#i hate the cold; I hate ice; cold air hurts my skin and burns my lungs

[manasurge]

Tis' the season where I mentally and physically suffer. Complaining below (feel free to ignore, I'm just venting. I usually do this every year to get most of it out of my system lol):

mmm the fall/winter SAD is indeed in full swing. No warmth + no sun = a bad bad time. I always get so annoyed when ppl assume that I love winter bc I'm a "winter baby", as if that has any sort of divine intervention on instantaneously adapting you to perfectly fit the climate you were born in. NOPE. Silly human superstition. I start to freeze once it hits below 20C. I wish I lived in a warmer climate o|-< The depresso is probably going to make me very whiny and moody until next spring, so an early forewarning bc I'm EXTREMELY annoying about it this time of year bc it's the only way I know how to deal with it. But moreso in addition to the physical stuff is how badly it messes with my mind, making me so depressed to the point of just... sitting in non-moving silence where I become stiff as a board (very painful btw) and I isolate, making the bad depresso brain time even worse where I overthink everything bc of the silence and isolation. It's also always the time of year where everyone goes quiet too, which is understandable, but also makes things 10x worse (I am very alone in my life and where I am, and kind of rely on online friends bc they're all I have. I don't even have a pet. I'm literally just, loner mode. I don't really have much family to speak of, and only one family member I do speak to. I have little to no connections at all. But regardless, this is still the best living situation I've been in my whole life, so that's saying something).

[little-diable]

Hate Me - Jasper Hale (smut)

Gotta love the good ole' enemies to lovers moment. Please like and reblog if you enjoyed reading this, your comments keep us writers motivated! Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: Ever since Jasper had pushed her away all those years ago, she had hated him, set on avoiding him. But when their university task pushes them together once again, (y/n) can't escape the love she had always fostered for him.

Warnings: 18+, smut, piv, enemies to lovers, just pwp really

Pairing: Jasper Hale x fem!reader (2.3k words)

“(Y/n)!” His voice echoed through the hallway, catching the attention of those standing close. She kept staring ahead, not giving into his call as her feet carried her closer towards the exit. Her frustration urged her on, making her walk even faster with her thoughts racing and her heart painfully clenching in her chest. 

“Wait, (y/n), c’mon!” With a huff ripping through her, (y/n) pushed open the old, wooden door to let the warm summer air engulf her, cozying her along–at least until she felt his cold hand on her wrist. She was forced to a halt, and yet her eyes didn’t find his golden ones, she wouldn’t give in, not to the man she detested with every fibre of her body. 

“We both will fail the class if we don’t do this together.” Jasper’s rasped words left her groaning in annoyance. Slowly, she turned towards him, staring up at the handsome man she had hated for years, chasing the ever growing distance between them. 

“As if you care about my grades. Fuck off, Jasper.” She tried to rip herself free, though without any luck. Jasper’s grasp only grew tighter, pulling her even closer into his muscular chest. Her pupils grew slightly wider at the smirk tugging on his lips, seeing right through the game he wanted to play with her. 

“I couldn’t care less about your grades, (y/n), but you won’t be the reason I’ll fail this class.” His cold touch felt like ice burning itself through her skin, leaving marks that won’t ever fade. Something inside of her grew excited at the thought of being marked by him, forever clinging to the man who had treated her like his enemy ever since that godforsaken day years ago. 

“I’ll be at your place at seven, it’s not like you’re busy tonight, is it?” She didn’t reply to his question, all she did was rip herself free–successfully this time–and leave with another angry huff. All while his loud laughter rang in her ears. 

……

Ever since that moment, (y/n) hadn’t been able to distract her, mind fully taken up by everything surrounding Jasper Hale. The man she had crossed paths with years ago. The man she had originally thought to be her friend, only to be pushed away the second they had grown somewhat closer. The man who clearly harboured more secrets than he let on–secrets she had sworn to uncover one day. Payback for the day where he had pushed her from him with spiteful, hurtful words she could still recite. 

The sound of Jasper softly knocking on her door ripped (y/n) out of her hazy thoughts, forced to let the man into her small apartment. They held eye contact for a second as he stepped into her comfort space, instantly forcing her heart to pick up its beat. 

“Let’s get this over and done with fast, please.” (Y/n)’s murmurs left Jasper chuckling as he plopped down on her couch. He kept quiet as he opened his laptop, typing away while she sat down on the opposite end, not wanting to sit close to the man her heart still ached for. 

Every now and then, (y/n) couldn’t help but wonder if they could have made it, found back together after he’d apologise for being such a fool. Deep down, she knew that he’d been scared of whatever he found himself being held back with. But whatever it was that had forced him from their growing relationship, she couldn’t help but curse it.

“Staring is impolite, (y/n).” Jasper didn’t look at her as he spoke, eyes focused on his notes–and yet he wore his signature smirk, dripping with confidence and arrogance. It took her more strength than she let on to keep quiet, to stay away from the trap he had laid out for her. 

“Which part will you focus on?” She thumbed through their book, knowing that they had to divide the parts they were supposed to work on. Only as Jasper stayed quiet, not replying to her question, did she allow herself to look at him again. But he had refocused his gaze onto her picture wall, seemingly staring at the old picture of the two she still hadn’t taken off the wall.

“Just one picture, please, Jas.” Her whispers filled her room. (Y/n) was laying on his chest, staring up at her friend while she toyed with her phone. 

For the past few days she had tried to convince him to take a picture with her for her wall, adding another memory to the ever growing collection. His hand danced up and down her side, moving slower as he pondered over her words. The sigh rumbling through him drew a chuckle out of (y/n), knowing she had finally won this round. 

With his lips finding her cheek, he momentarily distracted her, forcing (y/n) to focus on the growing crush she couldn’t shake.  

“I haven't found the time to take it off yet.” Her murmurs managed to gain his attention, letting his golden eyes find hers. All Jasper did was nod his head before refocusing on his notes. An uncomfortable silence filled her apartment, wrapping itself around the two like a thin fog set on robbing their sight. 

“Let me work on chapter one to five, you can do the others.” And with his raspy voice echoing through her mind, (y/n) nodded at him before shaking off the hurt she had to bury deep inside of her whenever she crossed paths with Jasper. 

……

“You need to focus on the details, (y/n), he won’t like this.” Exhaustion clung to her, guiding her while Jasper spoke. They had been working in silence for the past hour, not daring to break through the invisible wall between them. At least until this very moment where they had exchanged their writings. 

“I added enough details, just like you. Can you stop being an asshole for once?” Spite dripped from her words, rolling off her tongue like a waterfall cascading down her chin, wrapping her in its icy embrace. 

Both were staring at one another, wordlessly communicating whatever they were feeling. She was too distracted on the next words she wanted to speak, insults she was about to spit his way, to notice him moving closer with an unfamiliar kind of determination. 

“If I’m such an asshole, then why haven’t you managed to get over your crush on me?” His words robbed her of any air lingering in her lungs. (Y/n) found herself spiralling, trying to come up with a reply that was lost on her the second his lips found hers. It was their first ever proper kiss, filled with emotions she couldn't see through, too distracted by the way her heart started racing, by the ache in her lungs, and the anticipation thumping through her veins. 

With his arms finding their way around her waist, he pulled (y/n) into his lap. They kept kissing one another, letting it grow hungrier with every passing moment, with tangled tongues and burning bodies. Confusion kept buzzing through her, and yet (y/n) didn’t allow herself to give in to her thoughts, trying to stay focused on their kiss. 

“Fuck, you drive me insane.” Jasper murmured his words against her lips, making her shudder. (Y/n) wanted to bite back, wanted to find the strength to push him away and make him suffer just like he had made her suffer all those years ago. But she couldn’t, not when he kissed her with an unfamiliar hunger, robbing her of her last strength. 

“I hate you, I hate you so much.” (Y/n) moaned her words as Jasper flipped them around to press her against the couch. Their bodies searched for one another like two magnets perfectly fitting together, forming an unity neither could ever escape again. 

“Keep on telling that to yourself, baby.” His cold lips kissed their way down her throat while his hands disappeared beneath her shirt to pull it over her head. Something inside of (y/n) began to shift, forcing her emotions to turn from hatred to lust, a sudden change that felt as if somebody else was now regulating her emotions.

Every sentence, every command was lost on her tongue the second he freed her from her bra to kiss her breasts, sucking on the hardening nubs while his middle was pressed against hers. She felt his hardening cock pressing against her, drawing yet another moan from her while Jasper shifted his weight to free himself from his shirt before he tugged on her trousers. 

“You may think you hate me, but I promise you, the second you cum on my cock you will forget all your hatred for me.” The promises he spoke left her shuddering, silently hoping that he’d stick to them. 

“Stop speaking and touch me, Jasper.” Her whined words forced Jasper to move again, to let his fingers push her damp panties aside with hurried movements. Neither of them cared about dragging out this moment, neither of them cared about wasting time with simple movements, fully focused on their own highs and the confusing emotions thumping through their systems. 

His cold fingers circled her pulsing bundle while he sucked marks into her skin, marking every inch she offered to his hungry mouth. She was his, always had been, no matter how much both had tried to avoid this bond that had been reawakened today. There was no escaping, not today, not tomorrow, not ever.

“I will fuck you now, and you will thank me for it like the good girl you are. Stop lying to yourself and accept that you’ll always be mine.” She wanted to protest, wanted to tell him that he had been the one to push her away, but (y/n) could only hum, could only give in without any words leaving her.

With her slightly glassy eyes, she watched Jasper rise to his feet to pull out of his remaining clothes, exposing the body she had always been drawn to. He was everything she had always imagined, and yet so much more. She hated herself for longing for him, hated that it felt as if she was burning for him, high on his touch, but no matter how much she wanted to fight against it, she couldn’t. 

Jasper found his way back to her, wordlessly he stared down at her with waiting eyes, knowing that he would only give in with her spoken consent. A shaky breath left (y/n) before she pulled him in for a teeth-clashing kiss, allowing herself to relax for a second while a soft “Fuck me, Jasper” left her.

With a smirk tugging on his cold lips, Jasper positioned himself at her entrance to slowly push into her. Both moaned in unison as he sunk into her tightness, engulfed by her fluttering walls that pulled him even further in. Neither of them had the patience to waste any more time, needing to cling to one another while he fucked her into the couch.

His cold fingertips dug into her skin as he pulled her leg around his waist, allowing him to fuck her even deeper. The new position left her trembling, forcing her fingernails to scratch at his skin in hopes of being able to hold on, to cling to this moment. Neither of them managed to comment on it, on the way he filled her perfectly, how it felt as if she had solemnly been crafted for him, for this very moment. 

“I always knew fucking you would be my end, you’re fucking perfect, baby.” She moaned at his praises, searching his lips with her hand buried in his golden curls. Sweat pearled on her forehead as Jasper fucked her closer towards the edge, already feeling her walls clench around him. Her moans grew breathier, chasing that blinding feeling no other man had managed to push through her thus far. 

“Jasper,” his name rolled off her tongue like an early morning prayer, spoken for His ears only. “Touch me, I need your fingers.”

His cold digits found their way back to her pulsing bundle, moving fast enough to leave her choking on her gasps. She was too far gone to pick up on the amazement filling his pupils, a sensation so intense, neither of them could put it into words. 

It felt as if her fingernails were close to breaking his skin, drawing blood from the body that hadn’t been filled by a single drop of blood for years. And without another warning, (y/n) arched her back off the couch as her orgasm flushed through her, robbing her of the last air lingering in her lungs. 

Jasper kept snapping his hips, burying his cock deeper inside her heat in search of his own release. (Y/n) could only watch him as he came, letting go of a deep moan while she clung to him as if he was her life vest, the one to save her before she could drown in her darkening thoughts. 

“Thank you.” (Y/n) whispered the words against his curls as Jasper nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck. Her words left him chuckling before he kissed his way up to her lips while he stared at her with an unreadable expression tugging on his handsome features. 

“This is the end of our game, I won’t allow you to hate me any longer, from now on you’re mine. And I will never make the same mistake twice and let you go again.”

[sunnylands-world]

Neon green

Pairing: draco x fem reader

Summary: you and the rest of the students have graduated from Hogwarts but when you come back things change for you and your enemy...

Word count: 823

Warning: p in v, talks of Dead people, enemies to lovers in my very bad style of writing 😬

Universe: Harry Potter

A/n: I hope you like this. I'm extremely sorry for the wait. I hate making my requesters wait weeks for a fanfiction but I hope I make it worth the wait for you guys. Love you all 💗

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You never were sure how you hated him; and you were even less sure as you heavily inhaled his scent, trying to grasp onto something in this reality as he buried himself inside you. None of it would be fitting as you think back to days where you chewed your lip in frustration and your fist balled at your side. A part of your heart was set ablaze looking into his eyes. Not from love but from sadness.

He'd been so ugly to others and yet he had moments that put a twist in your chest like a sad movie. The sad blonde boy was a bully. He was beautiful though, intelligent and loyal to those he was actually close to. You friends so suffered from his torture would be disgusted and you wanted to say sorry but the only thing leaving your mouth was cries of pleasure.

Can someone's good qualities really weigh more than their bad ones?

Your eyes glazed with tears of endearment and your body shook in the intense intimacy of it all. His breath was shallow like he'd pass out. All those years of pain and yet he still managed to make you feel like you needed to hold him, care for him.

"I've wanted you for so long" he sighed, hands beside your head gently holding him above you. You were trapped, not only with this position but inside. A piece of you always fighting for him even after he hurt people.

When you saw him across the lot his blue eyes gleamed by the tree he used to sit in and his hand rested on the old bark. You couldn't stop yourself from walking his way. You did so stubbornly, walking slowly like being near him made your blood boil but when he saw you he looked guilty.

you chewed the inside of your cheek to fight your curiosity, the burn to care. Remember what he did, remember he hurt your friends, your thoughts repeated and soon you were biting your cheek enough to fill your mouth with the coin taste of blood. How could you be near him after what he did? How could you walk over here like he wasn't responsible for deaths? How could you even breathe his air?

Breathe his air

"I'm sorry" he moaned softly, seeing the tears in your eyes and you only whined in response. You were dancing in flames and ice. It felt so good but made you burn with guilt as he slammed harder. If he could bring you pleasure and make you forget he'd do so until he was the only thing buried in your thoughts. Your hands moved to his back and hissed. It took you a while to realize you were breaking the skin.

Were you pulling him deeper inside your sensitive walls or trying to hurt him?

The tears falling from your eyes could have been from pleasure or sadness for your friends who will never breathe again. He didn't stop you as drew blood from his pale skin he only leaned in closer to your neck. His wet tongue touches you lightly along with his Breath. He kissed you softly, whispering about how he hoped you'd forgive him but he'd cuss every now and then as clenched around him or when his tip, just as sensitive as you, hit the soft spot inside you.

Your head falls back giving him more access to your neck as you soft moans fill the air. You were stung like a trader as you called out to him wrapping your legs around his waist. It was like swimming in a pond of lust. Cold water felt heated, the deepest, dirtiest things said out loud and did as god watched from above. Part of you knew you should stop and beg for forgiveness but it felt so good and so intense as it rushed through your veins.

You floated in the river hunger for more, dripping for anyone willing to offer you touch and in walks Draco Malfoy making you weaker with every whisper and touch of his finger tip. His blonde hair was sweaty like his skin and you know the cuts you made would burn. He was so beautiful like this, desperate for you and groaning and grunting as he went deeper. It was almost evil how he ruined you, chasing his end.

In this moment you loved him with the burn in your belly and hated him with your thoughts. This was the start of a wildfire, so much trouble would be caused but this is why they called bad boys troublemakers. Once you get a taste of the sweet heaven, lord knows he'd never hear you ask for him again unless you were screaming his name while committing a sin.

Everyone wants to go to heaven but you experienced it on earth and you hated how good it felt Cumming for the enemy…

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Draco lovers and requests

@alexxavicry, @sarahthehuffpuff, @supercoffeeblogs, @thatwattpadobsessed, @kyracanwrite, @animeloverfreak310, @imafangirl22, @phildunphyisadilf, @jac1ndaa , @lovelycassy

[j-eryewrites]

Something You Taught Me

MAIN MASTER LIST

REQUEST PROMPT (from anonymous): Maybe a sherlock fluff where reader is sick and sherlock takes care of them? I just absolutely adore the way you write fluff :)

Thank you so much for this prompt. I love writing fluff especially when it helps me get out of a writing slump! Thank you so much for the request.

Word Count: 1. k

Warnings: Major fluff, sick-fic (mentions of symptoms, the flu, etc.), Sherlock realizes that he is in love. 

______

There was one thing that was guaranteed with the winter months. One thing that Y/N terribly hated, getting sick. It seemed to be unavoidable no matter how many vitamins they took, how healthy they ate, or how much they exercised. They always seemed to get sick. Now, if it were just the common cold, then it would not be so much of a burden. However, when Y/N got sick, they were bedridden for at least two days. 

Two never-ending days where their muscles ached too much to move. Y/N often thought if they tried to move all the bones in their body would shatter…or they’d puke. One or the other. Both are horrible options. But the worst side effect of being sick was boredom. There were only so many books they could read, or hours spent on the couch binging the latest television series before the dread set in. 

It was moments like these, that Y/N began to understand why Sherlock would do the things he did: shooting guns, creating bizarre experiments, composing new songs, chasing after criminals, solving case after case, bothering John, having tea with Mrs Hudson, and plotting out new ideas to piss off his brother. 

Y/N pondered the idea of being Sherlock for one day. Oh, the things they could do and the trouble they’d get into. Soon the thought weighed on their mind just as the weight of their bones sunk into the soft mattress below them. 

Suddenly, there was a knock. A singular knock. It was loud and clear. Then came the silence. A breath was taken before the onslaught of banging began. That knock could only belong to one person and one person only: Sherlock. 

Y/N groaned. This was the worst possible time. The sweat on their burning forehead made their hair stick. They were still wearing their pyjamas from two nights ago. Feeling a twitch in the back of their throat, Y/N quickly reached for the tissues next to them, just before a thunderous sneeze ripped through the air. 

As their nostrils cleared for the 7th time that day, Y/N realized that the banging had stopped. Instead, the sound was replaced with footsteps heading toward their room. 

Sherlock opened the door with a bang. Y/N winced at the sound. The loud noise echoed in their head. Bang. Bang. BANG. BANG! 

“Christ, Sherlock. Would you be a bit quieter? I’m …” Y/N coughed. “I’m sick.” 

Sherlock’s nose twitched and his blue eyes softened. Y/N sounded as if they were talking underwater. 

“Symptoms?” Sherlock announced. 

Y/N clutched their head in pain. 

“What are your symptoms?” Sherlock whispered. He removed his jack and hung it over the back of the bed. Then he gently sat himself down on the mattress. He was at arm's length now and slowly creeping closer. 

“No, Sherlock. Stay back. I don’t want to get you sick.” Y/N whined. 

Sherlock chuckled. “Me? Sick. Never heard of such a thing.” He placed his hand on Y/N’s forehead. His hand felt like ice against their skin. Y/N sighed at the feeling. 

“High temperature, stuffy nose, and sore throat” he muttered. “What are your other symptoms?”

Y/N brushed his hand away. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.” 

“Y/N.” Sherlock said sternly. 

“My whole body aches. It hurts to move. Hurts to do anything and…” Their voice grew quiet. 

“And?” Sherlock asked. He took their hands into his and rubbed small circles on them. 

“I’m bored,” Y/N mumbled. 

Sherlock smiled. His bright blue eyes glistened as if the sun was shining down on the rippling surface of the sea. He wiped away the stray hairs sticking to Y/N’s face before cupping their flushed cheek.

“I don’t think being bored is a symptom of anything,” Sherlock teased. “I think you have a bad case of the flu and I know just the thing to help.” 

He began to draw away from them, and Y/N reached out clasping his wrist. 

“You don’t have to help me. I can…”

“Take care of yourself. Yes, I know. You’ve told me. However, something I have come to learn is that it doesn’t hurt to let others help.” Sherlock sat back down on the mattress. He brought his forehead to Y/N’s and whispered, “Something you taught me. Let me take care of you.” 

Y/N tried to respond but the words got lost in their throat. Instead, they nodded. 

“Now, lay down and I’ll go get some soup.”

“Get soup?” Y/N asked quizzically. “Don’t you mean make soup?”

“No. I going to get soup. Mrs Hudson’s cooking abilities are far superior to mine. I’d rather not poison you with my cooking.” Sherlock joked. 

“Alright, hurry back,” Y/N whispered. 

Sherlock smiled and was out the door. 

Y/N’s head fell back on the pillow with a thunk. As they stared at the ceiling, they thought of Sherlock. Their cheeks flushed now, but for a different reason. Sherlock. Who knew the great consulting detective could be so compassionate? Y/N was sure John would love to hear about how kind Sherlock was being to them. However, before they could finish the thought, sleep took over. 

Soon Sherlock returned with a steaming bowl of soup. His hand was careful not to spill any of its contents. Y/N needed every ounce of the soup that they could get. He placed the soup on the bedside table turning to the Y/N. He smiled as he took notice of the slowness in Y/N’s breath. Sherlock looked around the room and pulled up a chair, sitting himself down in it. His eyes once again found the sleeping figure. Even in their sick state, Y/N was beautiful. Their lashes fluttered against their rosy cheeks. Their lips lay slightly parted with small sighs exhaling from their mouth. 

Sherlock would sit there until Y/N woke up. Sherlock was determined to sit by their side as the soup cooled. He would keep the boredom at bay. Just as Y/N did for him. Though, how could he ever be bored when they were around? Sherlock knew he’d never get bored being in Y/N's presence, carefully watching over them as they slept. 

A singular thought popped into Sherlock’s head. I’m in love. How could he ever be bored with someone he loved?

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Comment below if you’d like to be added to the Sherlock One-shot tag list.

Tag list: @bartokthealbinobat

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| MAIN MASTER LIST

[jamespotterthefirst]

Fearless (Ethan x MC)

Book: Open Heart, Year 2 Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 850 Rating/ Warning: Teen/ Mentions of mental health

Premise: The effects of the attack become harder to ignore when she succumbs to a panic attack. 

Note: Hurt/Comfort 

Lilac's hands shake as she struggles with the cuff. In the midst of the chaos shattering within her, she notes how pale her skin looks, almost ghostly. The frenetic drumming of her heart reclaims her attention, thundering so fiercely against her ribcage that she is convinced its beats are numbered.

“Fuck!”

Numb fingers drop the blood pressure cuff.

Calm down.

Weak knees finally give out and Lilac barely feels the hardwood floor against her knees.

Breathe.

Breathing hurts. Breathing feels like a lungful of ice. A breath is akin to setting her insides on fire.

The bedroom spins around her.

Her heart is relentless, violently beating against her throat.

Beat, beat, beat…

It won't stop.

Beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat, beat.

Each one faster than the last.

Heart attack?

The drumming is all she hears.

Stroke?

It tries to keep her alive.

Asphyxia.

It tries to kill her.

“Fucking—”

The words cut off in a strangled sob. She is destined for that hospital bed again. Her fate is to die there.

Tears burn her skin as they fall. Each breath is a terrified wheeze.

“Lilac?”

Strong hands guide her up, anchoring arms and warm chest steadying her.

“Breathe,” his rich voice instructs. It's like a distant echo, a faraway light piercing the darkness.

“Ethan,” she breathes. “Something is wrong.”

“Focus on the present, Lilac.”

Danny and Bobby are on the linoleum floor, gasping. Her own lungs scream for air.

Rafael is on his hospital bed, his eyes closed. Lilac shuts her eyes tight but it feels like broken glass prickling her lids.

The silent killer courses through her as she stares at a plastic cover. A cold, desolate hospital room will be the last thing she sees before she dies. She's going to die alone.

“I'm here,” Ethan says. “You're safe, Lilac. Remember that and breathe. You're safe.”

“I'm dying, Ethan,” she tells him, panicked. “My blood pressure... My heart—”

Lilac breaks off, feeling her pulse rise like the slashing of a violent storm.

“Focus on my voice, Lilac. Breathe in and out slowly. Take your time.”

Breathing is agony but his voice guides her. Very carefully, she inhales a breath, terrified of the pain… except there is no pain. Just the beating of her terrified heart. The air leaves her in a shaky sigh.

“Concentrate on what you can feel and see. Bring your mind back to this moment right here.”

Unyielding, cold hardwood against her knees, cooling her sizzling skin. 

The soft, thick wool of his favorite knit sweater. 

Ethan's concerned face as the fog clears, blue eyes assessing her with the diligence of a doctor and all the love of a partner.

More air fills her lungs, her pulse steadying as it leaves her.

“That's it,” he encourages. “Take a few more deep breaths, Lilac.”

After a few more minutes, the thunder of her heart recedes and she can hear the busy Boston street in the distance once again. Lilac closes her eyes, the relief weakening her knees almost as much as the panic had. Ethan's arms anchor her in place.

“Better?” he asks quietly.

Eyes still closed, she nods.

“Better,” she assures him in a whisper.

“You're safe.”

The words, uttered like a promise for the third time that evening, make her feel weightless.

“I know that,” she says, opening her eyes. “Logically and medically, I know that but when a panic attack happens I—”

Her throat clamps up painfully. It takes all the strength in her weak body to keep the tears at bay. Ethan notices.

“Shhh,” he comforts her, pulling her close. “None of this is your fault, Lilac.”

At that, she cries, giving up the fight with a tearful little sob. It's not the words that make her crumble but the resolute conviction in his voice.

“I just hate feeling this way,” she cries softly. “My mind is always reliving the attack, thinking of the many things I could've done differently. Or fearing that the toxin could still somehow be in my body, even though I'm a doctor and I know that's not true. I hate feeling this scared and weak.”

Gently, Ethan pulls back to look her in the eye.

“You're not weak,” he tells her firmly, the truth shining in those blue eyes. “You're the bravest person I know.”

His lips against her forehead punctuate the proclamation, so delicate and tender that Lilac sways briefly on her feet. They fill her with newfound courage, inspiring her to face the undeniable truth— the same she had been running from since the attack.

“I want to see someone about this.”

Ethan contemplates her for the briefest of moments and then, he nods.

“I'm in contact with many outstanding colleagues who can help us. There are some I admire who would provide the best care.”

Lilac only nods.

“Thank you.”

“It's no problem. I can email them right now.”

She grips his hand.

“Not just for that. Thank you for being here.”

Ethan pauses only to push a wayward lock of hair behind her ear.

“No need to thank me, Lilac. I'm here for you. I always will be.”

Note and disclaimer: This is based solely on my own experience with anxiety, panic attacks, and PTSD. 

Thank you so much for reading!

PS.  After this, I hope to write some holiday content. Wish me luck!

[huffle-dork]

(Wrote a swapboys fight between bro and alt cuz I had a bad fight today- this was cathartic. Most likely not canon but fun to explore none the less!)

Impulse and Bro Fantastic exchanged blows with a massive amount of power radiating from them. It causes a shockwave to rocket out, making the two boys fly apart from each other and skid across the ground. Alt skips like a stone, bouncing then landing on his feet, shaking himself off like a cat. His mask has been blown off, but he doesn't look bothered as he glares at the hero with pure hatred in his glowing green eyes.

Bro fumbles to right himself, his arms shaking. But, he can’t show weakness. Not here… not in front of Alt. Since he started working for Magnificent, he’s gotten so much stronger… so much so that Bro felt almost nervous facing him. But, also because deep down… he didn’t want to hurt him.

But, today… seeing that hatred radiating off the boy finally broke Bro. He felt angry tears in his eyes as he pushes himself up, staggering slightly as various burns on his skin were tugged painfully by the movement. “Alt-”

The glitch stiffens then bares his teeth in a snarl. “Is that really all you got, Fantastic?” He tries to taunt. But, there’s no playfulness in his banter. Just pure anger.

Bro continues though, stepping closer, desperation in his eyes. “i-I don’t get it! …why? Even after all of this i…. Why?!” He cries. “Why do you suddenly hate me so much?! So much that you’d throw away a-any of the good left in you, to work for a fucking mad man? Do you hate me that much??”

Alt’s gaze does not soften- doesn’t let up in its burning anger. “You wanna know why?!” He spits out, as if the question burns him.

“Yes!” Bro emphasizes, “Because I don’t understand! I… I know i messed up but i-”

“You messed up, alright!” Alt snarls feral, magic sparking off him in a wild display of his emotions. He steps forward, clearly limping but his fury keeps him moving. Lights in the streetlights above them flicker and then burst one by one as he glares at the hero. Bro feels his heart racing as he tries to step back. Yet, Alt continues. “You- you used your paranoia to take my one fucking safe space away from me! You thought you were so fucking above me that- that it negated all the hard work i had been doing to be better!” He tries his best to hide the tears in his eyes, the heat of the magic starting to burn the air, burning away the lingering wetness in his tear ducts.

“I was trying… I was trying so hard for you. For all of you. I wanted to do right by you.” He bites out, his voice almost breaking.

And Bro feels his heart snapping in two. “A-Alt-”

“But it didnt fucking matter did it?!” The glitch yells now, more lights and electronics nearby breaking in an explosion of magic. “Because you deemed me dangerous! You… who stuck around and tried to save me from Mag! You… who saw something in me to save-”

That hatred is back in his eyes as he glares back at Chase, his voice cold as an ice storm. “Or was that all a lie, Chase?”

“I-It wasn’t-” Chase warbles out quietly. “I…I was stupid- I know it now! I… I should have believed in you more… I’m sorry-”

“It’s too fucking late for sorries, Brody!” Alt snarls, magic sparking at his fingertips. “It’s not gonna matter- none of this fucking matters. I just need you out of my way- so… stop fucking trying, you worthless excuse of a hero!”

That… stings. Bro fully feels himself crying now, lowering his face to cover it. His whole body is shaking. “...why? Can’t we… forget this? T-Try again? … you don’t want to hurt people like this Alt- i can see it in you…”

“You didn’t see that before-”

“AND I'M SORRY!” Chase yells, blue glowing in his eyes. “I’m sorry i was fucking blind! That i didn’t know what you needed! It’s not like you ever opened up to any of us anyways! How was I supposed to know?!”

“If you had brains maybe you could use them, hero!” Alt spits, “Did you really think a recovering thief would be okay with his friends thinking he’s some dangerous monster?! That someone who was a victim of a manipulative puppet master didn’t already feel like he didn’t deserve to be around people like all of you?!”

“I… I didn’t even think of it-” Chase tries to interject.

“Of course you didn’t! Because your life has always been perfect! Perfect Chase Brody- star student, star nephew! Perfect grades, you had great fucking friends! You never faced hardship in your entire fucking life!”

Chase was about to snap that that wasn't true. But, then he froze. “How… How did you… you know all of that…?” He whispers.

Alt growls through gritted teeth, “Because I’m the one who had to watch you from the fucking sidelines! Trying to fill your impossibly big shoes! How could I ever fucking compete with perfection?! And now you’re a fucking superhero- just- ARGH!” He throws out magic and destroys a postbox nearby with a blast of concentrated magic, sending mail flying around them. “Fuck you! Fuck you- you couldn’t get out of your own goodamn big head to see anyone else suffering around you! Like your fucking brother-!

Where were you Chase?!” Alt suddenly screams, tears falling rapidly down his face, his anger now morphing into desperation. “Where were you when I fucking needed you?! You sorry excuse for a brother!!! Where were you when I almost died time and time again on these streets?! When i needed you?! If you had fucking powers- why couldn’t you save me then?!”

The world feels like it's falling apart as Chase processes the words coming from Alt’s mouth. He… He hadn’t dared to hope but… “A…Anti…?” He whispers in shock.

Hearing his chosen name is enough to snap Alt out of his rant- his anger momentarily gone. Replaced with bone-chilling dread.

“Wait- wait no I-” He stammers, glitching back. “Forget that- forget all of that!”

Bro tries to stagger forward, disbelief in his eyes. “Anti- it… it’s really… you?” He looks like he’s seen a ghost. “... is that… how you really feel… about me…? All these years…?”

Alt looks at Chase like he’s an approaching predator, cowering away like a cornered animal. His magic responds in kind, a flickering spiral of glitching magic appearing behind him. His eyes spiraled with blue and green magic.

“Forget!” He cries desperately, his emotions affecting his magic in ways he can’t control. The pressure of the spiral is overwhelming, hitting Chase like a truck and sending him to his knees. His eyes fill completely with the glowing magic. He grabs at his head and tries to choke out to Alt, “N-No Anti…! P-Please-!”

Alt can’t hear him, he’s pushing all he can against Bro, trying to find the last few minutes in his mind and destroy them. “Forget- forgetforgetforget!” He shakily commands. His hands shake. He’s trying not to fall into his panic. “Forget what I just told you! Forget that I’m your brother! Forget forget forget!!”

Eventually, Bro stops struggling, his eyes glazing over completely as he slumps to the ground, arms falling beside him limply. Slumped over like a fallen doll.

Alt breathes heavily, looking down at Bro with his blood roaring in his ears.

What… did he just do…?

He shakily steps away from the hero, his legs feeling like jelly. He looks at his hands as if he can’t recognize them. He looks one more time at Chase before he disappears in a flurry of glitches.

Chase feels a tear falling off his chin numbly, as the entire encounter they just had was purged from his memory…

For reasons he didn’t understand… it felt like his heart was crying.

[tieflingtareon]

There's Nothing Wrong Contemplating Gods (You're in the wind, I'm in the water)

[A 'My Love, Are You the Devil' prequel]

Chapter 2 | Words: 9k

Summary: "The past is lost to you. Let me clear up some mysteries, then. We share so much history." The history between Tir'yal, Child of Bhaal, and Enver, the Chosen of Bane explained in a non-linear format.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51625999/chapters/130498312

"You idiot! I told you to refrain from drawing, fuck, attention!" Everything ached and burned. He wasn't sure he could keep up like this. He panted out another heating spell, begging the biting cold to leave his skin. Even inside the vault, the air felt like pure ice.

"How was I supposed to know there was a magical alarm? You're the wizard!"

"Artificer! My study in magic does not make me a wizard. It's different - and you know it!" He couldn't continue this argument for Hells sake, not with cornugons and gelugons on their tail. He should have known Mephistopheles would have guards inside his vault too, rather than just outside it. He was not willing to admit it might have been him that set off the alarm, and not the other, holding the strap of his satchel tight as they ran.

"Deny it all you want, you're a wizard as much as you're artificer."

"Can we save this conversation for later?!" He was going to kill him. Conjure a storm and shock some sense into him.

"We just have to make it to the portal - keep going!" Tir'yal grabbed his arm when he stumbled and Enver glared with fury fiercer than the Nine Hells, hating that his one major weakness was in it's worst condition in the Cania, the layer of Hell that was supernaturally freezing. He gritted through the pain in his right knee and continued to run, the pain shocking through his leg with every collision of his foot to the floor. He couldn't remember it ever hurting this badly, not since it was fresh, Bane's tight shadowy hand holding his shattered kneecap together as he rammed through the portal that would lead him out of the House of Hope. The one that had threatened to swallow him whole into it's yawning void if not for Bane's intervention.

He wouldn't have made it home if not for that divine miracle, if Bane hadn't held his weak, broken body together.

Enver cursed as he staggered, refusing to lose his pace. He looked over his shoulder behind them and cursed, casting out a red whip of energy, curling it around a pillar and pulling with all his strength, barely keeping on his feet as it toppled down. The bridge above that led to endless, endless shelves began to descend.

"Go!" Tir'yal yanked the back of his robes hard and he stumbled to follow, picking back up the pace as the bridge collapsed, the impact rumbling through the ground.

"That should slow them down."

"We better hope Meph-y doesn't know who we are, or else he'll kill us for wrecking his prized collection."

"Pissing off devils is a hobby of mine. Wouldn't be the first time I've escaped one either." Enver smirked, trying to ignore the pain in his leg even as it started to grow unbearable. He squinted into the distance and relief soared through him. "There! The portal! At least she kept her word."

"You paid enough gold to open a portal into every realm, I'd hope she'd honour her word." Tir'yal huffed out a sharp laugh, the constant sprint even starting to wane on him as they rushed up the steep stairs. The portal was precariously placed, closer to the ceiling than the ground, and he hissed out an infernal curse at the inconvenience, shocking a breathless laugh from Enver.

"You kiss your Father with that mouth, Tir'yal?"

"I'd say I kiss yours, but I don't want either of us to loose our lunch." The tiefling sped up and launched himself up towards the edge of the portal, the instinct ingrained in him from nights of jumping roof to roof, stalking targets. Sometimes, you had to trust fate, and pull yourself up over the ledge of your obstacles. He grunted as he lifted himself up and over the edge, the first sight before him being Helsik who was keeping the portal open, attempting to contain the coin of Mammon that was shaking violently.

"Be quick! Something's fighting the ritual - I can't keep it contained much longer."

"What do you mean? En- my partner isn't through yet."

"Do you have what you came for?"

"What?" Tir'yal looked down at his satchel, opening it up. The crown and all three stones were packed inside. "What does that matter?"

"Because if your partner doesn't make it through in the next thirty seconds, he's not coming back at all." Helsik warned, grunting as the coin continued to fight her magic that kept it in place for the gateway. Tir'yal turned back to the portal, seconds ticking by like hours. Enver had been right behind him. Why wasn't he there?

Enver watched Tir'yal disappear from the portal and leapt for the edge himself, only to fall short. He swore as he landed, knee buckling under his weight and sending him crumbling to the floor, catching himself on his hands and knees. The cold was beginning to seep past his cloak again and he hissed out another warming charm through his armour, wishing it would hold up better against the Cania's subzero temperatures. He forced himself back up and jumped again, fingertips barely skimming the portals edge. The tiefling had the advantage of height on his side, the bastard.

Panic set in quickly despite the usually calm facade he wore, turning back towards the creatures that were only getting closer. He had to keep his head about him. Gods, why did he change his robes out? For protection from the cold? He could bear frostbite better than a fucking anxiety attack.

"Tir'yal!" He called, voice hoarse and tight, staring up above at the swirling mass of orange and black. He couldn't hear him. Why did he think he'd be able to? Tir'yal couldn't hear him, but he knew who could. He closed his eyes and called upon his faith, holding his trembling hand up, palm to the world, mimicking the symbol inked onto the skin of his back. Let Bane smell his fear; it would only draw him closer, only strengthen his power.

Fear him always, and make others fear him even more than you do. He feared Bane less than devils, if he was honest.

"Hear me, Dark One. Hear me, Lord of Darkness, hear your Chosen!" He called - begged. All he needed was a little more power, a little more energy, that divine intervention he offered him the first time he escaped the Hells. He needed his hand to give him the boost to crawl his own way out. That's all he had ever needed of his God - a helping hand to escape his nightmares.

"Bane?" He opened his eyes, his lungs breathing in nothing but icy mist. Where was the burn? The smoke? Where was his God? He looked up and could see the portal was waning. No. No, they couldn't be closing it. Why was it faltering? There had to be a reason. Was Mephistopheles interfering with the ritual circle? Tir'yal would never betray him like that, that had to be it.

Wouldn't he? His chest tightened painfully, straining for air that didn't seem to want to come. He felt hot yet freezing, his sweat like frost on his skin. He was dying. No, he wasn't dying, he wasn't, he just needed to breathe, to think - but his body felt like it was dying. It always felt like deaths cold hand wrapped around his throat.

"Hear me!" He yelled, silence the only response to his plea. "Bane...Bane, please." He couldn't abandon him, could he? He was important, they needed him, Bane needed him to get the crown-

He reached for his satchel and blanched. He didn't have the crown. Shit. He had grabbed that book in the same moment Tir’yal had reached for the crown and it’s stones. He’d been drawn to the title, his love of forbidden literature overriding his reason for a single damning moment. He had been blinded enough to not even notice the magic field surrounding both items, a mistake he rarely made. He'd entrusted the crown to the bard without even thinking, knowing at least one of them would carry it out.

Is that why Bane didn't answer him now? Because he left the crown and the stones in the Bhaalspawns hands? Was he- did he overestimate his useful to his Lord? Of course, he had. He was an idiot, begging for his intervention, his help. Adding to his debts. He was burdening Bane, making him use his own power on him when he could simply make another Chosen. A more competent one who didn't allow themselves to be trapped in the Hells twice. One made for battle rather than paperwork and invention.

He failed him. There was no use for him now, not while Tir'yal held the crown. Bane had always liked him - the Bhaalspawn with potential to rule the world with his admirable self control and intelligence, even with his lacking social skills. Murder was a key part of war, a usual happenstance when a tyrant took their rightful place upon a throne.

But no, Enver had brought him into his world somewhat, hadn't he? Tir'yal had attended more than half a dozen parties, two dozen dinners as his plus one - he was decently well versed in people now, even if he disliked them. He was perfect, if Bane intended to steal the Bhaal's heir from under the Gods nose. Even if he didn't, he was invaluable to the plan, and another Chosen could always be named once he was gone.

He was going to die. Abandoned in the Hells for a second time. This was his nightmares made a reality, but instead of the sweltering heat of the dungeons in the House of Hope, he was wrapped in the freezing cold of Cania.

"Someone..." His voice came out small, afraid as he pulled out his bow and an arrow, aiming it towards the incoming hoard. He wouldn't die without a fight, or allow himself to be at the heel of another devil. He’d rather forfeit his own life first, even if it was the biggest disgrace he could imagine. But he felt like a child again. Like he was still that frightened, whimpering Flymm boy cowering before that damn gnome. The useless son of cobblers with a mind too bright and a mouth too smart for his own good. Adults never liked how mouthy he was.

"Save me." A hand tore through the portal, like a God reaching down from the Heavens, extending it's hand to Enver. He sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide before a voice followed.

"Hurry!" Tir'yal barked and Enver clapped his cold fingers around the tieflings forearm, jumping and hooking his fingers onto the edge of the portal as the man hauled him upwards. Tir'yals scooped him up around his waist as he pushed himself up to the surface, dragging him out of the portal and rolling them both away from it as the coin gave a crackle and shattered into shards, Helsik throwing herself away from it. The portal collapsed into itself with a roar of flames that left scorch marks on the ground.

For a moment, all was silent, Enver's ears ringing as his heart thundered against his ribs, wide eyes focused on the ceiling above.

He almost died. He had been waiting for Bane's black hand to rip him from the Hells, and instead, it had been Tir'yals. The spawn of a God reached for him before his own deity. Where had Bane gone? Had he really abandoned him? Had he deserved it for seeking knowledge before power? He’d always thought they were one in the same…

Perhaps his true failing had been letting the other escape with the crown without thinking of the consequences. What would have happened, had Tir’yal not reached back into the Hells for him?

"Are you alright?" Tir'yals hand burned against the frozen skin of his cheek and he flinched away, sitting up and sucking in a deep breath before letting it out, arms resting on his knees. His right throbbed, hot and fierce, but his previous panic had left him too drained to give it much attention.

"You could have left me." Why hadn't he? He was risking his neck, reaching into a dying portal that could have disappeared at any second. Would have costed him his dominant arm, that was for certain. What would the Unholy Assassin of Bhaal do without his skilled hands?

"It would be a waste to let that genius mind of yours die with you." Tir'yal stated like it was a simple fact, common sense, as he shifted, getting back onto his feet and offering his hand to the other man. "You're far too important to be killed just yet."

Enver laughed weakly at his response, running a hand through his hair. Of course. He was far too important to the plan. They needed three wielders after all. Tir'yal couldn't stand anyone else; he barely cared for Ketheric’s correspondences, which Enver dealt with himself, even if the Bhaalspawn read the letters over his shoulder and gave three word responses for him to pen down so he seemed involved. What ever would he do if he lost the only decent conversationalist in the Sword Coast that entertained his bloody desires?

Tir'yal would never be Banite material. He didn't care to talk to people enough to be any good at politics, at networking. That's why he needed him. It's why they needed each other. He didn't like to bloody his own hands or keep to the shadows, desiring the spotlight, and Tir'yal preferred to make deadly symphonies within the darkness, and didn't like talking to idiots and fools, which most noblemen were.

It was a special sort of harmony that rarely came to people like themselves.

He looked at the hand offered to him and took it, grunting as he stood, his knee threatening to buckle. He forced his weight to his left leg, able to breathe a little easier now that he was off it. He could feel Tir'yals eyes on him as he extended his thanks to Helsik and offered her another hundred gold from his pouch for the damages, wishing her luck.

"I hope you never come back." She stated bluntly and Enver laughed.

"Oh, I never forget helpful ladies like yourself. Should I ever need your lovely services again, I'll be sure to make it worth more than gold." He bowed his head to her, a charming smile on his lips. "If you desire another means of payment, of course."

"No thanks. I'd rather fuck a Blibberbang. Exits back where you came from." Enver laughed heartily at her retort, not taking offence in the slightest. He wouldn't have minded entertaining her for a night, she was quite beautiful even if not his personal type, but he could tell when another truly wasn't interested.

"Until we meet again, dear diabolist." Enver made towards the stairs, limping slightly even if he tried to disguise it. He'd left his cane in his chambers, not even thinking he might need it after their heist. He braced himself for the descent, gripping the railing to his right when Tir'yals arm was offered to him.

"You're in pain. It's flaring up, isn't it?"

"Perhaps a bit." He didn't take his arm, and Tir'yal didn't lower it.

"Take it, or I'll carry you back." It almost sounded like a threat. Enver chuckled.

"A tempting offer, but I'll pass. For both of our sake's." Enver would not be carted about like a sack of potatoes again, or Gods forbidden, carried like a damsel. He had handled more than his fair share of pain in life, endured countless injuries during his days with the Heapside Reavers, and he could endure this too. He did it on the daily. With reluctance, he took Tir'yals arm, using the man as a crutch as they made their way down the steps, sweat threatening to bead on his forehead as he reached the bottom. It was far too warm in Baldur's Gate to be wearing so many layers. He untied his cloaked and threw it over one arm with a sigh, allowing Tir'yal to lead them out of the Devil's Fee.

"Well...I told you so."

"Hm?" Tir'yal hummed inquisitively.

"She got us into the vault. Into the Eighth Layer."

"Ah, right. You're quite petty, you know that?"

Enver scoffed.

"Petty? I was right, I should be allowed to say so."

"You were right. You usually are." Tir'yal relented and the Banite smirked.

"It's always nice to hear it."

"You're a genius inventor and strategist."

"Oh, now I'm starting to wonder if you want something from me." Enver chuckled warmly. "Do go on. You're never usually this forthright with the compliments, my friend."

"Am I not?" Tir'yal mused in a monotonous voice. "Maybe I think it more than I say it. I apologise. You're brilliant, and you should know it."

"I do." Enver smiled smugly. It was nice to hear someone say it though. The chill on his skin was starting to melt away as they walked. "You're quite fond of my mind, it seems. Anything else?" He teased.

Tir'yal never seemed to fluster when he attempted to charm him, if only for fun, since he enjoyed flirting. It was good to keep up practice so he didn't lose his touch with the fair ladies and gents in the Upper City, but after that night at the Featherstone Estate a month ago...

"...You look like shit most of the time." Tir'yal said bluntly and Enver scowled, only glaring a little. Not what he'd been hoping for. The man had a brick for a brain when it came to noticing one wanted something from him that wasn't murder. A compliment would have been nice.

"Thank you. Just what I wanted to hear. You're as charming as ever." As charming as a dead, rotted fish.

"But you look nice when you're asleep."

"...Tir'yal, my dearest, oldest friend, that is the most unsettling thing anyone as ever said to me. I hope you know that." It didn't stop the smile that curled onto his lips. "You watch me sleep?"

"Only sometimes. You forget to blow out the candle on your desk a lot, so I visit on my nights out to make sure you haven't burned your office down. You look nicer in the dark."

"If you didn't have darkvision, I'd take that as an insult."

"Good thing I do then." Tir'yal smiled ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "How's your knee?"

Enver's brows jumped up in surprise. He was still limping, but he'd actually forgotten about the pain for a blissful minute.

"Better. The cold tends to agitate old wounds. Humans aren't nearly as sturdy as you fiend-blooded folk, I'm afraid."

"I'm intimately aware of the limits of the human body, as well as various other races. You're right, humans aren't as sturdy, but I'd argue that should you not go into shock first, you humans are frighteningly resistant to torture." Tir'yal managed to make his horrifying experiments and discoveries sound intelligent rather than mad, and Enver admired that about him.

"Fascinating." He indulged with a hum. "If you have plans to test my resistance to torture, Tir'yal, don't bother. I doubt you could break me." Others had tried, and failed. If a decade with a devil could not drive him to insanity, nothing could. Tir'yal looked down at him, a small smile on his lips but eyes intense. Like he was already imagining it. Breaking him.

"I sure could try though." His low voice made it sound like a promise. "I think you'd be pretty as a corpse either way. Prettier than when you sleep."

Tir'yal lowered his arm suddenly and wrapped it around the Banite as a group of rowdy children ran past them, almost bumping the man if not for the tiefling drawing him closer.

"How are you getting the third stone to Myrkul's Chosen?" He queried into his ear, his hot breath tickling the cold tips of his ear, returning his arm to the man a moment later. Enver took a second to take it again, needing a moment to adjust the sudden topic change, looking back at the children running off in the distance from over his shoulder. He didn’t want to look at the tieflings face, at those eyes of his - or perhaps he didn’t want him to see his own.

"Ketheric has agreed to meet us outside the Church of Bane, seeing as he cannot come to the fortress without questions raised, and your own temple is forbidden to outsiders. We certainly can't risk some pigeon losing something so valuable either. So he will make the journey over once he receives letter of our success. I imagine he'll arrive in no more than a tenday."

"If that's so," Tir'yal opened the satchel and pulled out a single stone, tucking it away into his own pocket before passing the crown and the other two stones over to Enver. He had plans for the dark stone in his pocket, so he'd need it for now. He would return it later. "I'll leave these with you."

"Would it not be more secure in your very secret, oh-so-hidden temple?" Enver mused and Tir'yal huffed out through his nose, dragging his tongue his canines and sucking them.

"I know it will ease your mind if it's in your possession." There was an unspoken sentiment in his words that Enver struggled to interpret. Did he have the notion that Enver did not trust him with the items that would bring about their grand plan? That he didn't trust him in general? As long as he had his stone, it did not matter, he supposed. He had to know Enver would not forsake their plans though, not ever. The plan was so much bigger than them. He knew the crown was safe with the Bhaalspawn. Tir'yal had come to trust him long ago, and his trust came with a certain level of loyalty above most others.

Enver looked at the satchel offered to him. The hand holding it had pulled him out of the Hells. This man, this Bhaalspawn, had answered his prayer when even Bane had become silent. The same man who pulled him out of Hells, who spent weeks brainstorming and planning and visiting connections with him, who was helping him walk back to his fortress when his leg was failing him...thought he didn't trust him.

He shouldn't. He shouldn't trust anybody. He hadn't even been able to trust his own parents, for Heavens sake.

But when he looked up at Tir'yal, he felt much like that boy again. That Flymm child who presented him with his first pair of boots, made of cheap metal, but to him, it contained all his efforts. He'd tried to make boots worthy of a knight, worthy of his first friend.

His friend, blunt and coarse, but still taller and stronger than all the other boys around them. An outcast like himself, a tiefling in a family of elves. Intimidating enough to scare off the children who taunted the cobblers son. That boy had distracted merchants and noblemen alike for him while he picked their pockets. He had ruffled his hair while admiring sharp and shiny weapons, always letting him keep the gold coin and metals for himself.

He had looked at him, truly looked, and his face hadn't twisted into something sour like everyone else's had. He hadn't scowled when he spoke, didn't jump to tell him to shut up. Nobody had liked him, even as a child. Not even his own parents. It was like everyone could tell the moment they met him that he would leave a bitter taste on their tongue. He was always the ungrateful child, selfish and hateful. With parents like his, what did they expect? An angel? No. He was the strange, mouthy Flymm boy who knew he was far ahead of his peers and always would be. Who knew he deserved greater things, had greater ambitions than his own useless parents, and knew he could have it once he was no longer a child, bound by their will.

He had always looked down upon others, knowing one day he'd be above them, and that he'd make them pay for trying to control him, for trying to dim the brilliance within his mind. Except for him. It always came back to him. To Tir'yal. His oldest friend. The only one who genuinely liked him, back then, and even now. He was special in the way that he couldn't bore him with idle chatter, yet also indulged in late night conversation about everything from his latest read to his plans for the city. He may be adviser now, his genius ignored by the grand Ulder Ravenguard, but that would change soon.

The only one who seemed to care about what he had to say, who praised his genius, was Tir'yal. His only...equal - in all things. He was the closest thing to a real friend that one could get in the political world. Thankfully, Tir'yal wasn't a part of that world. He had no interest in it.

"Keep it." He said softly, pushing the satchel back towards him. If the roles were reversed, if he were anyone else, he’d probably call him a fool for giving him all the working parts to the grand plan, think him weak and spineless, but he did not doubt Tir’yals loyalty to their partnership in the slightest. Not after today. Perhaps he was the weak one between them. Too weak to get himself out of his own predicaments, to walk alone in the world, always needing a crutch; a helping hand.

"I might lose it amongst the clutter of my workshop if I'm not careful." He jested, looking ahead. "It'll be safer with you."

Tir'yal was quiet a long moment, staring down at the satchel holding the crown and the stones to control it. So much power at their fingertips...and the Bane's Chosen was allowing him to hold it. To keep it safe. Perhaps he believed this extension of temporary trust would deepen their alliance, making him less likely to betray him. Tir'yal knew he wouldn't though. The stain on his soul, the humane part of him that couldn't be bled or cut out, cared far too deeply for the Chosen of his Father's sworn foe to ever betray him.

He wondered if Enver would ever see the beauty in the destruction he would bring upon this world. The destruction Bhaal yearned for. If he'd be a part of it, willing and pliant beneath his blade.

When the plan succeeded, and everyone was finally gone, the world reduced to nothing, he would kill the Banite himself. He felt in his bones that that was his right. Nobody else could be the last sight in those dark eyes, could draw out that last, sweet sound of pain he craved to hear, those darling reflexive tears that came as one choked on their own blood. That was reserved for him, and him alone. To be the final two souls on Toril...He wanted his last breath to mingle with Enver's, for his wounds to bleed to his, to mix the very essence of their life force into one bloody pool beneath them as the world came to an end in his Father's name.

To kill and be killed by his oldest and closest companion - to die together - was his greatest desire. It wasn't exactly allowed, but it wasn't forbidden either. As long as he died moments after Enver, would he not still be following his Father's command to be the last soul alive? Though, to wish for Enver to sink his own blade into his skin had to be a sin.

It only seemed fair that Enver's life would be his to take regardless, his final sacrifice in the name of his Father. He couldn't imagine sharing the honour of death with anyone else, the honour of mutual homicide. Sharing the beauty of dying by a loved ones hand, and walking into the City of Judgement together, it's final visitors.

"I will take care of it." He looked down at the limping Banite and smiled softly. He wanted to feel that crushing wave of grief and euphoria all at once as he perished, as they both did, and he would only have it by Enver's hand. He would only achieve it through the tyrants death.

I will take care of you, until it's time to snuff out the light in your eyes.

****

Enver yawned as he called his hammer closer, grasping the handle of it and pulling the metal from the heat to rest on his bench, readjusting his grip before he slamming the flat end down upon the molten steel.

He'd been so busy recently with paperwork and the grand plan that he'd barely had any time to himself to focus on his own projects. He preferred his workshop to his office, if he was honest. Nobody to disturb him here, and the chance to shed his robes. The aches in his body where easier to ignore when he was wrapped up in the heat of the room, intensely focused on moulding metal and tightening bolts with his hands. It was better than focusing on other things. Like Bane's silence. He was awaiting answers from his God, but Bane always did enjoy taking his time to respond to his questions.

He could have given this up, the life of a labour, but it was in his blood, to create. He felt restless when his hands weren't busy, and this skill of his benefited the empire he wanted to build. He didn't have much skill in the Arts, but this was his form of art. Taking steel and turning it into something better, something stronger.

That was what he was born to do. To bring out the true potential of everything he touched. This was his domain, and he moulded the materials given to him into whatever he wished.

Like a God.

He blew out a heavy breath as he dropped his hammer aside and dunked the project into cold water, the sizzle and steam making him smile. It quickly fell when he heard the door creak, turning to greet the only person who would dare enter his workshop. Not even fellow Banite's chanced disturbing him when they 'needed' him, waiting until he returned to his fortress to speak to him. The traps he left outside the workshop probably contributed to their avoidance.

"Do tell me you didn't break my traps again."

"Okay. I didn't break your traps. I simply...disarmed them." Tir'yal assured, looking away. Enver sighed and picked up a rag to wipe the sweat from his hands and face.

"So you broke them."

"Make a way for them to be disarmed without breaking, and it wouldn't happen." Tir'yal shrugged, tail giving a sharp flick behind him before he pulled out a small vial of moulted green liquid. He tossed it towards the other, and a black mage hand appeared to catch it, placing it in the Banite's waiting hand.

"I think I'll make them self destructive instead." He quipped, only mildly annoyed. A bit of tinkering and they'd be good as new. It would take him less than an hour to fix the dozen he had out there. He looked down at the vial and scoffed, placing it aside. He could keep trying, but he would never drink it. Not in front of him at least.

Tir'yal was right about one thing. He was petty.

"I'm always up for a challenge." Tir'yal crossed his arms as he dragged his gaze over the other, Enver's white undershirt clinging to his back with sweat, his apron coming off with a quick tug of the tie at the base of his spine, the artificer slipping the neck strap off over his head. He wrapped the apron up in a bundle and tossed it onto the table, leaning back against his work bench to ease the weigh off his knee. It was feeling better, but he knew he needed to be cautious, or the next few days would be hell. He couldn't afford to be seen limping about when Ketheric came to visit. He needed to appear at his strongest, lest the Chosen of Myrkul get the wrong idea about this alliance of theirs and try to betray them.

Weakness was not an option. Not when everything was finally coming together. The book he stole from the vaults still sat in his satchel, tossed onto the mattress he sometimes crashed on after a long night of bending metal to his will. He intended to read it later, when he wasn't so antsy.

"Did you come for idle conversation, my friend, or...?" Enver quirked a brow, an easy smile on his lips. A smile was the most discreet weapon you could wield in the world of the elite. He'd learned that as a young man, that a disarming smile and an alluring promise could wrap just about anyone up in your web.

"I brought you a gift." His smile faltered, eyes widened ever so slightly before he smiled once more, a touch more genuine.

"Is that so? Something...bloody?"

"Not this time." Tir'yal looked amused, but beneath that, was a hint of...Was he nervous? What exactly had he gotten him?

The tiefling reached into his bag and pulled out a black box, tied with a single red ribbon. Enver quirked a brow, reaching out to take it from the other.

"How nice. You shouldn't have. A box?" He jested, simply to annoy the Bhaalspawn.

"Gods, you're incorrigible. Open it before I decide to put your head in the box for my Father." Enver laughed, a hand falling upon his breast as if he was aghast at his threat.

"I'm far too important for you to kill just yet, dear. You'd miss my brilliant mind, remember? Imagine if the only people you had to talk to was Orin and that butler of yours? That would be more agonising than any torture you could conjure up." He smirked, dreading the very idea.

"You're not wrong. Life would be rather dull without you." Tir'yals smiled, eyes dipping from the tinkerer to the box and nodding to it. "Open it." He couldn't stand to wait much longer. He was considering slicing his own skin off to escape it.

Enver huffed softly, shaking his head. He hadn't had many gifts given to him over the course of his life, especially with no warning. Usually, there was a reason behind it, or an expectation to provide something back. Tir'yal did him a favour by killing his opponents, his enemies, and he supposed that one could call that a gift, but it wasn't. It was a favour, a transaction between two people who benefited from the others skills.

He untied the red ribbon and set it behind him on the bench, opening the lid and tucking it beneath the box as he peered inside. He frowned, wiping his palm on his trousers to rid it of any sweat or grime before he reached in and picked up a piece of gold. He twisted it in the light. It looked damn well real, in the shape of an ring with a pointed end. The old habit from his Heapside days came out as he brought it to his mouth and bit down. It softened beneath his teeth but still held up decently, biting back ever so slightly. It wasn't pure gold, but it was definitely made up of a high percentage of the material.

"It isn't for eating, I'm afraid. If you're hungry, I can always pop out and bring something back." Tir'yal looked amused. "There's more."

"I can see that." Enver's eyes ran along the golden gauntlets in the box, the miscellaneous rings likely a part of the ensemble. He placed the box down on the table and picked up one gauntlet, looking over the craftsmanship. It was beautiful, for an amateur, he noted. It looked like something a painter would create, artistic in design, rather something a forger would make for the desire of protecting one's flesh.

"The craftsmanship is sloppy, but I'll admit, the design is intriguing. Did you steal it from one of your victims? An artist dabbling in metalwork?" He chuckled, turning back to the Bhaalspawn who wouldn't meet his gaze, tail wrapped around his ankle in a strange gesture of meekness. Perhaps even embarrassment. Whatever was he embarrassed about? Because Enver guessed it was stolen? He knew the man didn't exactly care for material possessions like gold, he only wore half-decent attire because of his insistence. He was Bhaal's Prince after all, he couldn't run around dressed like a seaman or a traveller who wore the same three outfits continuously; most of which had bloodstains.

"I don't mind if it's stolen, Tir'yal-"

"I made it." Tir'yal cut him off, eyes still to the ground as he crossed his arms once more. "It took a couple of tries, but you're right. I'm an artist. I'm not a skilled craftsmen like yourself."

Enver's eyes widened, surprised. He'd made it? Himself? When? When had he even learnt how to do so? From watching him all these months? From the books on his shelves? Did he learn purely from trial and error? How long had he been working on this, for him? Did he take the gold from his victims to make them? So many questions, but he wasn't sure which one to voice first. He could have easily made it with steel, he did not need to be so extravagant in his gift-giving, making it from gold. Hells, he wore silver as a staple, not gold.

He looked down at the gauntlets and picked up the other arm, admiring the details closer now. It was definitely the work of artistry, but there was promise in the shape, the security of it's latches. Over all, it was well made. Not the same level of his work, but he couldn't expect everybody to be perfect after only a few attempts. To take on a such a large project as his first attempt though...it was admirable.

"It will need a proper polish. Perhaps some shaping to make sure it fits just right. But..." He smiled, a hint of pride in his eyes. "It is beautiful. You did a fine job, for someone who hasn't done this kind of work before." He smoothed his thumb over the gauntlet and looked up at the tiefling, meeting his eyes.

"Thank you." It was rare for him genuinely mean those words.

"There's one more thing." Tir'yal nodded to the box and Enver frowned, looking back at it and reaching for the hand piece.

"This?" The moment he spoke, he noticed it. A deep purple stone embedded in the gauntlet. He could feel the magic radiating off it, and he let out a soft laugh of wonder. They're been apart a few short hours after all.

"We'll need to keep them close, to keep control of the brain, once we've secured the Crown onto the creature." Tir'yal approached to stand before him, pulling out his favoured dagger. The blade gifted to him when he became his Father's Chosen. In the circular cross guard of his dagger was his own stone, blood red like a ruby. He flicked his eyes up to look at Enver who was focused on his blade and the gauntlet in his hand. He took in his features greedily, always feeling the need to commit his expressions to memory.

There was so many faces the human only revealed around him, and the desire to know all of them felt far stronger than his Urge had ever been.

"You really went to all that effort when I could have done it myself...why?" Enver met the Bhaalspawn's eerie eyes and Tir'yal hummed softly, thoughtful and a touch surprised that he would even ask. It felt obvious to him.

"It's a gift. Not just between allies...but between friends." Tir'yal tucked his blade away and took the hand piece into his own, keeping the artificers hand held out as he slipped it onto him, reaching down for the arm piece and latching that on too, gentle with his ministrations and making sure not to pinch flesh between metal or his own claws. Enver stood still, watching the tiefling closely as the man adorned him in his craft, eyes focused on the task, tail swaying softly behind him. The only thing to be heard in the room was the gentle clicks of the latches and the burning of coals from the furnace.

"Why gold? I imagine steel would have been the obvious choice. It would have matched me better, don't you think?" He mused, his voice not giving away the quivering and creaking in his heart. He liked to think of it as just another machine he was constantly improving, constantly fixing. The cold, steel heart in his chest was made to pump blood through his body, and that was it. If it began to fail, he tightened the bolts of the valves, shutting out unwanted emotions, and if the cogs began to turn faster and faster, threatening to overheat, he reached inside and halted their manic spinning himself.

He had excellent self control. Especially over his heart.

"Steel is a part of my life's work." Tir'yal simply smiled at his words, slipping the talon-like rings onto his fingers, making sure they were in their rightful place.

"You may adorn yourself in shades of white and grey, in the darkest blacks - and I may wish to see you painted in red, but gold..." Tir'yal tapped the sharp point of the man's talons with his own claw. Now they matched. "Gold is your colour. If you did not bleed crimson like every other mortal man, I would think you bled molten gold."

Enver stared up at the man as the Bhaalspawn reached up and gently tugged the silver bead from his thin braid, looking at it between his claws before tossing it into the box and pulling out a small golden cylinder. He took the woven strands of hair and slipped it into it's rightful place on the end, squeezing gently to tighten it before letting the cool metal swing softly against his cheek. Enver, for the first time in a long time, felt at a loss for words.

"...I rarely hear you speak so poetically."

"I'm still a bard, even if I'm a rather quiet one. I enjoy all kinds of art, poetry included."

"I suppose poetry is in your blood."

"And gold is in yours." Tir'yal smiled, an uncharacteristically soft thing on the intimidating Bhaalspawns face. It quickly faded though, the man taking a step back and closing his eyes with a pained expression, hand coming to his temple.

"Sorry, I..." He trailed off before his jaw flexed, teeth clenched. "Father's calling me." Enver watched Tir'yal cautiously. He only ever got headaches when Bhaal wanted blood, and lots of it. Recently, they'd become a lot more frequent. He sometimes wondered if Bhaal was displeased with Tir'yal for some reason, the way he tested his obedience and self control as of recent.

"Go. You have terror to rain upon the streets. I have things to make. I'll see you soon, I'm sure." Enver stepped back, but did not turn his back to Tir'yal. Something in his gut told him that was not a good idea tonight.

"Yes, I...Goodnight, Enver." Tir'yal was quick to leave, closing the door behind him. Enver watched the door closely for a few long moments, waiting to see if he'd come back. He knew Bhaal didn't like him, even before he was Bane's Chosen. He half suspected that Bhaal would have discarded him through Tir'yal long ago if not for the current alliance forged between the Dead Three. It had been in the works for so time, from what he knew, kept between the Gods.

He took a seat with a soft groan, tilting his head back and staring at the ceiling before he looked down at the gauntlets. This was the first gift he'd been given in a long time without doing something in return first, or feeling the need to make up for it somehow. They really were beautiful, even if they needed a couple touch ups.

He smiled to himself. Tir'yal had even made sure to leave one hand free of rings, should he need it, for his writing no doubt. He was ambidextrous, so either hand would have sufficed, but he did appreciate that the hand left free of adornments was the hand he used for his cane. Given his right knee was injured, he often held his cane in his left to keep the weight off it. Having rings and a hand piece biting into his hand all the time while using it would grate on his nerves.

He sat there for a long while, simply admiring the orange glow from the furnace against the golden hand piece. When the firelight hit the purple stone embedded in the gauntlet, it looked magical, just like he imagined it would when they finally got to use it to enslave the elder brain. His musings were halted by the feeling of a dark shadow behind him, a familiar taste of ash in the back of his throat. He swallowed and closed his eyes, focusing in on the presence.

"Bane. You didn't answer my call."

'Indeed. I even smelt your fear. You did not call only for me, Young Tyrant.'

"Why didn't you speak up? Was it a test? Is that it?" He couldn't understand.

'Of sorts. Not a test for you, but for him.'

"For..." Him? "For Tir'yal? Why are you testing him? He's not yours to test." He was not his God.

'A lust for blood can just as easily be converted to a lust for power. For is murder not proof enough of power over another? Is it not a victory one relishes in?'

"I suppose...I still don't understand, why didn't you step in? Did I fail you, Bane? Was that punishment for not securing the Crown myself?" He ached for answers.

'I do not need to punish you when I know you punish yourself enough for your mistakes.' Bane's laughter echoed inside his skull, and it reminded him on old smoker mixed with a young brute. 'I wanted to test the Bhaalspawns loyalties.'

"And what did you conclude from your test?"

'It wanes.' Enver swallowed, throat bobbing as he slowly opened his eyes, the shadow of his God hanging upon his frame like a weighted blanket. It made him feel both claustrophic yet secure.

"How so?"

'You know the plan, my Chosen. One does not stoke fear by reaping his own fields, but by burning his foe's. With the Crown now in reach, and the elder brain near, we only draw closer to our goal. As long as mortals and immortals vie for sharper blades and louder voices, I am strengthened. I need not anything else. The Bhaalspawn shows promise; and loyalty to whoever shows him a sliver of affection.'

"You're speaking without saying anything." It irked him.

'You're listening without hearing, child. Remember who I am. Who made you what you are.' Enver felt the urge to cough, but refused. It felt like there was smoke in his lungs. Bane's anger tasted like burnt rubber.

"He won't ever betray his Father, if that's what you're trying to say. He comes when he calls. He worships him as deeply as I worship you, Dark One."

'Because you're smart, Young Tyrant. You benefit from our alliance, from worshipping me, and you understand what you could lose, intimately, should you fail your God. You know you would be nothing but an urchin dead in the street without me. And that would be your kindest fate. You would still be a prisoner in a cell, and your soul eventually, eternally tied to that devil, had I not blessed you all those years ago.'

Enver clenched his teeth. He did know that. He knew that far too well.

"Tir'yal loves his Father. He won't ever abandon him."

'We both know love is not what keeps him there. Love does not exist for wretched creatures like him, for spawns of murder. Bhaal is home. Bhaal is all he has, and he made it that way for a reason. You are the wrench in the cogs of his favoured child. His Prince.'

"Are you saying...Tir'yal would leave Bhaal for me?"

'The Bhaalspawn would reject the call of his Father for you. Steady his blade for you. Create rather than destroy for you. His only friend, his only equal, one of the few things he can call his. He may not leave his Father, but you have more sway here than you realise, Young Tyrant.'

"Equal to the spawn of a God? It would be high praise if it wasn't Bhaals." Enver mused, looking down at the gauntlet. Tir'yal was a bard, to create was simply a part of him, as much as his ability to destroy. This meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

'He believes you his equal. His closest companion. And you believe him your equal in turn, do you not?'

Enver's eyes widened, the reply stuck in his throat.

"I...I believe him to be above the others in my circle. Useful. Loyal to our alliance, and our partnership. I consider him...a friend, if you will. A trustworthy one, if I dared to believe in the notion. Does that anger you, my Lord?"

'No. As long as you stay one step ahead of Bhaal's Prince, I will allow you to keep him as your...'equal'.'

"You will?" He didn't mean to sound so surprised.

'I've had my share of dalliances, Young Tyrant. Amorous connections can spur the most fruitful of alliances, and the strongest of loyalties. Look how far you've come already, manipulating bodies and hearts alike.'

The way he put it made Enver feel a sliver of disgust. He did not regret the past. He refused to entertain the very idea. Every sweet word he whispered into a superiors ear, every touch he relinquished to another, was of his own volition, and only drew him closer to his goals. Even before Tir'yal, he was clawing his way up the ladder, and he would not feel disgust for anything he did to get this far in life. Some of the greatest kings in history had come from nothing.

'Mortals and immortals alike covet to possess more than material goods. They wish to monopolise lovers, to own hearts, minds and bodies. He already consider you his. You are his to kill, to hurt and maim, in his mind. That is the closest thing to 'love' a Bhaalspawn can manage. Allow him to believe he has your heart, and leash his. Get him feeding from your hand, our hand, and the Prince of Bhaal will be the crown jewel in our empire.'

Enver rubbed the sweat from his upper lip, rubbing his nose with a soft sigh as he looked at the gauntlets. He fiddled with the latch idly, contemplating his answer. Despite doing so a million times before, he did not wish to toy with his closest companions heart. He would not insult his intelligence but initiating a fools play with him.

"Whether our connection is amorous of not, our alliance is strong, and it will benefit of our goals, as well as the kingdom I will build in your name, Dark One."

'I await the day the you sit upon the throne of this world, my Chosen. I only hope you choose someone worthy to witness our glory firsthand.'

His presence faded to nothing, and Enver sat there, staring at the intricate designs in encasing his forearm. Bane had not been satisfied with his answer, but he left anyway. Like he knew Enver would eventually concede to his order. Like he knew the union of his Chosen and the Bhaalspawn was inevitable.

He scrubbed a hand down his face and pushed his hair back, standing from his chair to grab the plate of metal from the water, tossing it back into the furnace with a scowl.

“I could only look at you.” Glowing eyes full of heat filled his mind.

Enver banished the memory from the forefront of his mind and unlatched his gauntlets, slipping them off and placing them back in the box, the gold bead dangling in the corner of his vision. He picked up his hammer and squeezed the handle. He needed to remove the restless energy from his bones.

He couldn't help but think Bane a touch foolish. If he would not abandon the God who saved him, why would Tir'yal abandon the very God who created him?

He grabbed his tongs, shifting through the coals and snatching the metal once more, tossing it onto the bench. Lust was not enough to tear a devoted son from his Father. Misguide him, maybe, but nothing more.

His steel heart was not willing to offer any more to the Bhaalspawn than the trust he already extended. After all, love was not for wretched creatures like them. The closest thing to love that they could offer was reserved for their Gods. And his love for Bane..well, love and fear were intimately intertwined, weren't they?

You are his to kill - that is the closest thing to 'love' a Bhaalspawn can manage.

The closest thing to love he could manage as a Banite, was to conquer. To own. Bane was right. Mortal and immortal men alike desired to covet more than wealth and property. He was no different.

Tir'yal was his, regardless of what 'love' they had for each other.

Nothing could change that.

[raiolll]

I deserve

Jude found Cardan alone and hurt in the middle of the winter. Maybe she should forgot her problems with him and help the cruel prince that is crying in her shoulder.

Hiiii. Apparently it's not just me who wants a hurt jurdan fanfic while they were enemies so here i am putting out an idea based on a thousand other things i've read. Just remembering that english is not my first language so maybe there are some mistakes, sorry in advance.

TW: blood, hurt, probably depression and suicide attempt. (If I miss something pls tell me)

Cardan’s pov-

I’m on the floor shivering. Balekin was so angry that I really thought I’d die, unfortunately this didn’t happen. I probably should go to my room and take care of my wounds, but my feelings are hurting more than the burning cuts in my back. 

Even though the hatred for Balekin ran through my veins, the real anger I felt was for myself. I used to ignore the screams and curses, but now I don't listen just his voice. I hear the voice of my family, "friends" and mostly Jude. They say I'm a monster, the most cruel person and a useless. They're right.

I got up and walked to a side exit of the mansion. The snow wets my feet and the cold wind freezes my bare skin. Never mind, I need to end this. The way to the lake is difficult as my mind is not focused on the forest in front of me. The water full of chunks of ice is scary and for a moment I stop, but I keep walking straight until the freezing water covers my head.

Jude's pov-

Today was a terrible day. I had a fight with Nicasia and she messed up my notes, Madoc said I didn't do well in training and I couldn't be more irritated. I love my sisters, really, but when they start talking about shopping in the mortal world I instantly start hating them. 

“Jude could you get some hot tea??” This is my moment to leave this terrible conversation. “Certainly”. I get out of the room and go directly to the hall to grab my coat. It’s a matter of time until they notice that there won’t be any tea.

I know I need some fresh air, but is it a good option in this cold? Yes it’s. No one is going out in this weather which means no one is going to get in my way. I run throught the florest until it’s hard to breathe and climb a tree to pick blackberries. I decided my last stop is going to be the lake where Nicasia threw my book, maybe it will still be there. 

The dark water’s so fuking scary. I glance over for any paper scraps, but find something worse. I find a sunken body just beyond the shore of the lake. “Hey!” I scream but nothing happens. Shit, shit, shit I found a dead body. I could leave him here and come back home, but my badass syndrome is stronger. I step into the shallow end and the cold water seeps into my boot, finally reaching the corpse's arm even though it makes my shirt completely wet.

Fuck, it's Cardan.

I run my hand over his wet face trying to understand who killed the prince and threw him into the lake when I notice that the corpse is alive. Even if weak, the heartbeat is still there. Ignoring the freezing cold where I do the cardiac massage that Vivi taught me. After a minute the bluish lips open and spit out a large amount of water while gasping for air. “Cardan?” I'm terrified, I really didn't expect to see this asshole dying in front of me. 

Cardan’s pov-

The cold is inside my bones and everything is dark. Something hot presses my chest several times until I wake up. I try to breathe but it felt like I was still inside the lake covered in water. After a while I managed to breathe again, even though I'd rather not have to.I tried to focus my vision on the person in front of me ignoring the fact that everything was spinning and a little blurry.

“Cardan...” The voice came out as a whisper. My eyes met hers as she spoke something I couldn't understand.

I recognized it in the exact second I saw her, my enemy and one of the reasons that makes me hate myself more every day. Jude Duarte.

“What are you doing here?” I expected a scream but my voice came out too weak to intimidate, even though I knew she wouldn't be scared. 

I tried to get up on my arm, but apparently I was too weak for that. Balekin was right, I am weak. I remember that Jude was there when she put her hands on my chest and, strange though it may seem, gently pushed me. 

“You are crazy?? You are practically dying of hypothermia and you want to get up!“ Her gaze was almost desperate.

"What happened?" I said finally accepting the tiredness of my body.

“I ask you! I just pulled you out of a freezing lake and practically resuscitated you. What were you doing here you idiot?“ 

“Just go away” She might have been able to speak again if a gust of wind hadn't stopped her speech. I involuntarily cringed. Warm fabric covered me and I swear for a moment I agreed to relax, but then her agile hands touched one of the open wounds making me scream in pain.

“What happened?” I didn't answer and as she wasn't going to let it go she touch again this time softer. I tried to tell her to stop but it was too late. She ran towards my back and looked at what her cloak once covered.

“Oh shit. W-what happened? How did this?” The tears came involuntarily, she couldn't see that I was weak. Not her. Please. “Cardan I...”

“Go away! It’s your fault, your!” I screamed turning around with all the anger I had inside me, which I immediately regretted. She looked startled and took a step back. 

See her giving up her usual strong pose and becoming a scared and heartfelt girl, even though I knew she sure as hell didn't want that, was the last straw for me. She has always been the strongest person i know and for a long time i wanted to see her intimidated by me. But instead of feeling amazing I started crying until I couldn't stop anymore, because I knew that to make her look like this you sure have to be the worst monster ever.

“Look I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you can’t scream and blame someone that just saved your life! Asshole” I just cried. She took her cloak and for one moment I thought that she was leaving, instead she took out of her pocket a handkerchief and a bunch of little bottles. “There must be something useful here.... That's it!“ 

Jude soaked the cloth in a green liquid. “This should help to heal, in the worst case nothing happens and you only suffer from the burning sensation.” When she touched the scarf to the first cut I screamed and tried to get away. “Stay still, the more you leave, the longer it will take and hurt.” 

Time passed and even though every time Jude put that cloth on me I felt like I was going to catch fire, I managed to stop crying. In silence Jude left the cloth on the floor and sat in front of me.

For the first time since it all started I stopped to really look at the girl in front of me. Her skin was paler than usual, her lips discolored and trembling.

“You are shivering”. 

“Fine. What happened ?”

“It doesn't matter” I tried to return hers cloak and she refused. “Go away”

 “Again in case you still don't understand, I literally just saved your fucking life. I have the right to know.“

“I didn't ask for your help at any time and honestly I wish you hadn't found me here.“ Shit. I didn't want to cry in front of her again so I had to play dirty. “Go away before your mortal body rots in the cold“

“Oh” she didn't look as offended as i expected “You came here because you wanted to. You went into the water yourself“ Everything stopped for a moment and it was almost like I was about to collapse.

"I hope you die!!"

"Well this is not my problem!"

"Everything would be better than if you just die exactly like your stupid parents" For the first time in this conversation she looked really angry.

She got up and I feelt desparete. I went to far. I didn't want that and now she was going away. I don't want to stay alone, not now. I need to apologize.

 Apparently my face gave it all away because her features softened and I was taken by a hug before I could say a word. I was stuck for a few seconds as I wasn't expecting it, but I couldn't take it long. I hugged her like she was the only thing I care about, and after thinking about it I realized that it's not completely a lie.

“I'm a monster, there's no reason to go on“

“No, no. This is not true” 

Her affection was so gentle that I got carried away. I don't know how long I was crying on her shoulder, but when I managed to stop I realized she was officially shivering with cold.

“Thanks” I said a little embarrassed “But that never happened, it will be just between us“

“Fine” she got up and spoke more to her than to me " I still wanting to know what happened"

I got up and saw her leaving without even looking back, of course I didn't expect her to come running after me after I was such an asshole but I still had a sinking heart.

Jude’s pov-

That was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me. I just hugged Cardan. I tought that I'd only do that if I was dying or if I wanted to stab him. Not because I felt bad. He looked diferent there sitting in the snow and shivering. He looked so weak and small that I felt really bad. Usually I'd have attacked him back with all my rage, but apparently his attack was supposed to be a shield that didn't work.

I walked towards Madoc's mansion with my head full of questions.

"Where were you?" Taryn showed up in my room

"Long story..."

Notes: I just found this in my drafts and I remembered that I had promised a fanfic, I believe it's this one lol. I can't say that I liked it very much, but it's been so long that I don't even remember what I thought about this story. They'll have to accept it even after waiting so long. Bye <3

[oblivions-dawn]

YOU KNOW I GOT THAT WIP WIP WIP WIP WIP

Hello hello madfellows of mine. It's, ah, been a while. I've been through a lot the past few weeks--my mentality, my job, everything just plummeted at once and left me without any motivation for writing [despite my daily desperation for some kind of escape]. I've done my best to pull myself back together and have managed to write quite a lot in a span of a couple of nights! Yay! I'm hoping to finish it up and post it soon, but I can't promise anything substantial. But in the meantime, I have a lovely WIP to share with you! As always, thank you @thequeenofthewinter for tagging me. Your writing is always a pleasure to read and very inspirational for me. Vigdis and Serana have some scroll hunting to do, and this is a scene that happens while they search for the elusive Dragon Scroll. I hope you enjoy!

“You have to survive, Vigdis.”

She wrapped her small, cold fingers around a tiny bow. She pulled the string taut against her cheek, her eyes glued to a makeshift target under a lone pine three. The warm presence of her father knelt beside her.

“Even if it hurts.”

The bow dissolved. Embers glittered before her, a bowl scraped clean of its mutton soup cradled in her lap. At the edge of her vision, her dad’s purple hand settled beside her knee. She was still alone. She was still hungry.

“Even if it’s a consequence.”

The hut collapsed—and bodies bloomed in its place. Blood plastered her face and clothes and matted itself in her curly hair. She took a lit torch and tossed it onto the bodies, which immediately burst into hot, red flames.

The flames shifted, moulded, and carved into blood orange irises. They burned bright, hardened with hunger, with hate, with desperation. She sharply sucked in the bloodstained air that refused to fill her lungs. Blood pumped so loudly in her ears that it drowned out everything else. She tasted the deep red ichor on her cracked lips.

“You’re bleeding.”

Eyelids slowly peeled open. Ice-blue eyes stared, unfocused, into the dark, starless night framed by the silhouette of the mountains. She gradually sat up. The nightmare that still lingered behind her irises had already begun to lose its tangibility no matter how hard she tried to recall every detail.

“Vigdis?”

She turned.

The same persimmon eyes she had seen in her dreams now reflected back at her; then it was clear that they were softer, less grim and utterly without cruelty. These eyes held no hate nor hunger; rather, they caressed a care and a worry that was obvious, even to Vigdis. No—these eyes studied her; watched her; examined her.

“You’re bleeding.”

Vigdis instinctively swiped her tongue across the bottom of her lip—only to taste her dry, cracked skin. She cheeks flared in a subtle embarrassment. It dawned on her that Serana still waited for an answer.

“A nightmare,” she mumbled with a shrug.

Serana frowned. “You dream a lot.” Her eyes fell to the dying embers. “It haunts you.”

“Every night,” Vigdis whispered, her eyebrows drawn together at the painful squeeze in her chest. The ghosts of her past would always mingle with her living present. Even if—when—she found her father’s killer and ended his monstruous un-life, her demons would haunt her until her last breath. She knew that. She had accepted that.

“Even if it hurts.”

[sinvulkt]

Angstpril: 24. "I WAS WRONG ABOUT YOU" - scel & sin, slave past

@whumpril - 24. Secrets

Among the camps of rebels stood a familiar figure. A theelin with bright pink hair and green eyes. I left Liberty’s side, rushing towards the face I hadn’t seen in months.

“Scélérat!” I called.

He turned around, and I froze. For an instant, I wondered if I had called out the right theelin. Not because of the new scars painting his skin, not because of the broken horns crowning his head, not because of the new sulfur glint haunting his eyes… but because of the raw hate that twisted his face. That was a look usually directed at slavers, at indolent kings that let their people suffer.

Scélérat had never looked at me like that before. 

“Traitor,” he spat.

“I see,” I closed my eyes, cooling my features and folding the hurt in places that couldn’t be seen. “That’s how it is going to be then?”

Why did I ever expect any other reaction?

“Yes,” he hissed, turning away.

I stepped forward, feathers puffed. “Why? Because of some secrets I kept? Because of rumors desperate people threw around?”

“Rumors?” he scoffed. “How many died under your lashes?”

Too many.

“How many more would have, had I refused to hold the whip?” I retorted, wings fully spread now. Old frustration and pain bubbled up in my chest. They all scowled and spat at me, as if I had any choice in the matter, as if I had been less of a slave than they had been… As if they would have rather died, than suffer a few lashes.

“Do not make yourself a hero,” Scélérat sneered. “You are not.”

My hooks sank painfully into my palms. “I’m here, aren’t I? Helping the rebellion.”

“And Force knows why,” he spat. “My best guess is that you felt the wind turn, and tried to save your skin.”

“Do you… really believe that?” I stumbled back, shaking. My tear ducts burned, half of my focus sacrificed to keep them dry. I wouldn’t cry. Not for such meaningless accusations, not in front of Scélérat.  My muscles hurt from tensing for so long, but the physical discomfort was mostly a welcome distraction. 

“Shouldn’t I?” Scélérat said.

A hollow laugh escaped my mouth. 

“Scélérat, you know me.”

“Do I?” he shook his head. “I thought I knew you. I was wrong.”

I closed my eyes. Hurt combusted in my chest, morphing into an all-encompassing anger. “Perhaps you are right. You never knew me at all.”

No one ever had. Likely, no one ever would.

I took a deep breath and exhaled, gathering back the control techniques I knew. Slowly, the fire collapsed, icing over in a freezing emptiness. With each breath, my nerves shook. With each breath, I let a little more of my fond memories with Scélérat go. When my eyelids raised back up, a black fire burned inside my pupils.

“Good luck, Scélérat. May the Force be with you.” 

In a kinder way than it had been for me.

I took off, not waiting for his answer. The scornful echoes of his presence in the Force were answer enough.

The cold air brushing my feathers did little to sooth the feverish emptiness that pierced me. Soon, I would have to return to Liberty’s side, and attend the meeting. Then, I would have to go back to Följare, and act as if I wasn’t plotting his death behind his back. As if I wasn’t becoming a traitor twice over.

My head burned and froze in a never ending cycle, that no amount of furious flapping seemed to quell. It bore with it the name of an emotion I knew all too well: loneliness.

But I had survived it before, and I would survive it again. Thrive even, in a way that would spit in the face of all the studies declaring Siegrinds ‘highly social’. And here, amidst the clouds, the wind teasing my primaries, loneliness didn’t seem like such a burden anymore. It seemed like a given, like a loyal companion. As natural to me as the hot air rising, and the cold air dropping.

Deep inside me, I had always known.

Life was a road I would travel alone.

[casspurrjoybell-25]

The Healer of Shakkara - Book One

*Warning Adult Content*

Chapter 12 - The Reunion - Part 1

Galen shivered and hugged his knees to his chest.

He was naked, huddled as close to the fire as he could get without burning, while his soggy clothes hung from a makeshift drying rack nearby.

The stranger was naked, too but unlike Galen, he seemed uninhibited by his nudity and went about gathering fuel and building the drying rack as if it were business as usual.

Galen kept his eyes on the flickering flames and struggled to stay awake.

He failed and startled at a touch, the stranger's hand hot as fire on his chilled skin.

"Are you unwell?" he asked.

"You ought to be warming up by now but you're cold as ice."

Galen shrugged off the hand.

"I'm fine," he said, hunching in on himself defensively.

"My house burned down, my father is in jail, a whole town wants to kill me, I've been kidnapped, shot at and almost drowned. But yes, I'm fine."

The stranger breathed a laugh.

"I'm glad to see your spirit is intact, regardless. My name is Sevhalim, if you did not remember it but most who know me call me Sev. I regret the way things have unfolded... if I had only played a cooler hand at your father's house, we might be safe at sea by now."

He looked up as the distant baying of hounds reached them on the crisp, pre-dawn air, carrying over from the river's far shore.

"We can't stay here long," he said.

"There've been boats on the river already and while I don't know if we are the hunter's quarry, I would not bet against it... especially with the send off we got from your friend."

Galen rested his forehead on his folded arms and shut his eyes.

"Darek's not my friend."

Sev snorted.

"No... that much is obvious, now. But that is what he led us to believe. We met him first at the town gates. It seemed we might not gain entry at all, given the unwelcoming atmosphere but when we asked after you he was most obliging. Led us right to your father's house."

"No wonder you found me so quickly."

"Indeed. For a brief moment, I thought this would be easy... then our luck ran out and it's been hell since. After your father began hurling furniture and expelled us from his house, the townsfolk drove us back to our ship. From there, I sent word of a reward for information and Darek offered his services again. By letter, he told us to wait at night near the large drain, claiming he could convince you to meet us there. I take it he did not 'convince' you with words?"

Galen didn't answer and hugged his knees to his chest as he shivered again.

He knew he should hate Darek for what he'd done but at the moment his heart and mind felt as numb as the rest of him.

He'd started to drift again when Sev's hand settled on his brow.

The heat of his touch felt so good that Galen leaned into it reflexively.

"This chill isn't natural," Sev said quietly.

"You must tell me if you are injured in some way. I'm no medic but I have a small talent for healing."

Galen meant to laugh but it came out a sigh.

"So do I, apparently."

Sev's hand moved from his brow to the back of his neck and more shivers shook Galen's shoulders.

"What do you mean?" Sev asked.

"My friend was hurt," he whispered, keeping his eyes shut.

"Harrald said I'd done it before, though I don't remember. And with everyone saying I had magic... I had to try."

"And you succeeded?" the other man's tone was quiet, almost careful, though laden with curiosity.

"Yes."

"Then you are P'Yrha," Sev muttered.

"You must be."

Galen shook his head, though the motion was so slight it might have gone unnoticed.

"I don't know what that means."

Sev settled at Galen's side and began rubbing a hand up and down his back, warming him with friction.

His palm was slightly rough and calloused and Galen bit back an embarrassing sound as exquisite heat sank into his skin.

"As I attempted to explain at your father's house," Sev said.

"P'Yrha are born to high priestesses of Pyrr, conceived through sacred communion with the Goddess herself, supposedly. Only a single P'Yhra has ever existed at one time and their purpose is to restore and maintain the balance of magic in the world. During the Great Purge, the temple of Pyrr was razed and most of his acolytes slain. Those who survived fled to Jana Val and joined the Order... the surviving remnants of the ancient schools of magic from across the empire. No P'Yrha has been born since and some believe this is because one still lives. When I saw your pendant and your appearance, I wondered if I had found him."

Galen lifted a hand and grasped the pendant, which was the only thing he wore.

He'd once believed it brought him luck but all it had brought him was trouble.

Then again, the quakes would have visited Dern regardless and if not for the strangers and Darek's treachery, he might be hanging from the town gallows right now.

"So you're one of them?" he asked.

"This 'Order?'"

"I'm what they call a 'Hand,'" Sev answered.

"The Masters of the Order are scholars and priests, reclusive and removed from the wider world. When they want something done beyond the walls of Jana Val, they use their 'Hands.'"

"What will they do with me?"

The hand that still rubbed warmth into Galen's back gentled a little.

"Train you, probably," Sev said, though he sounded unsure.

"What if I don't want to go?" Galen asked in a whisper.

The hand stilled and the warmth retreated.

Sev hesitated, then said...

"It is my duty to bring you there."

"Then, I guess we understand each other," Galen murmured and said nothing more.

After a moment, Sev patted his shoulder and got to his feet.

"I'm going to gather more fuel," he said.

"Our clothes are nearly dry."

[spxllcxstxr]

Sickness • Bridgerton!Sibling

(Gif not mine)

Request: Can you do one fanfic where the brother! reader gets Ill and they think that he is about to die and the bridgerton family reaction to it — anon

Summary: Your illness has lasted for days and you don’t seem to be getting any better

Warnings: angst!! sickness, dying mentions, ambiguous ending : )

Word Count: 713

A.N: first Bridgerton fic ever lmao I’m sorry, hopefully this is alright! I really tried and I don’t actually hate how it turned out lmao, gn!reader, let me know if you want to be put on a Taglist!!

•

“Mama, is (Y/n) dying?”

Violet Bridgerton, who had just been worriedly wiping the sweat from your brow, snaps her head to her youngest child. 

“Hyacinth, have you gone mad?” Your mother cries out, her actions never stopping. If they haven’t stopped after endless days of bedrest, they weren’t going to stop for her children’s comments.

Although you were furiously sweating and gasping for air from the oppressive heat of your blankets, there was a persistent shiver running up and down your spine. Your hands and feet were ice cold while your skin burned up. 

Through blurry eyes you watch your youngest sister shrug in response. “It is just that...mama, the doctor said--”

“I know what the doctor said, child.” She sighs. You wish you could console her in any way possible but everything hurt. It burned to move and your head felt like a solid ball of lead. “Just get Anthony in here, Hyacinth, and do not tell your siblings this insane theory of yours.”

Her slippers click against the wood flooring and your mother focuses on you once more. 

“Mama...” You’re able to rasp out, lips chapped and throat sore from your prolonged silence. “Am I...am I going to die?” 

The question hangs in the air, your voice breaking at the end. Finally, your mother pauses. You can hear her struggle to even her breath, the question quite obviously on her mind as well. You’ve only been getting worse as the days go on. 

Her cool hands play with the hair on your forehead, moving the locks to frame your face instead. You’re reminded of a time, you must’ve been at most little Hyacinth’s age, when she’d comfort you this way. She would always wipe the hair from your face so your father had a clear canvas to plant a kiss on while you weren't feeling well. Your parents always had the power to make you feel better. 

“Oh darling, oh (Y/n)...no,” She shakes her head, trying to convince both you and herself. “No, no, you are not dying, I will not bury my child.” 

Exhaustion clings to you as tears escape the corners of your eyes. “Okay, mama,” 

You must have fallen asleep for a little bit because when you open your eyes you see Anthony hovering over you, concern etched into his features. It was a rare look on your eldest brother. His lips are pursed as he listens to whatever your mother is whispering about to him. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, his dark eyes flicking from your face to hers. 

“Anthony, I am not sure of anything anymore, but it is better to be prepared...” You hear her sniff before your brother responds with a curt nod, leaving the room. 

Your stomach churns as terrible thoughts swirl through your mind. You were going to die of some illness no one else in London has, at least to your knowledge. 

You were going to die and leave behind eight siblings, all of whom drive you absolutely mad but at the same time made life worth living. The Bridgerton’s needed chaos and this family sure did provide it. They’ll keep London on its toes. 

You were going to die and your mother would be forced to bury another one of hers way too soon. First your father, now you. It was completely unfair. Sweet sweet Violet did nothing to deserve such terrible luck.

Your horrible thoughts are interrupted as your siblings file through the door. If you weren’t dying of some illness, you would feel embarrassed by your dishevelment, your sickly state was not one to be witnessed by the people you most loved and respected. 

Your sisters are crying, redness clinging to their faces as they cling together, while your brothers watch you with unshed tears swimming in their eyes. Benedict can barely keep his focus on you, though he knows this may just be the last time he sees you alive. 

Everything becomes more languid for you, eyelids feel like stone slabs that you can barely keep up. After this moment, you may or may not wake up. You hope you do.

With your eyes still open, you attempt to crack a smile, though it most likely comes out as a grimace. 

“I’ll tell papa...” 

And then your world goes dark. 

•

[earlgreydream]

jotun.

| loki x reader | smut | angst | fluff |

anon requested. dom!Loki where he goes into a Jotun heat and fucks the reader senseless 

cw: slightly dubcon?, aggression, crying, choking, d/s, kind of temp play?, jotun!loki, mentions of burns, bruises, blood etc, basically just super rough sex, Sa STRONG CONTENT WARNING

a/n: I don’t usually write stuff like this, so it’s new to me 

“Get out!” Loki’s vicious scream echoed off of the walls. 

“No, I’m not going to just leave you!” You ran across the golden floor of his chambers and dropped to your knees. You dragged the god into your arms, and you could feel the warfare tearing him apart from the inside. 

He was so cold.

Loki’s body wracked as he tried to breathe, as if just staying alive was exhausting. The tips of his fingers turned blue, and he tried to fight it off, keeping himself in his æsir form. His head tilted back, black waves falling back to reveal scarlet eyes. 

You swallowed hard, fear shooting up your spine. His skin slowly turned deep blue, ancient jotun patterns swirling across the skin like scars.

“Please, I’m begging you to go. I don’t want to hurt you,” Loki’s voice was impossibly deeper, dangerous. 

“I’m not going to abandon you. I trust you, Loki.” 

“It’s not me, it’s a monster!” Loki wept, gripping the shimmering Asgardian fabrics that draped over your body with icy fingers. 

You held him tightly, refusing to leave the terrified god. His stamina wore thin, and his icy jotun core seeped through, replacing every godly aspect of him with the blue skin of a monster. His touch was so cold it practically burned you, and very real fear burned like acid in your throat. 

Maybe you should’ve listened to him, and run when he’d told you. Now, it was too late. 

His clothing was gone in a simmer of fizzing blue magic, baring his entire monstrous form to you. You scrambled backward, looking up at Loki as he towered over you. His red eyes were feral, and he descended on you like you were prey. 

“Loki, my love...” you tried to speak, but you silenced as his hand wrapped tightly around your throat. He asserted his strength over you, pinning you down against the unyielding golden floor. His grip was tight, rendering you completely immobile. 

He gripped the fabric of your gown, tearing it into shred as he ripped it from your body. Your eyes widened, and you tried to wrap your hands around his wrist, but your touch recoiled, your palms red from the cold. 

Loki grabbed your thigh, shoving your legs open and exposing your sex to him. You screamed as he thrust himself all the way inside of you, making no attempt to ease into you or make sure you were ready. 

Usually, he slid into you with ease, but he was bigger in this form, and just different. It felt like someone completely different was shoving himself inside of you, and you supposed it was. You screamed as he pierced you open, forcing your body to accept him in your warm sex. Moisture blurred your vision, frightened by what was happening, and powerless to stop it, or ease up. 

He was absolutely feral, his mind only focused on taking his own pleasure from you. He felt like ice inside of you, and the unfamiliar cold sensation made you writhe off of the floor, arching your back as he slammed into you with inhuman force. It was a terrible, strange feeling, and you were overwhelmed by the intensity of how hard he was pounding into you. His other hand gripped your thigh, bruises blooming under his unforgiving touch. 

“Loki, please, you’re hurting me,” you breathed, trying to struggle away from his brutalizing touch. A threatening growl thundered from his chest, and you halted, wincing as his hand moved from your throat to roughly grope your chest. 

The cold of his hand on your throat left red frost burns, mixing with the deep purple caused by the tight grip he’d held you down with. 

You attempted to force yourself to relax, letting him fuck the life out of you, tearing up your sex. A choked cry of relief escaped your lips when he pulled out after his first orgasm.

Loki had never been so violent or rough with you, and you reminded yourself that it wasn’t him, that the god you loved wasn’t in control of his own body. He’d begged you to leave, knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself, and you promised him you could take it.

You panted, trying to catch your breath, curling up on the floor and shivering. Your body burned from the inside and out, pain prickling up your spine from his aggression.

You were only awarded a few minutes of reprieve, yelping as he flipped you over, your chest smacking against the floor. You braced yourself with your forearms, and he dragged your hips up, gripping you so tightly you feared your bones would shatter. He continued fucking you from behind, slamming into you so roughly that your body cracked against the floor. He shoved your head down when you tried to push yourself up. 

Sharp pain blossomed deep inside of you, waves of agony washing through you with each thrust. You started to cry, sobs tearing through your chest. You screamed as he held you down, his hips pistoning against yours. His cold fingers gripped your hair, dragging you to your knees. He held you against his chest, and the cold overwhelmed your body in a cruel ache. He slipped in and out of your slick heat, and you were nearly certain you were bleeding.

Loki continued to ravage you until you couldn’t move, your bruised and aching body lying limp against the floor. You felt weak and raw, suffocated by the sobs that wracked your chest. You laid there, gazing up at him and whispering that you loved him.

“Please come back to me, Loki. I need you,” you whispered before the exhaustion pulled you into unconsciousness. 

You started to gain awareness, unsure of what time it was. Your eyes were heavy, and as you began to move, an intense ache flooded your body. Loki heard your choked whimper, and you registered the sound of him crying. 

“Loki?” your voice was weak, and you blinked slowly, adjusting to the light. 

He knelt beside you on the bed, his face streaked with tears and his shoulders trembling. Loki’s brow was knit together, and you recognized the horror in his gaze.

“What have I done to you? My love, I’m so sorry,” he breathed, reaching toward you but not letting himself touch your skin. 

He was himself again, fair, delicate, and gorgeous, with emotional blue eyes that glittered with an entire realm of stars reflecting in them. 

You reached out at took his hand, relaxing as you felt his warmth. He kissed the knuckles on your fingers, his soft lips gentle against your skin. Apologies fell from his lips like prayers, and he agonized over hurting you. 

“I never wanted to hurt you. I’ll understand if you hate me, but please know I would never do this to you on purpose,” he begged.

“I know, Loki. It’s alright-”

“It’s not alright! I’m a monster! I’m cruel, and horrible, just like everyone said I was. I deserve to die for doing this to you!” Loki wept, guilt overwhelming him. 

He’d woken up on the floor next to you, horrified by the sight of your unconscious body. You were covered in deep purple and black bruises, and red burns from where he’d gripped you with his icy hands. Your clothes were torn to shreds, and blood and come stained your inner thighs. You had bite marks, thankfully none too deep, and you looked like you had been brutalized. 

His heart shattered, hatred bursting through his chest. He hated himself, he hated the monstrous side of him that did this to you. Flashes of the night before filled his mind, making him sick. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he repeated over and over again, torn apart by the knowledge that he was the cause of your state. 

Gentle green magic shimmered around the two of you, cleaning you up as much as possible. He lifted you onto the bed before sulking back, feeling too guilty to even touch you. 

He’d watched you sleep, delirious as he studied your breathing, making sure your chest was moving and the air was moving in and out of your lungs. 

“I promise you that I’m okay. I love you so much, Loki,” you reached out to him, closing your fingers around his wrist and pulling him toward you.

“I love you,” he whispered into your hair, kissing your face. 

You didn’t flinch away from his touch, no longer afraid of your lover. You wanted him to hold you, pushing the pain away as you crawled into his lap. The movement made the ache between your legs sharp, and the pressure on your bruised body was painful. You didn’t care, wanting to be close to Loki. 

He cradled you against his body, mindful of your injuries. His lips pressed to your forehead, whispering professions of love against your skin. You let the rhythm of his heartbeat soothe you, your cheek resting against his warm chest. 

“Let me make it up to you,” Loki begged.

“You don’t need to, but I’ll let you spoil me if it’ll make you feel better.” 

He kissed your lips, and you held his face in your hands. 

“I love you, unconditionally. I know you didn’t have control. I wanted to help you through it, I chose you, Loki. And I will always choose you,” you promised. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I want you anyways,” you kissed him sweetly. 

“Let me care for you.”

You agreed, letting him set you in a bath, jolting when the hot water soaked your damaged skin. 

“I’ve called for a healer.”

You sat in the water, letting him clean you properly beyond what his magic covered. His fingers grazed between your legs, and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him. 

“No, I’m still sore,” you shook your head, and he immediately took his hand away.

“Okay, not now, then.”

He washed the previous night from your skin, leaving you smelling sweet and clean. His touch was tender, nothing like the icy grip from before. You leaned into his touch, craving it and desperate for it. Trays of all of your favorite sweets appeared, as well as steaming cups of tea that you happily accepted, knowing they came from Loki’s desperation to indulge you. 

“Thank you,” you kissed his cheek, leaning into him in the bathtub. 

You struggled to stand as you tried to climb out, thankful when the healer walked in. Loki helped you to sit down, a fresh wave of guilt pouring over him as he saw the effort it took you just to take a few steps. He looked to the healer hopefully, taking her hand and kneeling before her.

“Please, help my love,” he begged sincerely.

“Of course,” she nodded, touching his shoulder.

“May I see, prinsesse?” the girl asked as you sat near the fire to stay warm. 

You let the towel drop from your body, and the healer assessed your injuries. She hesitated, glancing to Loki before laying her hands over your body, performing her ancient magic. She was clearly troubled by the marks that covered you, and it took over an hour before the bruises began to fade and the sharp ache reduced to a dull throbbing. 

“Your subjects love you, prinsesse,” she grasped your hand, her eyes snapping to Loki. Loki sulked with guilt, kneeling beside you and brushing damp hair from your eyes. 

“I’m alright. Thank you,” you squeezed her hand before she fled your chambers, disappearing into the castle to tend to wounded soldiers and Valkyrie. 

“They fear me.”

“No, my love.” 

You slipped into a loose white gown, sheened with gold and iridescence. You joined Loki on the terrace, watching dancers below, and a festival fully underway in the streets. Your legs were folded under you, and you laid back against your prince, gold jewelry clinking on your wrists and fingers as you traced shapes on the back of his hand that lightly rested on your thigh. 

He created illusions with his magic, entertaining you and making flowers bloom in the air, tiny daisies drifting down and weaving themselves in your hair and tickling your cheeks. 

“What are they celebrating?” you asked, watching the Asgardians in the city.

“They’re celebrating the end of spring. Summer is coming, and they’re honoring the change in season.” 

“It’ll last for weeks. When you’re up to it, we’ll go join them,” Loki promised, kissing you gently and offering you a sweet piece of fruit. 

“I want to go now.” 

“Are you sure? I know you’re still a bit sore.” 

“Please, Loki.”

He gave in, certainly not wanting deny you of happiness. In an instant, you were down in the streets, excitement erupting around you at the presence of their beloved prince and princess. 

“Prinsesse!” a girl squealed, running to you and grabbing your skirts. You giggled and gave her one of the flowers from your hair, smiling at her delight. Loki stood beside you protectively, making sure you were comfortable as young Asgardian girls took your hands and pulled you to the fountain in the square. 

You sat on the edge of the marble, and they climbed around you, going to braid your hair in elaborate styles. Loki’s fingers moved, providing them with flowers and and magical pins to use. 

“Tell us a story of your rule, prins,” a girl asked, her eyes shining up at Loki. 

He indulged them, his magic forming figures and acting out the story he told, and you watched him in adoration. The children adored him, basking in his attention, just as you did. 

“You are no monster, Loki. They delight in your presence. Don’t ever think you’re not loved,” you whispered in his ear, a smile creeping onto his face.

[ppersonna]

keep me warm - jhs | m

cause you keep me and nice and you keep me warm. wanna feel you on me, can't wait to get back there again - texas sun,  khruangbin

✹ summary- camping is always a great time when you’re with your friends, but even better with your boyfriend, hoseok.

✹ rating- explicit/18+/nsfw

✹ pairing- jung hoseok x reader

✹ word count- 3.9k - she’s a short lil quick dip ;)

✹ genre- smut. lol thats it. cant say there is much plot here besties!!! but there is big brother namjoon, brothers best friend hoseok, established relationship!!!

✹ warnings- explicit smut, cockwarming, dirty talk, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (be smart pls!), sex in a tent, a little exhibitionism???, fingering, finger sucking, creampie, lil bit of cum play but not really, hoseok is a dirty dirty boy and i love that about him tbh

✹ a/n- helloooo. i’ve been sitting on this and finally finished it!! thank you to @kimtaehyunq​ for the sexy banner and beta reading and general support. i was inspired to write this fic when i went camping but pls be warned that sex in a tent is not as sexy as this fic makes it seem 🤕 ILY BESTIES!!! lemme know your thots!!!

The annual Kim Family camp out is an event you haven’t missed since your seventh birthday when you had chicken pox. It’s an outing that has gained notoriety among your friends, a monumental yearly occasion that takes months of prep in advance. What started as a simple camp out with your parents and your older brother Namjoon has become an event with extended friends and family members and significant others involved. Your parents handed down the event to you and your brother, claiming their older age keeps them from being able to keep up with “the youth” for an entire weekend, instead preferring to join for a big cookout dinner, then head back to the comfort of their tempurpedic mattress and functional plumbing back at home.

Not that you minded.

This year was different. Your cousins, Taehyung and Seokjin, would join with Tae’s girlfriend Maggie. Your childhood best friend Jimin would attend as well, bringing along his lover of the month, a tall and leggy brunette. Namjoon invited his best friend Yoongi, who brought along your mutual friend Jungkook. 

And most importantly, 

Jung Hoseok would be there. Your boyfriend.

Hoseok is no stranger to the Kim Family camp out. He’s been attending since he was sixteen after meeting Namjoon in high school jazz band and instantly becoming friends. You can vividly remember the older high school boy making sure you never felt left out in a group of gangly teenagers—bringing you along on hikes, and fishing, and general mischief.

It’s where you first fell for him.

Every year after that, you pined for Hoseok from afar at every outing. You’d lie awake at night in your shared tent with Jimin, desperately wishing the body next to you was Hoseok, wrapping his arms around you to keep you warm in the forest's chill.

Your relationship with Hoseok flourished after high school, when he was unknowingly in your chemistry class in college. Hours were spent pouring over textbooks together, cramming for exams and practice labs with a familiar friend.

Then came the coffee dates, the movie nights, the dinners. Hoseok went from an occasional study buddy to someone you talked to hourly.

The day he kissed you is a day you’ll never forget. 

Soft lips pressing onto yours over a bubbling beaker of magnesium, his hands cupping your cheeks as he drew you in so close, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.

“Be mine,” he whispered. “Please, be mine.”

And you’ve been his ever since.

“Aish! Don’t burn my marshmallow, ___!” Namjoon scolds you, jerking your long stick away from the fire as he sits next to you. “I hate burned marshmallows.”

Annoyance bubbles up in your throat as you roll your eyes at your brother.

“I wouldn’t have to do this for you if you knew how to roast a marshmallow without starting a wildfire.”

Namjoon, ever the strong-headed big brother, glares at you. “That was an accident and you know it.”

Hoseok chuckles beside you, resting a hand on your leg as you murmur expletives about Namjoon and a certain stick under your breath.

“I’ll eat your burned one, babe,” he says with a smile. “I love your burned mallows.”

Hoseok’s charm is a balm to all your wounds. He easily melts the ice around your heart and soothes your frayed nerves with a simple look.

“Thanks, Hobi,” you reply. 

“Please, no talk of my sister’s mallows,” Namjoon winces. “It’s bad enough you’re dating in front of me. In front of my salad.”

Namjoon doesn’t mean it. He knows how deeply you love him, and he trusts Hoseok not to hurt his one and only sibling. But it doesn’t mean he’s not above rubbing it in your face that he was Hoseok’s friend first.

Jungkook laughs from where he’s sitting, roasting a hotdog over the crackling flame on Jimin’s lap (“There weren’t any seats left!”). 

“At least he’s not tossing her salad in front of you.”

Yoongi slaps the younger man’s hotdog out of his hand and into the fire, making Jungkook whine and pout petulantly.

“Don’t be gross,” Yoongi scolds and Namjoon nods at his friend in solidarity.

Hoseok smirks and licks his fingers clean of the sticky marshmallow. “Besides, we didn’t bring nearly enough lube for any anal play tonight.”

“Hoseok!” Namjoon screeches and you bashfully bury yourself into your sweater. The rest of the group explodes in laughter while your brother holds his head in his hands, lamenting the day you two met.

Hoseok pulls you into his lap, grinning as he kisses at your ear while maintaining firm eye contact with your brother, eager to make him as uncomfortable as possible.

While you’re relaxing into the warmth of your boyfriend’s body and enjoying the laughter of all your closest friends, Hoseok nips at your ear and whispers gently.

“I love you.”

“I’m so cold.” A shiver wracks through you as you burrow down deeper into your sleeping bag. The night air becomes increasingly frosty and you can easily see your breath in the dim light from the moon. “It wasn’t supposed to be this cold.”

Hoseok scoots his bag closer to yours, rubbing over the meshy material in an attempt to warm you.

“I thought about bringing another blanket before we left…,” he sighs. “But Namjoon told me I was being ‘a boy scout’.”

You bark out a frigid laugh, teeth chattering as you try to snuggle into the warmth of Hoseok’s hand.

Pleadingly, you ask. “Can we share? Maybe if we zip the sleeping bags together we can make one big extra-large sleeping bag?”

Hoseok nods. “Good idea.”

He quickly gets to work as soon as you unzip your sleeping bag and move off of it, allowing him to take it and zip the two bags together. He spreads it back out over the soft padded bed once it’s completed and he slips into his end before beckoning you over.

“Come to me, my little popsicle.”

The fabric swishes and slides as you move into the combined bag, wrapping your cold limbs around the warmth of your boyfriend’s body.

“Holy shit, you really are cold,” he exclaims with a grunt when your ice-cold hands seek the toasty expanse of his toned belly. “Fuck.”

“Sorry.” Your apology is anything but apologetic as the high temperature of Hoseok’s body quickly oozes into you. “You feel so good.”

A moan slips out of your lips, pleased at the warmth that your boyfriend radiates as you seek every spot on his body that radiates heat. 

“Hold on,” he whispers. 

Quickly, he rids himself of his shirt and tugs at the hem of your own.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” You gasp as the icy air billows under your shirt. “Why would I get naked right now?”

He huffs. “Trust me?”

He kisses the pout on your lips, then pulls away with your shirt in his hands.

“Skin-to-skin contact is the easiest way to warm someone up. Body heat, you know. Textbook boy scout stuff.”

He twists your body around to spoon into him, back pressed against his ultra-warm chest, making you gasp once you feel the radiating heat spreading across you.

“Oh…” you sigh as you sink into his embrace. “You were right.”

Hoseok smirks as he wraps his arms around you and buries his face in the nape of your neck—lips pressing gentle, warm kisses to the column below your ear.

“Told you so.”

Your body instinctively presses further into his body, desperate for the warmth that the human-heater seems to emit. His breath hitches as he feels your ass press hard against his lap, cock stirring at the proximity.

Hoseok’s hands run up and down your arms, warming each inch of your skin with his palms. He spreads heat wherever he touches, and your eyes flutter closed as he works his gentle, warming massage into your frozen skin. He is the epitome of sunshine, both in body and demeanor, always able to brighten the coldest chills with one look, one touch. 

When he’s satisfied that you’re thoroughly warmed where he’s worked, his hands move from your arms and shoulders around to your belly and up to your chest. You feel like mush under his grazing touch, gasping and biting your lip as he tugs gently at your perky nipple. It’s a live wire to his cock. 

“Fuck,” he groans as he feels himself harden. He kisses at your shoulder as he continues to palm at your chest, taking the fullness of your breasts into his whole hand and massaging it gently.

“Hobi…” you warn, feeling the desire between your thighs build. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.”

He chuckles against your skin, breathing hot air over your neck and shoulder, tightening his grip on your nipple for a quick pinch that makes you squeak.

“Who says we can’t finish?”

His voice is low—that deep, sensual tone that sets your tummy aflame with desire. His dick is pressed against your ass, twitching with need as it thickens in his pants.

His hand moves from your chest, rubbing soft, sweet circles on your stomach as he warms the cool flesh around your belly button, before traveling down to where your sleeping pants sit low on your hips.

“We c-can’t,” you meekly attempt to fight back, remain strong, but the warmth of his body and the need growing within you is quickly winning your internal battle of morality. “My cousin is next to us.”

Hoseok smirks as he slips underneath your pants, hand diving in between your thighs to rub at your soft mound. He’s close, so close to slipping inside of you, and you squeeze your eyes tight at the overwhelming urgency you’re feeling for his fingers inside you.

“You think Tae and Maggie are fast asleep right now?” He asks. 

As if on cue, you hear soft giggles coming from the next tent over, giggles that sound suspiciously like Taehyung’s girlfriend.

“Tae is really not that funny,” Hoseok says as he nibbles at your ear. “Let me warm you, baby.”

He seeks your consent, desperate to make you feel good but not willing to further his actions. 

“Mmm, maybe just a little more.”

His fingers seek purchase further, finally diving into your folds. He gasps into your ear as he feels how wet you’ve become from his ministrations, stroking gently up and down your slick slit and circling over your clit.

“Fuck, look at you,” he nearly whines into your ear. “So wet for me.”

“Please, Hobi,” you whimper. You’re not sure what you’re begging for, what you need, but all you want is for him to not stop, never stop. 

“You want me to keep going, don’t you?” He asks, teasingly circling the pad of his finger on your swollen clit. 

Unable to use your words, you nod. The light pressure on your clit has your thighs trembling and Hoseok thrills at the palpable desperation you’re feeling.

“Are you going to be quiet for me?” He asks, slowly moving his finger down before breaching into your channel. “Can’t be waking up the entire camp.”

Using your hand, you clamp over your mouth as your boyfriend's finger fucks into your hole, slowly and achingly gentle but with purpose. A shiver runs down his spine as he watches you try to hold yourself back. You’re not normally quiet—he makes it his mission to get you to whine and cry and yell his name as loud as he can when you’re at home. But the thrill of keeping you quiet while he sinks himself into you makes his body hum with want.

“Good girl,” he cooes as he introduces another finger inside you, scissoring you open with his lengthy digits. “Better stay quiet for me or I won’t let you cum.”

He quickly removes his fingers from your channel, making you whine behind your hand, which he silences with a soft tut.

“No complaining. Be good.”

He continues his journey to disrobe you, sliding off your pants and panties. He throws them to the other side of the tent where your luggage lies, no care about you wearing them the rest of the night. He follows suit with his own pants, swiftly pulling the material off his legs and allowing his throbbing cock to spring free. You desperately want to touch it, feel it in your hands and in your mouth, but he keeps you facing away from him, cock fully out of your reach.

“Such a perfect little ass,” he murmurs to himself as he admires your backside before sliding back into the big spoon position. The feeling of his hot, hard length against your bare ass makes you mewl with desire, teasingly rubbing against it.

“Fuck, Hobi,” you gasp as he slips his hands back to the apex of your thighs, scissoring into you again and warming his icy fingers in the heat of your cunt. 

“Shhh,” he reminds. “Let me give your mouth something to do, yeah?”

He pulls his dripping fingers from within your walls and brings them to your mouth. You eagerly open wide, obedient and desperate for something to take your mind off the growing neediness your body is throbbing with.

Watching you suck your own wet slick off his fingers makes Hoseok’s cock ache with need. The tip is weeping with pre-cum, as if crying out to bury itself within your walls and never retreat. It twitches as your tongue swirls over his digits, teasing him and reminding him how well you can suck his cock.

“Shit, baby,” he gasps. “I’m going to bust right now if you’re not careful.”

He pulls his fingers from your mouth and uses the spit-slick hand to lift your leg enough for him to line his cock up at your hole.

“You want to warm my cock for me, baby?” He nips at your shoulder as he rubs the bulbous head along your slit. “God, I want to be in this pretty little cunt all night. Can you keep me warm tonight?”

“P-please, baby,” you gasp as the tip prods at your entrance, threatening to breach. He preemptively moves his free hand back to your mouth, covering it gently to help keep your noisy mouth muffled. 

“Such a polite girl.” Hoseok’s lips skim over your neck and ear, nibbling at your lobe as he finally, blessedly, spears himself into you. 

“Fuuuck,” he whines as he drops his forehead against your soft hair, shuddering as he buries himself to the hilt. “You’re so fucking tight.”

Nothing compares to the feeling of Hoseok sinking himself into you. It’s like the first time, every time. He clings to you desperately, as if he wants to bury his entire self in between your thighs and never retreat. Being connected to your boyfriend like this, not knowing where he ends and you begin, is the most dazzling aspect of sex. Your heart beats in overtime, breath short and heavy, as he holds you like you’re his only worthy possession in life.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t withdraw his cock and plunge back into you like his body is begging him to. He wants nothing more than to roll you onto your stomach and fuck you until you’re screaming his name for the entire national forest to hear, but he doesn’t. 

“Mmm, Hobi, please,” you whine against his palm, kitten licking the flesh there to encourage him to move. It almost works, almost spurs him into action, but he remains flush against you and unmoving.

“Just trying to keep you warm, baby,” he teases. “Skin-to-skin contact.”

He can feel your body tense and shake around him, core tightening as you’re desperate to feel the friction you desire. It makes Hoseok nearly growl into your ear, clutching you tighter in his grasp.

“Now you want to fuck me?” He teases into your ear. “I thought you were tired?”

A pathetic whimper is the only response you can muster. You’re desperate for more, aching for his thick cock to thrust in and out of you. His hand slips down your body, caressing each inch of your skin before landing on your clit, circling the nub teasingly.

“I bet you could cum like this,” he breathes as he slowly swirls his finger. “With my cock stuffed inside you.”

He’s right—your body is already reacting to the stimulation and you can feel your body clenching around his unmoving length deep inside you. It’s prodding you in just the right spot that makes you keen, core desperate for some movement. His added touch makes you whine into his palm still covering your mouth.

“That’s right, baby,” he praises as he bites at your earlobe. “Such a needy little pussy, so desperate for me you could cum just from feeling me inside you.”

The pressure rises, stomach tightening as you feel your body near the edge of bliss. You can feel your thighs trembling as Hoseok whispers and nibbles at your ear, fingers working your clit with just the right rhythm to make you see stars.

His finger swirls with delicate speed, playing you like the nimble musician he is.

“Look at you, I’ve only started using my fingers and you’re already about to cum for me.”

Holding back your desperate moans, your eyes nearly roll back in their sockets as you feel your body build closer and closer to the blissful end that it craves. Having him buried deep inside you with none of the delicious friction is driving you crazy, and the speed of his fingers on your clit makes you keen for anything he can give you. You’re so close, so *fucking close* to your climax that your vision blurs.

Suddenly, the telltale sound of another tent zipper opening rips through the relative silence of the campground and Hoseok stills his finger on you.

“Shhh,” he warns, lifting his head to listen carefully. 

The sound comes from your left, Jungkook’s tent, and you squeeze your eyes tight and whimper into Hoseok’s palm at the ache in your belly. Jungkook stumbles around the campground before he makes his way out, and Hoseok smirks as the footsteps get quieter.

“That was close, baby,” he says as his finger teases over your throbbing clit. “We don’t want Jungkookie to find his friend like this, don’t we?”

You shake your head, body trembling as his finger provides not-enough stimulation on your tortured clit.

He keeps quiet and continues his feather-light touch, pleased at the unexpected orgasm denial and the way it makes your cunt clench around his cock as if coaxing it to give you what you need most.

“You better not be loud,” he warns. “You don’t want to ruin our fun, right?”

Agonizing moments later, Jungkook’s footsteps return and he zips himself back into his tent and quickly heads back to sleep. He remains stilled inside you, listening intently for any sounds of the others awakening.

After minutes of desperate silence and your needy cunt aching for your boyfriend to move, he rolls you onto your stomach with him on top, cock still buried deep within you.

“You’ve done so well,” he praises as he leans down and licks a fat stripe on the back of your neck, making you shiver. “Take your reward like a good girl.”

Without warning, Hoseok grips at your hips and starts a brutal pace, fucking you fast and hard while staying quiet. It feels so good, better than the feeling of him being still inside you. Nothing can compare to his thickness spearing into you, stretching you wide. The ridges of his cock feel like heaven from the position he has you in, and you can feel the stimulation building upon your ruined, curtailed orgasm from earlier.

He quickly rams a piece of the sleeping bag into your mouth, forcing you to be quiet as he nearly impales you open, burying himself as deep into your womb as he can before retreating and thrusting in for more. You can tell he’s close by the way his movements lose finesse, the way his hands grip your thick hips as if he’s grasping a lifeline. 

“Gonna fill you up,” Hoseok whispers harshly, his voice taking on the rough edge that makes your body react. “You want my cum, baby?”

Your mouth is full, but your head nods quickly and you arch your back to let him reach even deeper inside of you, desperate to get yourself and him off simultaneously.

“Shit,” he groans as he feels your body accept him even further at this new angle, your ass high in the air. He grips it, enjoys the way the flesh jiggles in his grip and with each thrust. “Cum on my cock, baby, please.”

Hoseok doesn’t beg, hardly ever, so when he’s desperate for your release, you’re equally desperate to give it to him. As he pounds into you, taking full advantage of your prone body and lifted hips, the dam holding back your climax finally erupts, making your walls quiver and squeeze around his cock and forcing you to bury your face as far as you can into your sleeping bag to muffle your whines.

He wishes he could hear your screams, wants to hear the way you cry his name out as your cunt milks him, begs him for his own end. Another round of thrusts and he feels it all snap, cock pulsing out hot spurts of cum into your eager and waiting channel.

He pulls out of you, loving the way his cum follows him out, dribbling out of your spent pussy weakly. He lifts a finger and scoops it up, pushing it back into your juicy walls and nearly whining as he feels it wet and sopping with his release. You’re pulling the sleeping bag from your mouth, panting hard from your own release and turning around to look at your boyfriend, hips wiggling.

Hoseok smiles fondly at you, removing his finger from your walls and rubbing the smooth skin of your ass.

“Are you warm?” He asks with a smirk, knowing by the sheen of sweat on both of your bodies that you’ve successfully warmed up in the bite of the chilly night.

He flops down beside you and pulls you in close, snuggling into the sleeping bag while kissing your face gently.

Hoseok’s cock is still hard, still aching even after a release and you’re quick to grasp it in your hands, finally getting a grip on it for the first time tonight.

“Better keep you warm all night like I promised, huh?” You smile sleepily as you lift your leg to allow him entrance to your center yet again. “Keep me full all night please, baby?”

He is loath to deny you, and the wet heat of your used pussy feels like heaven. He holds you closer, pulls you in tight as he buries his cock as far as he can go, before kissing you sweetly once more.

He knows he’ll wake up in a few hours, dick throbbing with a need to take you for yet another round, but for now, he revels in the warmth and love and safety he feels when he’s connected to you in nearly every way.

“By the way, I love you too, Hoseok,” you whisper to him after a few moments of silence, recalling to the sweet whispered words around the campfire.

Hoseok smiles as he closes his eyes, body and soul in pure bliss.

And when Namjoon complains in the morning that he could hear the sounds of his little sister getting railed, Hoseok will let him know he ensured you didn’t suffer from hypothermia—that it’s his job as boyfriend to ensure you’re kept safe,

and always kept warm.

[ultranos]

Oooof, just read your last snippet of the smallest nail au. Zuko jost got hit by reality aka how much Oza truly cares about Azula.

Continuing from here, because I'm in a mood right now.

Zuko almost rocks back on his heels. The words "worthless" and "Azula" don't even belong in the same sentence, at least not without his own name or the word "not". Ozai might as well have just said that the sky was green and he was thinking of giving Air Nomad philosophy a try for all the sense that made.

Either Ozai is completely unaware of the absolute nonsense he's saying, or he's twisting the knife because he continues. "Although, truth be told, she was near-worthless before, so it isn't that much different."

"What?" Zuko shakes his head. "No. She was 'born lucky', remember? That's what you said, right when you said I was 'lucky to be born'. You cared!"

"I did say that, yes," Ozai agrees. "And I stand by it. Because if your sister was born with even a shaku less of talent, she'd have been snuffed out like a candle."

This is a lie. His father is lying, he has to be lying. He's twisting his words, the same words Zuko's heard ringing in his brain for over a decade. Zuko knows this phrase, it was all but burned into his mind long before any of his father's fire touched his skin. Ozai does not get to rewrite history like this. Doesn't get to turn this onto him, like Zuko just...misunderstood it all these years.

"That, and only that, is where your sister had any worth at all." His father's eyes are cold. "She was 'born lucky' enough to be fit to be a weapon. Nothing more, and in everything else, a miserable failure." He must read the absolute shock in Zuko's face because he scoffs. "You truly are a fool, Zuko."

Zuko clenches his fists so tight, he's sure he's nearly drawing blood. He feels the rage building in his chest, hot and quick, flames licking up his throat. "You burned my fucking face off and I'm supposed to believe you didn't favor Azula? How stupid do you think I am?"

Ozai bares his teeth. "Between an idiot and a degenerate? Even you should be able to see that there was never any way your sister would sit upon the Dragon Throne."

Zuko blinks, completely thrown. What? He can't have heard that right.

His father chuckles. "Yes, a degenerate, maybe even a shirabyōshi. A stain upon the house of Sozin." He leans closer to the bars, and Zuko would swear he feels the words scorching the air between them, if his father still had his fire. "Your sister desired women, Zuko, and refused any attempt at correction. What use is an heir that won't continue the line? I sent the girl out to bring you home, into enemy territory, over a hostile sea, because she would die when she completed it, or die trying."

(When Aang took his bending, did he leave ice in the place of fire? The words used to sear. Now, they burn the way ice does.)

Zuko stares at the man who is supposedly his father. Their father. His mind sparks like lightning across the sky; for the first time, Zuko thinks, he really sees the man. Hears the poison words dripping from his fangs, eating away at the thin connections between him and Azula.

(How much more will this man take from him? How much hate can one man hold?)

These are not the answers he wanted. But they are answers of a sort. And Zuko...he doesn't have to listen to this man, doesn't have to swallow down this poison or walk through this fire anymore. Doesn't have to listen to lies and pretend they may be the truth, or truth and pretend they're lies.

One of them is trapped, and it is not him.

Zuko meets Ozai's gaze, then spins on his heel and walks out. His hand clenches into a fist so tight that it hurts when he shuts the heavy door, the torches in the cell going out in an instant.

The metal muffles the shouting behind him as Zuko strides back into the light outside.

[whump-a-la-mode]

Idea/prompt if you are so inclined: injured villain rejecting help and shelter from hero. Hero thinking it's from stubbornness and pride, berates them until realizing it's actually fear and distrust in villain's eyes. Cue trauma and trust issues reveal *.+

love ur writing btw keep it up <3

Ohh I love this one so much! It has so much potential. I really hope I did it justice, though halfway through writing this I had another idea and I almost regret not writing it, now. But, I hope you enjoy nonetheless.

Thank you for your wonderful prompts. I always delight seeing you in my inbox.

CW//Injuries, strong language

“Stop! Dammit, stop! You’re going to get hit by a car if you aren’t careful!”

Hero expended just about every last ounce of their breath on the words, but as soon as the air left their lips, it was whisked away by the same hurtling wind that bit at their nose like a particularly yappy little dog. The rest of the air in their lungs was similarly spent, fueling their legs as they dashed around a street corner, nearly losing their balance on a particularly slippery patch of ice.

Though cold threatened to burn their gaze, the hero lifted their head, keeping their eyes ahead. If they lost their target, they’d lose the chase-- and they’d lose any opportunity to sleep that night. Especially if their target got hurt on their watch.

“Please, stop! I don’t want to hurt you!”

In the distance, through gusts of winter fog, however, that very target was threatening to slip away. They were little more than a black spot against an ocean of white, now. They weren’t even dressed for the weather!

And, then, they were gone. As though they had never been there at all. Dust swept away by the heavy wind. Gritting their teeth, Hero continued their trek. Their target couldn’t have simply disappeared out of nowhere!

They only stopped upon reaching the location where they’d seen the chasee last. It was only a moment before all hope seemed lost that a great clattering sounded. Hero whirled around to the side, spotting- How had they not seen that alleyway there before?

Now, they most certainly saw it. And, more than that, they saw the stack of boxes and trash bags piled at the end of it. More importantly, they saw the clambering figure, attempting to make their way up those bags.

Attempting, and failing.

Hero hesitated at the sight. It would be taking a risk, certainly. In any circumstance, they would’ve helped without thought, but now?

This was a villain. A cornered villain was a scared villain, and a scared villain was a dangerous villain. Add injury on top of that, and one had a certain recipe for disaster.

On the other hand, they simply couldn’t handle the pathetic sight. The villain crawled forth on their hands and knees, struggling over bags before falling back again. With how much they were destroying the pile, it’d be gone before they could use it to climb anywhere. More than that, they were already half-buried in garbage, and in desperate need of a bath. Or five.

No, Hero simply couldn’t allow this to go on. This villain didn’t get to die of their injuries just because they were stubborn and prideful.

“Stop!”

They moved into the front of the alleyway, blocking its exit with their wide shoulders. Startled, the villain at the end of the street emerged from their quicksand-esque pile of trash bags.

The poor thing looked terrible. Frostbite had turned dark brown skin ashy and almost blue, while the tips of their ears and nose had begun to flush a nasty red. That wasn’t to mention their wounds-- Wounds that Hero hated to think they had inflicted upon the villain themself. That was how they’d ended up here, after all. A fight.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” The hero spoke firmly, advancing into the alleyway. They extended one hand, a lack of gloves or mittens showing their own dark skin, marred by cold in its own right.

The villain narrowed their eyes in disbelief.

“You’re already hurt.” They advanced another step. Their foe scrambled back in turn, but only found themself tumbling onto a half-shattered crate. “I have a car. We’re going to the damn hospital, now. You should’ve been there half an hour ago!”

Their foe replied only with narrowed eyes, and a renewed ferocity in their struggles. If they got just a little higher, they would be on the roof of the adjacent building. And, not long after, gone into the night.

Hero lunged forward, grabbing their foe by the ankle and yanking them down, off the pile of trash and other assorted thrown-aways. The villain snapped at them, yanking their leg away and scrambling back to their feet.

“Asshole!”

“One of us has three broken ribs. The other doesn’t.” Hero bit in reply. “Just because you lost a damn fight doesn’t mean you get to die out here in the cold. You can be a stubborn ass once you’re discharged.”

“Being stubborn is suiting me just fine, now, actually.”

The villain turned, moving towards the roof once more, but was held back by a hand gripped around their wrist.

“Not so fast. I said, you’re going to the hospital.”

And, for an instant, there was a glimmer of... Something. A glimmer of something in the villain’s eyes. It wasn’t anger, certainly not. Fear? But that wasn’t all of it.

“Not going to the hospital.” They spat.

Hero gritted their teeth. Just a moment ago, they had fully intended to drag the villain all the way to the ER, kicking and screaming. That flash in their eyes, however- That had made them reconsider.

“Okay.” They sighed. “No hospital. But I have some bandages and antiseptic back at my own house. And, at least there, there’s heating.”

Another frantic shake. Another attempt at escape.

“I’m not letting you go, no matter how much you tug at me like a kid who wants to go to a candy store.” Hero bit. “Fine, then. You want to stand out here in the cold? Then we stand out here in the cold, and you look at me, and we talk like civil people.”

The villain grimaced at the thought. Yet, much to the hero’s surprise, their foe turned to face them.

“Fine.” They crossed their arms as soon as Hero released their wrist. “We talk.”

“Y’know, most villains around here are a little more established.” Hero began. “When the bank is being robbed, usually, it’s an old face. But you’re new around here.”

“Yeah.”

“Care to explain?”

“No.”

“Well... How about your name, at least?”

A raised brow.

“Yours first.”

“Hero.”

“Villain.”

“You are new, then. I’ve never heard that one before.” They furrowed their brow. “It almost sounds familiar, though. Are you-”

“Who I am is a very busy person with a train to catch.” Villain whipped around.

“And what’s got you in such a hurry?”

“I’m on the run, dumbass!”

The tone in which Villain spoke went beyond fury. Beyond hate. No, it was an expression of pure exhaustion. Of emotions pent up over an incalculable amount of time, now bursting through the floodgates. Floodgates weakened by pain and cold.

“You’re-”

“I came from the North. Another city. Where I’m going is none of your business.”

Another flicker in Villain’s eyes. It stayed longer, this time. Far longer. Deep, brown irises, almost threatening to burst to tears. It was clear that this wasn’t spontaneous. These were emotions that had been building up for days, if not weeks.

“From up North.” Hero repeated. “You aren’t new to this business, are you?”

Villain averted their gaze.

“Come to think of it, you fight like a hero.”

“Not anymore. I fight like- Like whatever I am.”

“Someone’s missing from that city up North.” Hero’s voice grew firm, refusing to give Villain an inch of verbal wiggle room. “A hero. It’s all over the news.”

“I know.”

“They’re looking for you.”

“I know!”

“They say you’re a traitor.” Hero took a step forward, hands balled to fists. Was this villain even worse than they’d thought. “That you turned your coat, sided with the villains.”

“I didn’t! And I’m not a traitor!”

Villain’s hands swung upwards to cover their ears, as though it would block out the echo of Hero’s words.

“You don’t get it.” The villain growled under their breath. Hero stumbled a few frantic feet back.

“What don’t I get? If I don’t get it, explain it to me!”

Villain looked upwards sharply, only just daring to drop their hands.

“When I signed up to be a hero-” They began to advance towards their foe, pointed finger jabbing accusingly on every other word. “I signed up to be a hero. Not a murderer. I’ll hurt. I’ll fight. But I will never kill.”

Hero’s eyes widened.

“Who did they want you to kill?”

“Someone who deserved it.” Villain’s shoulders slumped as they dropped their hand. “A supervillain.”

“And you let them go.”

“I even covered for them.”

“And now you’re-”

“A traitor.” They imitated Hero’s own tone. “I’ve turned my coat, sided with the villains.”

A pause.

“Do you think you did the right thing?”

“I don’t know.” They shook their head. “But, as I said, I have a train to catch.”

“No, you don’t.”

Hero reached out once more, grabbing them by the wrist.

“You’re coming with me. You’re coming to my house, and I’m popping your ribs back in place, and you’re going to get under some blankets and drink a nice hot cup of cocoa.”

“I’m going to the train station.”

“I’ll buy you a new ticket.” Hero snapped hastily. “But you’ll catch your death out here.”

Villain looked back. This time, there was a new emotion mixed into their gaze. Was it- Hope?

“You really want to help me?”

“I really do.”

“Just the night. Then I get on the first train to leave in the morning.”

Hero nodded their agreement. But, truly, they knew that wasn’t going to happen. Or, at the very least, they hoped it wouldn’t. Getting Villain out of the cold was one thing. Turning them back to the good side would be the next. And, maybe, they wouldn’t have to be a fugitive any longer.

All the way back to the car, however, Hero couldn’t help but wonder:

Was this traitorous, too?