mercy way too many times for that, my friend."

Scott forces himself to breathe deeply, let his fists relax, even as the faded whipping scars on his back twinge in memory. He has to—he has to get control of himself, he has to conduct this in a kingly manner. It doesn't matter that he was tortured by this man, it doesn't matter that his fiance died mere weeks ago (over a month ago, his mind supplies, it's been over a month and the world has somehow gone on), it doesn't matter that he's only a hundred and nine, for Aeor's sake, he is a king and he has to act like one.

"We are here—" he starts, but fWhip interrupts.

"Xornoth only wants one thing. Well," he laughs a little, "a couple of things. World domination is pretty high on his priority list. But he wants you to give up the god, Scott. He already knows you're Aeor's Champion or whatever that is, so you are his best chance at finding the other one. After all, you've got a very rare direct connection to a god yourself!"

That . . . that doesn't make any sense.

The other one? Aeor is the only god that Scott knows of that happens to be living (other than Exor, who Xornoth is already irrevocably bound to). Are there others alive? Others that he's somehow meant to know about?

It doesn't really matter, Scott supposes. He's here to end this war and that's allowed.

"That subject is not the purpose of this meeting," Scott says stiffly, ignoring the chill that runs down his spine at those words that he'd heard so many times in his nightmares. "The purpose—"

"Yeah, yeah, you want me to not bring the war to you or something, trying to convince me to leave your people alone," fWhip waves. "Your people mean nothing to me. I'll kill them if you make me, but if you don't want me to do that, I have a couple of terms. So—"

"That is not what I intended to discuss," Scott says icily, smoothing out a wrinkle in his tunic.

fWhip raises an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Then what?"

Scott leans a bit closer, all of his instincts screaming for him to move further away. "I am here to demand a meeting with Xornoth," he says, forcing every ounce of cold anger that he feels into his words. "He has tormented these lands for long enough. My business is with him and him alone."

fWhip scoffs. "If you've got business with him, you've got it with me," he says. "So, go on. Say your piece."

You know what? Sure. Scott doesn't mind killing two of his tormentors in one go. First fWhip, then Xornoth. He can absolutely do that.

But Ilphas's hand falls on his shoulder, as if they know exactly what he's thinking of. It would be very, very bad politically to kill fWhip right here and now.

"You misunderstand me," Scott says, and his stomach flips because this is it, it's time to save the world and he doesn't know if he has the strength to do it, and he doesn't let his voice waver but he does let his breath catch— "I mean to kill him."

fWhip bursts out laughing. "Sorry—are you serious? You kill Xornoth? Like, I admire the initiative, but you're the weakest person I know! At least, the weakest living person."

Scott ignores the jab at Jimmy, as disgusting as it is. He just settles back in his chair, crosses his legs.

Eventually, fWhip stops laughing, and his cheerful demeanor drops into a glare alarmingly quickly, quickly enough that it unsettles Scott more than anything fWhip's said so far.

"Your funeral, Smajor," he says darkly. "It'll be nice to get you out of the way."

The lamp on the table goes out, bathing them in a cool dimness.

Scott's heart leaps into his throat.

He doesn't dare breathe in the sudden stillness.

The lamp flickers back to life, the once-yellow flame now a deep red.

The tent, which had been almost frigid for some reason, rapidly begins to heat to an unbearable temperature. Sweat breaks out on Scott's forehead, rolling down his back, dripping down his cheek. It's like he stepped into the Nether, hot enough that his head starts to feel dizzy and his stomach unsteady.

The table begins to rattle, quiet at first, then faster and faster and louder and louder. The ground begins to shake, actually, rumbling and trembling, and the tent walls are flapping in a sudden roaring wins and Scott knows he's coming he knows he's here—

The tent pulls free of the stakes and completely flies apart, the red light spilling outward over the darkening plain, much further than a lantern's light ought to go. Scott shoves back his chair and stands, surcoat whipping around him, searching the skies for any sign of his brother.

Scott's never really seen the demon up close. He's briefly seen him (outside of their youth) twice. Once was from a distance in the End, Xornoth standing atop a tower to watch the battle to save the dragon. The other time was just a brief encounter, Xornoth appearing behind him while visiting the Overgrown close to a year ago, seemingly to do nothing but spook him.

And now, as Xornoth appears before him, Scott loses sight of all his anger. He can't feel anything but cold fear.

Again, Scott's never really seen the demon up close. And as he stares now, feet rooted to the ground, he doesn't see a single sign of the brother he once knew.

Xornoth, like Scott, is dressed all in black, but where Scott's mourning clothing is carefully fashioned and clean, Xornoth's black robes are torn, his dark armor unshined and grimy. His feet are shod with armored boots, his hands with leather gloves, and upon his head is what could either be a literal pair of black antlers or the red-streaked crown of Exor's Champion, a crude mockery of the one hanging at Scott's side.

His face is distorted, blackened, eyes bulbous and entirely maroon, mouth far too large and cutting jaggedly into his cheeks. His ears are still somewhat elvish, poking through his straggly black hair (which had always been purple as a child), which trails down his shoulders and chest.

Whatever that demon is, Scott can barely picture his brother in its place.

Yet it is his brother, here and now, and Xornoth is standing atop a boulder on the edge of the cliff, dark veins of red spreading out from it through the earth, cracking apart stone and solid dirt. Soldiers and rulers that had been milling about leap back, weapons raised.

And echoing through Scott's head and bones and the stifling air around him is a voice that hasn't haunted him in decades.

"Well, brother," Xornoth says, their blackened lips stretching inhumanly, pointed teeth bared. "You think you can destroy me?"

Scott's really starting to think he can't. The very air is thick with the stench of brimstone, so much so that members of his army are doubled over coughing, and the wind is howling and the skies are dark and there's maroon smoke rising from the ground and Scott can't breathe, he's choking on his own air and he doesn't even know what he's supposed to do—

But he doesn't fall to his knees, even as Katherine does beside him. He doesn't cover his ears and squint his eyes shut, like Joel does.

Instead, he fumbles open his bag and pulls out the Crown of Antlers, which he trades out for the crown on his head.

And Xornoth's smile falters.

His gaze travels down, down to Scott's feet.

Scott taps a booted toe against the ground.

"That's right," Scott calls out, above the whistling of the furnace-like wind and the coughing of the soldiers. "I have the artifacts. I'm going to bind you and your master, never to return again."

Almost as if caused by his words, spoken with a conviction that he forces himself to feel, the wind changes directions. The sweat on Scott's back freezes. fWhip, mere steps away from Scott, coughs, his breath appearing before him in a puff of smoke.

"You don't know how to use those," Xornoth sneers, but despite the years it's been since they last spoke, despite how unrecognizable he truly is, Scott knows his brother. He knows that when his voice becomes harshest is at his moments of uncertainty, determined to command his way out of any problem.

That means he's scared. He knows what Scott can do to him.

(Even if Scott doesn't know it himself.)

"Gem," he calls over his shoulder, and within moments she's at his side. "I'll need you to hold the crystal while I bind him, all right?" he says, quieter.

She nods, reaches into her sleek leather satchel and pulls out a huge, clear crystal, bigger than Scott's own hand. It shimmers slightly, gold specks scattered throughout that somehow shine with the sun hidden by the dark grey skies. She hefts it up, mouth in a grim line.

Scott nods back to her, then takes a step forward, one arm up to shield his eyes as the wind and heat get stronger the nearer he gets to Xornoth. Another step. Another.

There's a crack in the air, deafeningly loud, and Scott only has a moment to register that Xornoth has vanished in a cloud of black smoke before a literal tentacle bursts out of the stoney ground right in front of him, sending chunks of rock flying, and wraps around Scott's middle.

It lifts him into the air, a sizzling sound and uncomfortable heat against his body and wings telling him that it's burning through his clothes and feathers, and Scott struggles against it to try and pull his wings free but it's holding tightly to him, raising him higher and higher into the air—

And then it stops.

Ice is gathering where Scott's fists have been beating against the tentacle, gathering and spreading down, and though it melts almost instantly it simply reforms, until the tentacle begins to slowly recede into the ground.

Scott stumbles out of its grasp and onto blessed solid ground (he loves being in the air but not like that), and Xornoth himself appears right in front of him.

The demon moves, arm reaching out, mouth stretching open, Scott's arms fly up to shield his face—

"Stop," Scott gasps blindly, putting as much compulsion as he can into the one word, even though he doesn't even know what he's commanding Xornoth to stop doing.

The wind calms to almost nothing. Ice crackles across the ground. The air becomes frigid, though the terrible smell still lingers.

Scott lets his arms lower from blocking his vision, terrified of what he might find. Dear Aeor, his legs are utterly trembling, but he doesn't have the time to collapse.

And he finds that Xornoth is standing motionless before him, face twisted in rage.

"Gem," Scott says, voice too loud for the sudden silence, heart pounding in his ears. "The crystal—Gem, now—"

Gem hurries forward, holds it out, and Scott musters everything he has in him and commands, making the words up as he goes, "Xornoth, Exor, and those demons within you, I bind you by the power of Aeor to this crystal, never to be free from it again."

He waits, breath tight in his chest.

Nothing happens. Xornoth glances down, eyes catching on Scott's waist, and chuckles.

"I bind you!" Scott says again. This has to work. He has the crown, he has the boots, he has the crystal, this should be working—

He shoves all the imagined power he can through the air, as if to push Xornoth bodily into the crystal, this has to work he's getting desperate—

He's knocked backward with a sudden force, a blast of frost and ice coming from his own body, and Scott hits the ground and rolls through the dust, bumping his elbows and knees and hips, his veil getting caught under him and tearing down off his face.

He lays there for a moment—he can't afford a moment, but he can't breathe—and when he gets up, pushing himself up on his gloved hands, he sees—

Xornoth is frozen, a giant block of ice encasing him. The crystal is on the ground, twinkling under a blanket of frost.

And Gem is on the ground too, slumped as if dead, hair white as snow.

No—no—

"What'd you do to my sister!" fWhip shouts, rushing forward to Gem. He kneels down beside her, pulls her into his lap, starts shaking her.

Scott struggles to his knees, tugs off his torn gloves with shaking hands. He didn't—he didn't mean to hurt anyone, he didn't mean to hit Gem—he doesn't know what he's doing, he was just trying to fix everything but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do—Aeor, please—

He stumbles up, the lace of one boot getting caught under his foot and coming entirely undone.

Ice is everywhere. Great chunks of it around the plateau, coating every bit of ground in a sheet, the one tree growing in the tough dirt entirely uprooted and frozen.

Those members of his and fWhip's armies that are closest to the treaty grounds are dusting frost from their uniforms, some of them picking themselves up from the ground where the force of the blast had knocked them.

He didn't know the boots could do this. He didn't want to do this. He didn't mean for this to happen, he didn't want this to happen—

"You—!"

And before Scott can even really process everything, fWhip is barreling into him, sending him right back to the ground with an "oof".

"I'm gonna—" fWhip starts, straddling Scott's stomach, eyes wild and face red with anger, but a CRACK! that shoots through the air gives him pause.

Everyone, slowly, trancelike, turns to where the frozen Xornoth remains, and the large crack that's splintering down the ice encasing him.

With strength that must come from Aeor himself, Scott shoves fWhip off (he ignores the way fWhip's jacket goes stiff with ice) and rolls to his feet, stumbling toward Xornoth, scooping up the crystal on his way.

And then he doesn't know what to do.

He holds up the crystal beside the frozen chunk of ice that holds Xornoth, willing it to do something, anything.

"I bind you," he chokes out, pressing the crystal through the crack and into Xormoth's chest. "Come on. . . . I bind you!"

The ice shatters from Xornoth with a wave of heat that blasts Scott back, knocking the crystal from his hand as he once again hits the ground hard on his back (all the breath is forced out of his lungs and it hurts) and slides a couple of feet, feathers turning the wrong way and getting torn out.

Scott scrambles to regain his bearings—he can't breathe and everything hurts—but before he can even get from more than a sitting position, a foul-smelling boot kicks him in the chin and his head snaps backward, sending him back down.

He opens watering eyes, blinking several times to clear their blurriness, arms splayed out at his sides. Xornoth stands over him, radiating heat, the dark clouds in the sky behind him seeming to swell.

"You think you can trap me in a little piece of glass?" Xornoth growls, and when Scott again tries to get up, pushing himself up with his arms against the gravelly ground, he again kicks him down, knocking his head against the stone.

No. No, he has to save them—he can hear people shouting, he can hear screams, he's Aeor's Champion, this isn't how the story is supposed to go—

Xornoth laughs, cruel and derisive, before bending down over Scott and gripping one gloved hand in the front of his tunic. He drags him up, up to standing, his tunic tearing just slightly.

Scott can barely even struggle. His body feels like jelly, wings hanging limply behind him, legs almost unable to support his own weight.

He tried. He tried so hard.

Xornoth's face is so close to his that Scott can smell his reeking breath, see how the points of his black teeth glisten with saliva, but he can't even find the strength to tip his head back, get away from him.

"Even your little fish boy fought harder than this," sneers Xornoth, only loud enough for Scott to hear, and Scott's heart breaks.

Jimmy.

He just wants Jimmy.

Somehow, if Jimmy had been here, it all would have been okay.

A tear slips down his bare face. Scott swallows back a sob, brings up his fumbling arms and weakly pushes at Xornoth's hand.

Ice spreads across his glove, and Xornoth hisses before throwing Scott down. He lands hard on his side, feels one of his ribs crack with a flash of white-hot pain, and he can't do anything but lie there and try to breath through it.

"I am Xornoth," the demon declares, voice echoing around the cliff, and the armies waiting on either side quiet, the only sound Xornoth's voice and the once-again rushing wind. "I am the ruler of this world. The so-called king of Rivendell tried to challenge me, and has failed. If any of you who followed him wish to feel my mercy, give up your arms now."

Scott knows his people. He knows that despite his youth, despite some unpopularity among older generations, his people care too much for him (for tradition, for his family) to renounce him.

And he can't let that happen. He's done for. He failed.

Rivendell needs to surrender.

Scott raises his head, just a little bit, some grit that had been stuck to his cheek falling to the stony ground, and looks around—there.

He catches Ilphas's eye—Ilphas, standing at the forefront of his army, their grey cloak slipping from their shoulder and hair out of place but their chin held high and stance dignified—and ignores the abject horror painting their face, then gives the tiniest, most minute nod.

They blink several times, and if Scott didn't know any better, he'd think they were crying. They nod in return, though, and turn away, calling instructions to surrender.

Xornoth nudges Scott with the toe of his boot. "This is your king," he spits. "And he is dead."

Before Scott can do anything, before he can so much as move, another maroon tentacle cracks out of the ground beside him, burning hot, and wraps around his legs.

It's all Scott can do not to scream—this tentacle is far hotter than the other, burning straight through his trousers to his skin, but before he can try to squirm away, it drags him up into the air upside-down and throws him.

Scott doesn't even have time to process the wind rushing through his ears before he slams into the ground, knocking his head against a rock in a way that makes his vision flash black and grainy and sends pain jolting through his entire head.

Xornoth stalks toward him, he sees, through blurry vision red with pain, he says something—something terrible and pulsing—Scott scrambles back, his palms bleeding against the rough texture of the cliff, he just has to survive he just has to survive—

Xornoth grabs him by the right wing, pulls him up as the delicate bone strains, Scott tries to even out his weight to his feet but he can't find his footing—

The bone in his wing snaps and Scott doesn't have the energy to scream, his breath releasing in a little gasp. No . . . no. . . .

He meets Xornoth's eyes, the world hazy.

There's no pity to be found in those dark pits. No mercy. Only satisfaction.

And Scott knows, right then and there, with a clarity that cuts through all the pain and haziness, that he's dying.

He failed.

He failed all of them.

And with a burst of hot power from Xornoth, Scott is once again flying through the air and then he's falling, down, down, the wind buffeting his back as he goes over the cliff, his right wing thrown uselessly this way and that as his left wing tries valiantly to save him but his weight is too much, and with a gross clunk and a white hot burst of pain, it slips out of the socket.

Before Scott can scream, before he can pray, before he can do anything but twist his body in the air to face nose down, he hits freezing water and blacks out.

The last thing he thinks, mind desperately spinning, is that at least he won't have to live so alone anymore.

-

His body aches, pulsing up and down, from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his toes, traveling up each limb and down each vein. Everything hurts, in ways that he can't quite understand.

The stag steps carefully through the forest, over gnarled tree roots and clumps of grass, each step rocking him from right to left.

Scott takes in a slow breath, body slumping further against the stag. The fingers of his right hand loosely grasp its hair, his left arm hanging at his side.

He just wants to fall asleep. He's so tired, and it all hurts so much that he can't even think. He just wants to sleep.

But he blinks slowly instead, watches as a squirrel skitters up the bark of a huge oak tree. A deer pokes its head out from behind a birch, its ears twitching curiously. Somewhere in the branches above, a chickadee sings its repeating song.

Scott lets his breath out in a long sigh. His body rolls with the slow trundle of the stag, jostling his various uncategorized wounds.

He swallows, throat dry.

Maybe he can sleep here. On the back of the stag. Let it carry him to wherever it intends to go.

He's so tired.

The ground below gets softer, bit by bit, the dirt becoming darker, the grass more frequent. The stag's hooves begin to leave impressions in the ground, the grass springing up after every step. A frog croaks from nearby, low and long. The leaves on the trees start hanging lower and lower, dripping down into puddles of murky water.

And then, the dirt now mud and squishing with every step, the stag stops.

Scott should see why it stopped. He should lift his pounding head, see what's before them, because surely if it's important enough to stop the stag he has to see what it is.

But he doesn't have the strength.

As his body is pushed, further and further—

After a long moment, the stag bends its neck, head dipping low in an arc, and Scott begins to slide forward, his fingers slipping from their limp grasp, his body leaving streaks of red in the brilliant white hair.

He slowly slides further, further, until he rolls between the stag's antlers, his tunic catching on a sharp antler and pulling a long tear down the side, before he slowly falls into a clear pool of water.

He sinks, red billowing up in the water around him—

Sinking, water filling his lungs, so much weighing him down and down—

Down and down, until his toes meet silty mud at the bottom.

He hangs there, in the water, letting it wash away his aches and pains and all the blood, and he sighs, bubbles spilling from his lips.

He's so tired.

A fish swims up to him—a cod—

Hands under his arms and pulling at his tunic, dragging him up onto a rocky shore scraping his back—

It noses at him, pokes him hard in the chest—

Pressing on his chest, harder and harder, again and again and it hurts—

And then swims up to between his eyes (it takes a moment to come back into focus) and stares at him, eyes large and somehow desperate.

And he sees, wavering in and out, desperate and beautiful brown eyes.