#i hate the cold; I hate ice; cold air hurts my skin and burns my lungs
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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).
#i hate the cold; I hate ice; cold air hurts my skin and burns my lungs#i hate snow (I'm sorry I just don't think it's pretty. It's gross; erases all colour/everything; blinding; kills everything; claustrophobic#I hate long nights; i hate all the darkness#I take Vitamin D drops every day during winter and they don't really help#I also use those special lights meant to help during the long darkness for the same reason; and they also do not help#nothing works!!!!!! eating and drinking hot things doesn't help me stay warm bc heat dissipates away quickly and doesn't help my extremitie#the cold makes me SO dry and dehydrated; makes my bones hurt; makes outside DANGEROUS AF. ICE IS BAD. BE CAREFUL.#I can't retain heat; my hypothyroidism makes me colder by default and I just don't metabolize good/fast enough to keep myself warm#(my body temp is lower than average; fun fact! same with my blood pressure! both of them are very low)#I think my average from all the times I've had it scanned during covid was 32-36C. No idea how that works; I just remember checking it a lo#my fingers and hands are going to freeze; making it harder to draw/type/etc.#I'm not going to wear gloves inside my home bc that's dumb and they don't help anyways. It will just screw up my ability to use my hands#I get to be in pain for months with increased potential of being sick :/#also I HATE bundling/layering myself with clothing or blankets; it's suffocating; restricting; sensory hell for me; sweaters are uncomfy :(#also whenever I try to do that all it does is insulate the cold for me; keeping me colder for even longer!!!!! it's so unfair!!!!#I've worn out 2 space heaters already and they don't work properly anymore (I used them both so much I wore out my preferred settings lol)#sobs; i'm a sad plant lizard
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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
#draco malfoy#draco malfoy fanfiction#draco fanfiction#draco malfoy x reader#draco malfoy imagine#draco x you#draco malfoy fluff#draco x reader#draco imagine#malfoy#draco malfoy smut#draco fluff#draco smut#draco angst#draco lucius malfoy#draco fic
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Something You Taught Me
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.
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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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#Sherlock Holmes#sherlock BBC#bbc!Sherlock#bbc sherlock#Sherlock#sherlock holmes x reader#sherlockbbc#gender neutral reader#sick#comfort fics#domestic fluff#sherlock fluff#fluff#benedict!sherlock#sherlock x y/n#one shot#oneshot#i am sherlocked#sherlock holmes imagine#bbc sherlock imagine#bbc sherlock holmes#reader insert#sherlock x reader#reqs open#request#sherlock reader insert#Sherlock request#bbc sherlock x reader#bbc sherlock x you#sherlock fanfic
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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!
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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.
•
#Bridgerton#Bridgerton x reader#Bridgerton x sibling!reader#angst#Bridgerton angst#Anthony Bridgerton x sibling!reader#Benedict Bridgerton x sibling!reader#Anthony Bridgerton x reader
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(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.
#hufflewriting#swapboys#alt anti#impulse alt#villain arc#bro fantastic#Brody bros#it’s weird to explore alts hatred here cuz like- alt and bro get so close later on#I think deep down he wants to feel close to chase again cuz there’s safety there#but safety doesn’t last long around alt and he’s afraid of letting down his guard and losing it all again#so he lashes out and pushes people away#god I relate-#anywaysss for a vent I like how this turned out#hinting that alt working with mag isn’t entirely good for him you know?#readswapboys
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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.
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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
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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.”
#Senu's Writing#Skyrim#Skyrim fanfiction#Vigdis#Skyrim OC#Serana#Serana Volkihar#Debated sharing this scene that I really love because I kind of wanted to keep it a secret?#But I decided 'Eh fuck it' because it's been so long ;w;#They also have someone else travelling with them . . . But they're asleep >:3c
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❛ i know i have a heart because i can feel it breaking. ❜
Raya still being really pissed off at Namaari over pretty much everything and one day blows up at her and accuses her of having no heart after what she’s done
Not much a fan of this (my writing as of late) but here you go. No chill, much angst.
Her legs screamed their pain back at her. Lungs burning, the pounding of freezing cold raindrops are slamming into her skin like ice. Practically feeling as though they are cutting through her flesh.
But Namaari continues on.
She runs, catching flashes of a red cloak disappear behind the shadow of the trees. The jungle thick, the sky black as the night sky as this storm rolls through. Sharp strikes of lightning dances across the heavens, a moment of light that’s bright enough to blind her before the world darkens again. Giving her a mere second of clarity when startled eyes whip back to find her own, seeing her target make a sharp right. Namaari following her with ease.
She’s been tailing her for weeks now, for Fang, in hopes of bringing her in to keep her from causing any more chaos amongst the last of the tribes. Tracking her down, like one of their serlots do to their prey. She’s followed her tracks, examined the space in which she had laid her head down at night. The clever ways she’s tried to hide her presence in the area, trying to throw Namaari off her trail.
Raya was smart, but Namaari knew her tricks.
And now- she had found her at last.
Namaari worked around her speed, waited till Raya lost her footing and then pounced. Their bodies collided and they rolled across the muddied ground as limbs went flying. Namaari trying to capture Raya while Raya was trying to escape. Punches were thrown, Namaari expertly dodged them. Raya used her advantage of their surroundings, splatted Namaari dead in the face with a handful of mud. Tackling her as she tried to wipe the gunk off her face, sending her on her back as Raya swung to hit her again.
As the air left Namaari’s lungs, she felt a change in the air. The way Raya now fought her not to escape, but in an effort to harm. Her moves sloppy, easily deflected by Namaari despite the dirt in her eye. One screwed shut while the other tore open and fought back against the Princess of Heart. A predator now turned prey, seeing the look of rage fill Raya’s eyes.
Namaari shot for her wrist, grabbing and twisting her arm till Raya fell to the side and off her body. But the fight was far from over. She no sooner had gained the advantage when Raya elbowed her in the gut, hard, knocking her back again.
Again they tussled. Fought not as warriors but as something entirely different. Wild, untamed. Hitting to hurt, to make someone bleed, and - for a terrifying moment, to kill.
Namaari got the advantage and, in the heat of the moment, she unsheathed the blade at her hip. Slamming Raya down hard with one hand while her other raised above, ready and willing to strike her down. Blinded in her fury, until-
“I HATE YOU!”
Namaari froze, hand raised, staring down at Raya as she gritted her teeth. Face covered in mud, cheek cut and bleeding, her eyebrows knitted together as she screamed it again.
“I hate you!” She cursed, “You heartless binturi!”
Namaari felt suspended from her body, like her soul had been sucked back and forced to bare witness to what she had done.
The rain, pouring over them, the two of them practically killing each other, and now here she was- about to deliver the final blow. She was about to kill Raya….she was about to kill the Princess of Heart.
And for what?
Because she was meant to capture her? Because she was meant to bring her to Fang so she didn’t go messing things up for them again? Namaari was tracking her-….no, this was hunting her.
But when-…Had things really got to this point-…?
Her hand loosened from the tight grip she had on Raya’s body, her weapon lowering. Feeling a sickness fall over her, a shiver down her spine that was not due to the rain. Because in all this time that they had fought and given chase, argued with petty little jabs just to rile one another up- Namaari had never felt this close to losing control. She never felt so on the edge of everything that she had nearly done what she almost did.
A bolt of lighting clashed again, snapping Namaari from her whirlwind of emotions that was her mind and back to Raya. The Princess of Heart now several feet from her, crawling away, a look of utter hatred on her face as she spat mud from her lips.
Namaari felt something in that look.
God only knows what.
“Raya-“ Namaari began rising to her feet.
“Stay away from me-“ Raya began, doing the same.
Namaari took a step forward, hand outstretched, “I-“
“STAY away from me!” Raya yelled, raising up the blade that had once been in Namaari’s hand. Now suddenly in her own, taken with ease as she shrunk away. Namaari’s mind too far muddled to even notice.
Namaari stayed put, watching Raya carefully as she took several steps away from her. Getting a large enough distance from her before she visibly relaxed.
Raya looked her up and down, the blade steady in her hand. Only then did Namaari realize how the tables had turned dramatically in the few minutes between them. Raya had the blade, the advantage as she stood above her, while Namaari sat in the mud on her knees. Defenseless, watching as Raya then took careful steps towards her. The blade raised, both knowing that all it took was a solid leap in her direction to stab it right through her heart.
But Raya took the knife and tossed it. Far enough that neither of them could grab for it. Giving up her advantage to cut her deep with her words.
“You’re fortunate I’m not like you, Namaari-“ Raya spat, taking a few steps away once more as she made to leave, “If I was, I’d stab you through your heart and leave you to die-…assuming you even have a heart anymore..”
Namaari flinched at the words, feeling the sting from the sharpness of it.
It’s funny how you could go years without feeling a damn thing, following orders and being that strong warrior you need to be for your people. Fighting Raya with little reservations, only for a sentence to shatter her resolve. Being called “heartless”, saying she “hated her” and now this? She knew Raya disliked her now, but to hear it from her was totally different.
It hurt-… a lot.
But why did it hurt coming from Raya?
More so, if she didn’t have a heart, why did it feel like Raya had stabbed her with those words?
Namaari lifted her head, realizing only then that she had lowered it in shame. Raya was gone, leaving her alone in the rain. Now with a deep ache in her chest where her heart should be.
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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.
#angstpril2023#day 24#“I was wrong about you.”#starwars#fanfiction#whumpril2023#whumprilday24#secrets#the amazing adventures of excentrics jedi#taaoej#sinvulkt fics#star wars fanfiction#star wars
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bleaching my heart - steddie ff.
summary: steve gets back with nancy because this is all he ever wanted. at least he thought.. and a very specific someone just won’t leave his mind.
note: school is taking away all my time and energy from writing, i hate this :( song rec. for this is definitely bleach by 5 seconds of summer
There was a little gathering at school and everyone was more than happy to be there. Things turned out to be good for once in Hawkins and Steve couldn’t be happier. He was alive, all this madness ended and he got Nancy by his side. He wanted to get her back somehow in forever now and he should be feeling nothing but joy and love.
But fuck. He couldn’t ignore this.
He couldn’t ignore the knot in his throat whenever someone mentioned him and Nancy together for the first time in a while. He couldn’t ignore how he sometimes totally spaced out, thinking about everyone and everything but Nancy. He couldn’t ignore how he told Nancy that she was in his dreams and how he wanted all of this. It was a mistake, Steve now knew it, but couldn’t bring himself to say this out loud. To say this to Nancy. And most importantly..
Steve couldn’t ignore Eddie’s eyes on him from across the room.
With Eddie, Steve felt different. He always thought he is just the troubled kid and he has nothing to do with him, but then one night after they got back from the upside down, Steve found himself in Eddie’s arms and ever since then, every little space in his mind got filled with the thought of Eddie. Steve felt like he was living again, when he was with Eddie. Now he knew that all of this with Nancy was a mistake. Nancy was nice and kind, Steve liked her but he was just too blind to see that it’s not like that anymore.
It just happened that Steve found someone who was a little better for him.
Someone who he hurted when he left him alone in the morning after they made love for the first time the other night. Someone who still ached after Steve’s every little movement. Someone who made Steve feel the closest to the feeling of being in love.
This someone was Eddie, who was uncomfortably rocking on his heels right next to the table with the drinks.
And damn it.. Nancy knew all of this, she wasn’t stupid. She just wanted Steve to say it himself. She didn’t mind it, because Steve was suffering for a long time now and he deserved happiness. It was bad to see him so sad and maybe it was a lie that Nancy said she wanted this, too. Everything was a mess, and it was difficult to see clear. But it was time to move and not be freezed in time.
Around midnight Eddie left and went up to the roof. Steve was hesitant, but eventually he followed him. On his way up the stairs he couldn’t stop thinking about how Eddie won’t ever forgive him now. Steve was the best version of himself, but he didn’t believe he was a good person. Yet Eddie.. Eddie kind of made him feel like that. When Steve was seventeen he felt like he owns the world. That he knows everything and everything is just a game and he is destined to win in all of them. He felt on the top of everything. And now at the edge of twenty one he felt like nothing. He knew nothing, he was confused and lost. He already drank too much and just wanted to sit down somewhere and cry, because there was too much in him. At the end of the day he was nothing new and he was about let too many people down.
He slowly opened the door that led to the roof, just to get hit by the ice cold air right in the face. His cheeks were burning from the alcohol and the cold was hurting his skin as he stepped out from the doorstep. Eddie heard his steps behind him so he hesitantly, but turned to face the person behind him. Steve felt like he got hit in the gut, because it’s been a while since he has been this close to Eddie. And gosh, he looked absolutely beautiful. And sad.
Steve thickly swallowed before the first few words left his ice cold lips.
“I missed you.” he breathed out, leaving hot marks in the air between the two of them.
“You came up here to tell me that?” Eddie looked at him with a blank expression, trying to suppress everything that was killing him from the inside. Steve sighed, not breaking the delicate eye contact for a second. “Go back.”
“No.” Steve answered, stepping closer. “Not without you.”
“Not without me?” Eddie laughed, bitterly. “To me it seemed like you are just fine without me.” Steve’s heart was aching in his chest to finally confess everything to Eddie, but he was a coward. Love was always something that made Steve terrified. Maybe because he never got enough of it and he didn’t even know how to love right. But Eddie.. Eddie had so much love to share and he wanted to give it all to Steve.
“No.” Steve said again, as his drunk thoughts started to overtake him. “I want you.” he was so close to Eddie now and as he tripped in his own leg, Eddie caught him just in time. “I miss you, Eddie.. fuck, I miss you.” he repeated it.
“Steve, please don’t do this.” Eddie tried to push him away but Steve held him so tightly that Eddie had no chance. It’s like Steve was afraid of falling down off the roof if he didn’t hold him.
“I’m stupid, I’m so fucking stupid..” he pressed his face onto Eddie’s chest, muttering the feelings soaked words softly into the material of his shirt. “I never should have left you. I’m better with you, I don’t want to let you go.” he sobbed, every word as heavy as an anchor.
“Steve, for fuck’s sake.. you’re with Wheeler, what does this have to do with me?” Eddie rested his arms on Steve’s back, now accepting the fact that he won’t move.
“I didn’t.. I don’t want to.. I just.. fuck..” Steve whined. “I want you Eddie. I want you so badly, it physically hurts.” he finally stood up straight, eyes a bit foggy from all of the emotions that were causing a hurricane in him. Eddie turned his head away, looking down at the town like this whole thing didn’t matter. The truth was that it did matter. He tried to forget it, but he couldn’t. He loved Steve, it was more than obvious now, and it was like a dagger in the middle of his back when Steve got back with Nancy. Eddie felt betrayed and he tried to remove the dagger that was sinking into his skin deeper and deeper, but he just couldn’t seem to reach it. And now, on this cold night Steve offered to remove it himself and even heal the scar. “I’ll tell Nancy. I promise, I will.” Steve said, snapping Eddie back into reality. “Just please. I don’t want to let you go. I’m sorry for everything. I know it now that my place is next to you and I don’t care about anything else.”
This time Eddie got closer, sneaking his hand up onto Steve’s cold face that was colored rose red. He gently brushed his thumb over the sensitive skin and then softly touched Steve’s bottom lip.
“Big words, you know that?” Steve nodded, melting into the touch of his missed lover. “You have no clue what I felt when I saw you with her again. The way you said her name.. I wanted you to say my name like that. To tell everyone I’m yours. Such a daydream, right?” he smiled sadly.
“Eddie..” Steve whispered and the name was more than crystal clear the silence of the night. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie..” he started to repeat it with the burn of passion that rolled off from the tip of his tongue. “My Eddie.” he dared to kiss him, so urgent but slow at the same time. The last few months were more than hard but now everything seemed to be alright.
Because Steve was nothing new, but for Eddie he was an old poem. And he memorized every line.
#steddie#eddie munson#steve and eddie#eddie stranger things#steddie fic#steve harrington#steve stranger things#stranger things#steve x eddie
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"I'll be right back, kiddo." Rex promises Coda, leaning down to ruffle their hair. He's exhausted, but happy. Actually, genuinely happy. He stops to look over his little family, at Coda and Seven and his newly wedded husband, all curled up together after a long night of wedding festivities and celebrations.
Maybe things could calm down for a while. His constant itch to hurt and torment is fading, replaced by a new want. To be around his kids a bit more, see them happy. To get into more fights with Raphael that will eventually end up with them having to stitch their mutually inflicted wounds or falling asleep in the Lounge together. He is growing fond of that angel as much as he hates to admit it.
He steps out of the Lounge and makes his way down the hallway, his feet bare on the carpeted floor after an entire night of running around in heels. He can't wait to curl up with the others and finally get some sleep-
"Hello, Townsend." A familiar voice stops him dead in his tracks.
Rex turns, a mocking grin is already on his face, out of habit.
"Nero."
"Congratulations on your wedding. I heard it was wild." Alice is standing in the hallway where he had just come from, blocking his way back to the Lounge. Her posture is relaxed, and that worries Rex even more. She's got something up her sleeve and she's ready for him to give her a chance to use it.
"Thanks." He said, his own posture tensing. "What do you want?"
"Well, isn't it obvious? Your time has come, I'm afraid. I would've come for you sooner but it was amusing watching you for a while. Adopting Seven, losing your arm, fucking up in Aperture, developing a hate-love relationship with an angel. So on, so forth. It's time for you to go, however. This is where your fun ends." She's not moving to get him even as she speaks, simply watching him with a curious smile.
Rex thinks he still has time. He can feel his sheathed knife pressing up against his hip. He could stab her before she touched him. Or even better...
He smirks a cold, cruel smile, laughing at her threats as if they don't cause a bolt of ice cold fear to stab through him.
"You can't keep me anywhere, Alice. I'll escape, sooner or later. And when I do, I guarantee I'll fucking make you suffer. You and your girlfriend - Melissa, right? You seem very protective of her. You want her to end up in the same position as Joule? Tied up, tortured, broken. For me-"
Alice just chuckles. "Interesting you should threaten her. You'll be seeing her around a lot in the next few weeks. Feel free to repeat your threats back to her, I think she'll find them amusing while she's digging through your brain."
Rex falters. Takes a step back. The knife is in his hand now but he's uncertain if he can win. He's hoping he can. He wants her to step out of the way so he can return back to the Lounge and sit with his kids. A half formed plea is already on his tongue.
You don't have to do this. Just let me go back to my family. I lied, I won't touch you or your girlfriend if you leave us alone.
But he doesn't plea, he doesnt stoop so low. He just snarls.
"She won't be laughing when I make her beg for mercy-"
"It's over, Rex." Alice interrupts him. "Save what's left of your dignity and come quietly."
"Never-" Dark sigils appear on Rex's skin, burning into it as the man drops his knife and hisses in pain. He's rubbing at them, scratching himself bloody to try and get rid of them. They sink into his flesh, disappear without a trace and Rex falls forward, hitting the ground like a sack of bricks. He's paralyzed, barely conscious, just enough to make out the woman standing over him with an amused look.
Something soft brushes against his shoulder and he hears a low purr, like a cat but...wrong. A black feline materializes out of thin air, like its been there this whole time lurking in the shadows. It sits next to his head and Rex swears it is grinning.
"Sorry, 'darling'." Alice taunts, crouching down next to Rex. "You're coming with me. But don't you worry. I'll make sure your family is alright."
"D o- n t-" Rex tries to rasp out. Don't touch my family. Don't you dare touch them.
Alice simply snaps her fingers and glowing silver coils appear around Rex, dematerializing him out of the hallway and into his own personal holding cell, inside the grimdark Office.
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Snowfall and Black Ice
Note: this story takes place from the point where Kusaka and Hitsugaya meet in the warehouse right before Kusaka takes them to the Soul Society with the Oin/King’s Seal. Think of it as a divergent from the story line and enjoy. :)
KusakaxHitsugaya
“Seeing you again, after so many years, after crawling from the pit of my despair, I wished to take you into my arms, Toshiro,” Kusaka said, lifting his hand to caress the young captain's cheek and Toshiro wouldn't deny that it felt good, that he leaned into it. He told himself not to cry but...Kusaka, “I missed you, longed for you, for what felt like lifetimes, and now... here you are, and no one shall separate us again.”
Hitsugaya shuttered, his own hands lifting to clench into his dear friend's sleeves, and he was wounded, the deep stab wound Kusaka had inflicted still bleeding. He had been so focused on chasing Kusaka, on seeing him again, that he hadn't dressed his own wound. It had been foolish of him, horribly foolish, and he was feeling light headed now from lack of blood. He could hardly stand anymore but Kusaka, Kusaka... he had seen him die! Cut down by the secret defense squad and even the memory brought pile to his throat.
He had been screaming, begging, fighting against the arms that held him but he hadn't been strong enough back then.
'No, no! Please don't! Kusaka is my most important... Kusaka! KUSAKA!'
He felt himself pulled forward, resting against Kusaka's chest and he didn't fight him, he just closed his eyes, bathed in and devoured that warmth like the ice cold bastard that he was. He hated this, hated himself, hated that he was so weak. He should have been fighting, should have been trying to retrieve the King's Seal. He knew Kusaka had it but...
The taller man pressed a kiss to his brow, holding him close and snug in his arms and Toshiro was shaking. His body was going to start giving out against his will, his wound probably infected.
“Kusaka...why?” he breathed shakily, quiet, his breath frosting in the air and Kusaka bent and scooped him up bridal style to carry him off.
“Because... they will pay for what they did to us, I promise, love,” he whispered, a kiss pressed to the tears at the corner of Torshiro's eye, “To me, to you, to everyone. Don't be afraid, I'm going to protect you.”
“P-protect me, you stabbed me,” he protested, although his voice came weakly, his body attempting to curl to that warmth again, and Kusaka smiled sadly, his sight full of nothing but Toshiro and his need for vengeance.
He turned and moved, Toshiro cradled in his arms as he took him to a safe place, a hideout deeply hidden where it was warm and dry with a soft bed.
“I'm sorry, I had to impart my spiritual pressure to you,” he explained, carrying his young love into the room, “The King's Seal... changed it, so I had to place it inside you somehow so you'd be able to track me properly. Plus, you wouldn't have chased me if I hadn't, would you?”
“N-No,” he groaned, panted, because dear god it hurt and his skin was burning up with fever but all he felt was freezing cold. He needed, needed care and warmth and... Kusaka...
Hitsugaya felt himself lowered onto the warm, soft bed and his vision was swimming a little, his fingers gripping tightly in the other man's clothing, afraid that if he let go of Kusaka the man would vanish like a dream, or a nightmare. He still wasn't sure which one it was.
Kusaka's hand closed gently around Toshiro's, and lips descended, were pressed against his own, so soft and loving and a few tears slipped free despite the ice captain's efforts to hold them back. A sob broke free and this was it, he was really sick, and his mind remembered back to that day and he...
“It...it should have been me,” he choked, heaving, crying, an arm coming up to cover his eyes, “I should have been the one to die. Not you, Kusaka. You wanted it so bad and you tried so hard. I should have-....”
“Shh,” the older said, soothed, kissing him tenderly, touching him gently, his arms, his face, cupping his cheeks softly, brushing away those tears from his feverish skin with his warm thumbs, “It's not your fault, Toshiro, it was never your fault. I love you, don't cry.”
The Central 46 had been fools. Together with twin zanpakuto, he and Toshiro could have been the ultimate protectors of the Soul Society. They would have been so strong together, a destined pair, but those cowards had been short sighted and fearful. Well, now it was time for the twin dragons to take back what was theirs.
If the Central 46 didn't want protectors, then they would have kings of ice instead. He and Toshiro, ruling together, forever.
But first, he needed to make Hitsugaya well. He hadn't meant for the other to get so sick, but that was Toshiro for you. His drive was incredible.
“Just rest,” he said, smiling gently and brushing his lover's beautiful white hair back from his sweaty forehead, “It will take some time to heal you but my kido is as strong as ever, although I could never master it as well as you could, snowflake.”
“D-Don't call me that, Kusaka,” Hitsugaya complained weakly, panting and groaning, “You know that I h-hate that name.”
The older man chuckled and drew his hands away to retrieve the medical supplies to help with the healing process, Toshiro left on the bed to try and get comfortable. The young captain closed his eyes, focused on breathing and if Kusaka had been lying, if he really wanted to kill him, he would have done it by now.
So he waited, listening to his dearest friend's footfalls as Kusaka came back, and Toshiro felt his cloak pushed aside, his robe opened, spread down to his belly and he shivered, wanting to be buried under a heap of blankets. He was so cold.
Kusaka touched him, fingertips skimming down his hot skin, a kiss here and there, against his throat, over his heart, the place where his belly and chest met, and he whimpered, bit his lip, moaned. Oh, oh...
He opened his eyes, soft turquoise eyes watching Kusaka as the other tended to him, his wound. It had indeed become infected although he knew that already. It burned enough and made him feel ill, and he hissed as Kusaka applied disinfectant, the liquid stinging harshly.
The older dragon blew across the wound to ease the sting, cleaning it out with a soft cloth, and then he withdrew the King's Seal from his pocket and held it glimmering golden in the lamplight over Toshiro's wound. Bringing up his other hand, he began directing it's power with his kido, starting to heal his lover and murmuring quietly under his breath. Toshiro watched for as long as he could, his eyes slowly falling shut again due to his exhaustion, and then he slept, lulled by Kusaka's soft, deep voice.
I love you, please be here when I wake up. Don't disappear. Don't leave me again.
Please...Kusaka...
----
When he awoke, Toshiro was tucked under the covers and his wounds dressed. He felt weak, drained, but not as feverish, and as he came to he realized he wasn't alone in the bed. Kusaka was with him, the older man's arms around him, and he was seemingly asleep.
Hitsugaya looked up at him, and as a captain he should grab his zanpakuto and...
Kusaka...bleeding, terrified, crying as he was cut down with a scream by the... Soul Society.
The younger man shook his head to mentally banish the image, and he moved closer instead, rolling onto his side to face Kusaka. He reached up, brushed some of his lover's hair from his face, and Kusaka was still so handsome, so beautiful, and he was...
“You're still wearing your hair the same way?” Toshiro whispered, smiling a little despite himself and touching that soft messy long bun at the back of Kusaka's head, dark as a raven's wing, “Dork.”
He sighed, still tired, and cuddled up against Kusaka, tucked his head under the other man's chin. He stayed like that for a few moments, soft breathes of warm air puffed against Kusaka's throat and Toshiro blushed, thinking about it before he closed his eyes and pressed an open mouth kiss to the soft part of his lover's throat.
It was alright. Kusaka was asleep, he'd never know.
Toshiro didn't see the soft smirk that crossed the other's face, one violet eye opening.
So Hitsugaya settled back down again with a sigh, closing his eyes, his head still tucked under Kusaka's chin and he slept again, peacefully, a hand rising to close in Kusaka's clothing.
I won't let you go. I'll protect you this time. I promise.
Once Toshiro was fully asleep, Kusaka smiled gently, his own hand rising to stroke Hitsugaya's snow white hair. It was still soft, even with all the hair gel and stuff he put in it now. Toshiro had always wanted to be taken seriously, to earn respect for his skills and intelligence and not be underestimated because of his youth.
His hair resembled spikes of ice, hard and sharp, but Kusaka knew, that in the early morning hours as they slept or right after Toshiro came out of the bath, his hair was as soft and light as freshly fallen snow, and Kusaka loved those moments. Maybe, with the older man by his side once more, Hitsugaya wouldn't feel the need to make his hair an ice field any longer.
“Let me love you again, Toshiro, my beautiful snowfall,” he whispered, sighing softly as he pressed his lips and nose into the younger man's hair, took a breath. His lover smelt the same and it was so comforting, “With you by my side I can make the world right again. You and I will see to it.”
----
In the depths of his restful consciousness, Hitsugaya smelt something good, something hot and brothy and he opened his eyes. He was still in bed but they had moved again, light streaming in through the windows and outside there was a thick forest of pine trees. They were in a cabin in the woods but wait, hadn't they been underground in a bunker just a little while ago? How had they moved without him feeling the journey?
He sat up, slowly, and Kusaka was gone. Had it...been a dream? A hallucination caused by his fever? He'd been having a lot of those lately and... Toshiro's heart clenched down painfully before he could stop it, because...Kusaka...
He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't cry again, and so Hitsugaya clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut tightly, knees pulling up to his chest, head lowering to his knees and...
“K-Kusaka,” he choked, because it had been so nice, seeing him again, seeing him alive and whole and good but it wasn't real. It was just his stupid brain unable to handle his body failing him. He repressed a sob with everything he was but he still shook, squeezing his knees tight with his arms wrapped around them.
He felt a hand at the back of his head, brushing his hair and in a panic Hitsugaya reverted to his training, grabbing up Hyorinmaru from his side and swinging it in an upward strike out of fear. His blade crashed into another sword, the metal sliding against each other like a caress, and it was... Hyorinmaru?
Kusaka stood there, defending himself, his sword in one hand and a bowl of soup in the other, his expression innocently confused and yet guarded at the same time.
“Well, good morning to you too, snowflake,” he said and Toshiro told himself that he was not going to climb out of this bed and hug the other man, but his body really hadn't been listening to his brain lately, and he was already half way up before he realized that he was.
His heart was beating so hard, his relief immeasurable, like an avalanche that drown him as he embraced Kusaka, hugging him tightly. He was here, he was here and he was real and warm and breathing.
“D-Don't call me t-that,” he said but he didn't care, Kusaka could call him whatever he wanted, even a bastard. He deserved it for what he let happen, for his sin.
Toshiro heard Kusaka put his sword away, and then the older man's arm was wrapped around his shoulders, hugging him back lovingly.
“Easy, I'm here,” he said soothingly, placing the soup on the end table so he could use both of his hands, his now free hand reaching to stroke Hitsugaya's hair, “I'm not going anywhere, Toshiro, I promise. You're my most important person, remember?”
My most important person, that was what they'd called each other back in school, as a sort of not really code. Back then it was frowned upon to become too close, especially for boys. Comrades, good friends, that was fine because they were training to become soldiers and bonds were important, but lovers? No, that had been to much. If your friend died in battle then you brought justice to their killer and carried on but with a lover, the loss was crippling.
Kusaka's death had crippled Hitsugaya but he had built a wall of ice around his heart where the others couldn't see his pain and carried on even though every day, every step was agony after that. Momo and Rangiku kept him from fleeing with their presence and he was placed under Isshin Shiba who kept his eye on the young man but all this time the pain was a frozen ball in his heart, freezing his blood, choking him.
The Central 46 had terrified them both and had murdered Kusaka in front of his eyes because the older student had failed their stupid test.
They had slain his lover in front of him!
So Toshiro grasped Kusaka tighter and nodded to his lover's question, hiccupped, because in some ways he was still a child, alone, desperate for comfort and Kusaka had come back to him when everyone else had gone.
He had come back even when it should have been impossible. It was a miracle.
“...Kusaka,” he whispered, lifting his face to look at his most important person, “Kiss me. Please.”
The older man's smile was so soft then, so beautiful and gentle and Hitsugaya felt Kusaka caress him along his jawline, grip him by his chin and then lips descended once more and they were kissing, softly but full and Toshiro's heart just swelled, softened, melted.
He was acting very unprofessional here. He needed to get the King's Seal but...why? To give it back to people who would kill without question? Who ripped Kusaka from him?
It wasn't right that Kusaka had taken the seal, who knew what he was going to do with it, but right now that didn't matter. Hitsugaya would deal with that later. Right now he just wanted to kiss Kusaka, his lover, and not be afraid of being caught, of being separated.
Sleeping next to each other in a warm bed, stealing sweet morning kisses, playing at making love in the baths when they probably shouldn't have, but they where both so young back then. He was older now, 150 years give a decade or two to his name. You stopped counting after a while because it didn't matter.
So he clung, giving a soft moan when Kusaka deepened their kiss, tongues brushing hotly and his heart raced for a different reason, his hand reaching up to hold onto that raven wing hair, that black ice.
Black ice, that was what Kusaka was. A man who came up under Toshiro's feet and tripped him, unseen until it was to late, only with his lover he didn't fall. Kusaka would catch him, hold him, keep him safe from all the things he still didn't understand and make him yearn.
Dear god, what had Kusaka done to him to make him want him, love him, so much?
They parted for breath, Toshiro panting lightly, gently flushed, because while his injury was healed and his fever lessened, he was still a bit weak. It wouldn't stop him from doing what he had to do, but for now he was following his heart and would stay with Kusaka, his most important person.
A hand caressed his shoulder, fingers taking gentle hold of the robe he was wearing. It was Kusaka's robe, from when they had met at the procession for the King's Seal. Hitsugaya had traded his captain's coat for it.
“Heh, have you denounced them then, my love?” Kusaka asked, his smile smooth and tone loving, and part of Toshiro wanted to say yes. The ball of ice that had surrounded his pain was melting and with it, that pain was bleeding into the rest of his heart. It hadn't been fair what the Central 46 had done, scaring them into attacking each other so they could kill one of them.
From Hitsugaya's perspective, Kusaka had reacted badly but having Hyoinmaru and being a true shinigami had been his dream. He had panicked when faced with losing it all, when faced with kill or being killed, and Toshiro didn't blame him. He'd be scared too, so scared, and you never knew what you would really do when that fear gripped your heart. You just reacted. It wasn't fair to blame Kusaka for that one mistake and the Central 46 hadn't seen it but... Kusaka's attack had been slowed, slower then normal. He had let Toshiro block him, begging him without words.
Stop me, stop me! Please don't let me hurt you, my snowfall!
Still, Hitsugaya couldn't say yes, not completely. There was Momo and Rangiku and Squad Ten. He couldn't denounce them. They were all he had... least until Kusaka returned.
“I...couldn't be a captain for what I had to do,” he said instead, looking away, averting his eyes, “...I need to pay for my sin.”
“Oh?” the other asked, cupping Toshiro's cheek, drawing him back to look at Kusaka, so smooth and strong and dark with beautiful violet eyes, “And what is your sin, Toshiro?”
And it hurt, it hurt in his brain, his heart, his soul ached with it, watching that past fear in his lover's eyes, the desperation, the heartbreaking realization that the other shinigami were killing him. Not just taking his sword, not just kicking him from the academy, but literally slaying him for a mistake he didn't want to make. Killing him in front of a screaming, panicked Toshiro.
His sin was...
“Letting you die,” Hitsugaya said, his voice breaking, and the words were poison, acid, embers in his mouth, on his tongue, and his ball of pain burst and consumed his heart and he shuttered, clung and Kusaka kissed him again before he drown, easing the spikes of agony.
I'm here, I'm here with you. It's not your fault. We're together now, snowfall, don't cry.
So Kusaka took his lover back to bed and the soup was cooling on the end table but it could wait. Right now he needed to weld Toshiro's heart back together, cleanse it and fill it once more with their love. He needed him, not just for their future but for his own heart. Kusaka refused to lose him to this.
So he lay Toshiro on his back, down on the soft bed, and he removed the other's cloak completely, kissing him as he spread Hitsugaya's clothing gently. There was no rush. They weren't children anymore, frightened of being discovered doing something forbidden and naughty.
No, they could savor this, and Toshiro kissed him back, moaning softly as he was undressed, his body exposed to the air. He whimpered, blushed as Kusaka paused to look at him, run his fingertips down that soft, pale skin, the other man's eyes so soft and loving.
“You're as beautiful and sweet as the first day I met you,” Kusaka purred, lowering his head to press kisses against Toshiro's neck, trailing down to kiss over his heart, and that was sort of a lie, because Toshiro had never been sweet in those early days; not until Kusaka had gotten him to open up and then only for him, and he had a few scars now from his battles up to and including the fight in Karakura Town against Aizen.
Hitsugaya was good at throwing away his captain status when it suited him.
“Ngh...No, I'm not,” he denied, squirming a bit because he was starting to feel hot and anxious in a good way and he wasn't a child anymore, though he couldn't figure out why he'd stopped growing after leaving the academy. Maybe losing Kusaka had hurt him down to the very structure of his soul.
Since the older man was back, did that mean he would grow again? Longer limbs and a supple body and the strength that Hyorinmaru needed? He hoped so. He was tired of being a squirt that had to be an ass to get respect.
He wanted to be able to match Kusaka in his allure, be what he deserved, the lover he deserved. So they kissed again, and Toshiro pushed at Kusaka's shoulder so they could change positions because he didn't want to be a lamb, he wanted to sit up.
So they flipped over, Kusaka resting his back against the headboard, holding Hitsugaya in his lap with his arms up his back, hands supporting the younger man's shoulders. Toshiro had his legs wrapped around Kusaka's waist, his arms resting on the others shoulders and he wanted him, so badly.
Please fix me, sooth my heart, help me love you again... Kusaka...
And Hitsugaya reached down, placed his hand on Hyorinmaru's naked blade and...
“...Please, Hyorinmaru,” he said, so softly, because this was so important to him and there was an answering flush of power through his system, of bankai but not bankai, pushing him to his limits and passed them, and everything grew. His chest, his back, arms and long legs and handsome face and hands and pretty fingers. He grew, temporarily, into the man he wanted to be, right there in Kusaka's arms, and the other man's eyes widened, awed.
“Toshiro,” he breathed, and Hitsugaya kissed him because this form wouldn't last for long and he wanted to make love before he was to exhausted to hold it. So they kissed again, hotter and more passionate then before, and Hitsugaya pulled Kusaka's robe off, finding his shinigami garb beneath and that shocked the younger man.
Kusaka still... he still loved being a shinigami, still wanted it and... Toshiro looked up questioningly into his lover's eyes, pausing for one second because Kusaka had said that they'd make the Soul Society pay but... the King's Seal, what was he planning on doing...with it...?
A hand lifted, warmly caressed Toshiro's cheek, and Kusaka's expression was so soft, so loving and true.
“We'll protect them all, Toshiro,” he said, “We'll make our dreams come true and you and I shall be kings. No one shall be hurt ever again with us there.”
In his brain Hitsugaya knew there was a problem with that but in his heart, his soul, it sounded so good. To live a life where he could protect, it was what they'd become shinigami for, and to not be under the thumb of people so cruel they would tear lovers apart or enforce stupid tasks just to save their own skins.
And maybe it was wrong, but Toshiro tilted his head and leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to the corner of Kusaka's lips, and he said:
“Yes.”
Kusaka's arms tightened around his lover and Hitsugaya could feel something leave the other man. A tenseness, a fear, was released to shift away like a snowdrift, and he realized that Sojiro had been afraid he'd say no, that he would deny and denounce him, just like the Central 46 had.
But he wouldn't do that, not now, not ever, and so he undid Kusaka's sash, spread his shinigami robes to free his body, and they both needed this, so much.
They kissed passionately, touched as their hearts raced, moaning softly and Sojiro's fingertips trailed gentle lines of pleasure down Toshiro's skin, the younger man's hands gripping at his lover's shoulders, pressing kisses and nips against his neck.
He could feel himself hardening, his whole body hot in the most beautiful way and he saw Kusaka wet his own fingers, trail them down Hitsugaya's back to press at his entrance. The younger gasped because he knew he was so tight, but he wanted it in his core, his legs squeezing Sojiro's hips.
“Ah, ah, do it,” he coaxed, panting, “S-Spread me, please.”
“Of course,” Kusaka purred, his voice so sexy in Toshiro's ear, and he pressed his fingers up and in, causing his lover to moan. God he was tight, although he hadn't been with Sojiro for at least a hundred years and he never let anyone else touch him. Not that they would have but...
He arched his back, crying out as Kusaka curled and scissored his fingers inside of him, spreading him perfectly. Sweat was beginning to coat their skins, hot and slick and it helped, Sojiro gripping Hitsugaya's other leg and lifting it a bit, opening him more and it felt so good. Toshiro bit his lip, a blush on his handsome face.
“Mm, I can't wait to be inside you, my snowfall,” Kusaka whispered sexually, pressing a kiss to his lover's jawline, his exposed throat, “You're so tight and absolutely beautiful.”
“J-Just hurry,” he replied, trembled, because oh, oh, and his hands were gripping almost painfully into the others shoulders, “Hurry, Kusaka. I can't!”
“You sure it's alright?” he asked one last time, sliding his fingers out slowly, wanting to make sure Hitsugaya was ready, because only Toshiro could tell if he was spread enough.
“Yes, yes, please!” his lover cried, panting, clinging, because he was hot and hard and wanted it, needed Kusaka so badly, his Kusaka, his black ice, “Hurry!”
Sojiro growled sensually then, gripped Toshiro's hips and positioned him just right, the older man hard and ready and wanting, and then he pushed up as Hitsugaya came down and they both cried out, moaning as Kusaka slid inside so nicely.
Toshiro had wrapped his arms tight around Kusaka and in the burst of pleasure pain his eyes had widened and he bit down on his lover's neck, his teeth breaking the skin, drawing blood. He shuttered, shocked at himself, and he felt Sojiro stroking his hair, letting him know that it was alright.
A kiss, a nibble at the soft shell of Torshiro's ear, soothing and exciting him all at once, and Kusaka began to move, rocking inside Hitsugaya's beautifully grown body, reaching deep and hitting so many beautifully sensitive places.
Toshiro freed his mouth, moaned against his lover's shoulder because it felt so wonderful, and he was panting, needing more, more.
“Ah, ah, K-Kusaka,” he groaned, his hips rocking, bucking helplessly, and Kusaka chuckled, his own body dipped in pleasure.
“You're so prefect, Toshiro, my love,” he replied, his voice husky, “Hold on a little longer, I'm almost there.”
Especially with the way Hitsugaya was bucking like that, so nice, encouraging Kusaka's body to let go, pleasuring him to the tip of release. He panted himself, groaned between clenched teeth and almost, almost there. It felt absolutely blissful.
Reaching down between them, he found Hitsugaya's cock, gripped it and it had grown longer too, nice and full and the younger man gasped as he was grasped, moaning as Sojiro stroked and squeezed him. Up and down his sheath, over the sweet head, and oh he was going to cum!
He whimpered, panting, calling Kusaka's name and he felt the other swell inside him, both of them cumming at the same time, releasing hotly, their senses flooded with pleasure. Then they sagged, soft and tired upon the bed, the afterglow settling in nicely and Toshiro swallowed, resting his cheek against Sojiro's shoulder.
He felt drained but happy, laying still to catch his breath and Kusaka's hand was in his hair, his fingers carding gently through the strands, twisting a stray lock tenderly. His hair must be a sight, sweaty and messy, his whole countenance making him looked thoroughly made love too.
He closed his eyes, knowing that when he awoke he'd be back to his regular young appearance, but he had held out so he was contented.
Hitsugaya fell asleep, his head laying upon Kusaka's chest, listening to his lover's strong beating heart.
----
Water, warm and all around him. The sound of it, the wet steam filling his lungs, the cool ceramic against his back, and elegant fingers stroking along his skin, cleaning him with soft slippery soap in his hair and against his skin.
He opened his eyes, sleepy but no long exhausted, and Kusaka filled his sight, his lover's hair undone from its long bun and damp, those black tresses so long and beautiful. The other man was redressed, his sleeves pulled up and tied back as he helped Hitsugaya wash up.
Toshiro's wound was completely healed now, he could see his belly when he glanced at it, and he raised his hand from the water to tuck a lock of Kusaka's hair behind his ear tenderly. Then he saw his hand and froze.
It...wasn't how his hand normally looked. It was still grown, and so was his arm and his chest and... he reached both hands up to his face and cupped it and he was still an adult! But how? It was suppose to have worn off. He hadn't been able to hold it when he slept and even if he could he should have reverted after a certain amount of time.
“Surprised?” Sojiro smirked and Hitsugaya looked at him, almost to shocked to speak.
“...What did you do?” the younger demanded, his eyes narrowing, although he was still more shocked then angry. Kusaka smiled and rinsed his hands, resting his elbow on the side of the tub and his cheek on his fist, still smiling knowingly.
“Well, after I saw what Hyorinmaru did for you, I realized that you must have been unhappy with how young you still looked,” he explained calmly, “So after you fell asleep I used the King's Seal on you to speed up your growth a little. That is the power of the King's Seal, the power over time, space and dimensions. It's the same way I healed your wound, although in that case I had the time of your body revert to before you had it.”
Toshiro really hoped his mouth wasn't hanging open because that was just...amazing and also ridiculous at the same time but then again... it was the royal treasure. It was meant to be fantastic.
“Is that... how you survived?” he asked, softly, because he didn't want to think about it anymore but it was worth asking about. Kusaka nodded.
“Yes,” he said, no longer smiling, his hand lowering as he sat up straighter, “After they dumped my body in Hueco Mundo, I passed through the power of the King's Seal. It restored me the best it could and then I survived in the desert, taking in whatever reishi I could. I met the arrancar women; Yin and Yang there as well and we battled. After I bested them they were impressed with my strength and fortitude, so they came with me, became my seconds. It's taken me quiet a long time to grow strong enough to return to you, Toshiro, but I'm glad I kept fighting. I missed you, endlessly.”
Kusaka reached for him, and Hitsugaya leaned into his touch with a sigh. He was glad that Kusaka had fought so hard, had come back to him, and he reached up and placed his hand over Sojiro's, holding his warmth to him.
“...I love you,” he whispered and it was something that they had only said in the dark in the most secret places, but now...now they didn't need to hide anymore. Or at least... they wouldn't if Kusaka's plan worked. Still, even if it didn't, even if they were fugitives forever, he had his lover by his side now and this time he wasn't going to let him go.
“I love you too, snowfall,” Sojiro answered, leaning close to press a kiss to the crest of Toshiro's lips, “Always. Come on now, let's rinse all that gunk out of your hair.”
Hitsugaya raised an eyebrow, pouting.
“It's not gunk, its very expensive styling gel,” he protested softly, and Kusaka chuckled.
“Yes, I know, and you use it to look big and scary,” he answered teasingly, his hand going to the back of Toshiro's neck to cradle him as he lowered him into the warm water, “You don't need that anymore though, do you?”
The older man smiled knowingly and Hitsugaya scoffed, allowing himself to be lowered, Kusaka using his hand to rinse his lover's hair, make it all soft and fluffy again, just the way he liked it. He barely resisted smirking, because he was pretty sure once Toshiro's hair dried he'd look like a pekingese.
Once the younger man was fully rinsed off, Kusaka helped him from the tub and wrapped him in a warm, fluffy towel, holding him for a moment and just...smiling. Toshiro frowned. He was still a tiny bit shorter then Kusaka but not much, standing on even ground with him.
“You're going to get your clothes wet,” the ex-captain complained gently, “And you don't need to help me dry off, I'm not a child.”
He technically hadn't been a child for over a hundred years, although now he looked the part of an adult too. He wasn't sure how to feel about that really. Would Matsumoto and Momo even recognize him? Did he want them too?
“I know,” Sojiro replied, smiling, “I just... I feel so happy. You'll indulge me a little bit longer, won't you?”
And Toshiro blushed. He'd been indulging Kusaka for the last week, chasing his ass and all that, and... dear god, that sounded horrible. He scowled at Sojiro and the other laughed and kissed him gently again before letting him go.
“Come out when you get dressed, I'll have the soup ready,” he said with a secret smile before he left the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Hitsugaya sighed and dried himself off, frowning at his hair in the mirror because it was going to turn into a big puff ball without his gel, and then he realized something.
He was much taller then he had been, everything had elongated, legs, torso, arms, his chest and hips widened, and while he wasn't exactly super buff or anything... his clothes wouldn't fit him!
Kusaka! He wanted to scream, because maybe the smooth bastard had planned all this too and what was he suppose to do? Walk around in a towel?
He scowl again at his reflection, huffing, and he was about to wrap a towel around his waist and go make some demands of his lover when he saw something hanging from the hook on the door.
A men's kimono hung there, layered and warm looking, the design a pattern of freshly falling snow with the occasional delicate snowflake on a black background, the designs sewn in silver thread. It was beautiful and Toshiro let himself feel a little awe.
In the Soul Society, shinigami wore basically the same thing and while you could customize a little, the idea was that the clothing was to promote unity. Only problem was that you wore the same type of clothing, ever, single, day, and it did get monotonous after a while.
The kimono he was looking at though, it was so finely made, he was almost afraid to touch it. Did he even have the right? After all he'd done?
He wet his lips and reached for it, letting his fingers run down the fabric exceedingly gentle. It felt good too, silky against his fingertips, and so he bit his lip.
It wouldn't hurt to just... try it on for a minute...
So he pulled the outfit from the hook and began to dress himself, putting on his fundoshi and the pants, undershirt, shirt, under sash, socks, shoes and then he wrapped the kimono around him and tied the obi and the whole thing felt better then he'd even imagined. Fit perfectly too.
Hitsugaya was above giggling and smiling like an idiot, but he did appreciate the clothing in his own way, his expression soft as he looked down at the clothes. They sort of made him feel special in a good way.
There was a knock at the door and he almost jumped, surprised.
“Come on, Toshiro,” Kusaka's voice called, “Are you coming out or did you fall in?”
“I-I did not fall in!” he protested, sputtering for a moment, and he could imagine Sojiro smiling in that sly way of his, teasing and smug.
“Well then come out, snowfall, I want to see you,” the older man finished and Hitsugaya's face flushed pink again. So he knew. Well of course he did. Kusaka probably set this whole thing up.
Frowning and trying to get his face under control, Toshiro ran his hand through his hair and opened the door. Kusaka was standing on the other side and his smile was impressed as his lover came out in the kimono, Hitsugaya averting his eyes, shy and pouting.
It didn't take long for Sojiro to step closer, guide his lover's face back to his and press a kiss to those softly pouting lips.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, purred, holding Toshiro's chin, “Absolutely gorgeous.”
So much for his face, because Hitsugaya turned completely pink at that, his hands rising to grip into Kusaka's own robe gently. He wasn't wearing his shinigami robes now, although it looked close. It was more intricately layered, and the outer cloth was reflectively black, smooth and silky against his fingers. When the cloth shifted Toshiro saw a pattern of measured triangle like shapes shimmer into view, black except for their thin outline which was a reflective purple, the same color as Kusaka's eyes.
Black ice.
“Do you like it?” his lover whispered to Hitsugaya and the younger man blinked, realizing that Kusaka was talking about the outfit Sojiro had given him.
“Ah, yes, it's very nice,” he said, trying to think of what else to say. People didn't give him clothes very often and if he even received a gift at all he always had to act like he was grudgingly accepting it. He couldn't show weakness because people would talk but... it was just him and Kusaka now. “...Thank you, Kusaka.”
“You're welcome, Toshiro,” he replied, giving his lover, his most important person, another soft kiss before taking his hand. He led Hitsugaya into the kitchen and had him sit down at the table where a bowl of rice, some tea, and a bowl of soup sat in front of him. The soup smelled delicious but Toshiro wasn't entirely sure what type of soup it was. It had a creamy broth, cut vegetables and something that looked like pieces of softened white root in it.
His stomach decided to give a squeeze then and he hadn't been eating much while chasing after Kusaka, so he picked up the spoon and began to eat, watching Sojiro who was sitting across from him, eating as well.
The soup tasted as good as it smelt, and he focused on eating every bit of it, taking breaks to eat the rice and sip his tea. He tried very hard to pace himself, he didn't want to look desperate in front of Kusaka or for it all to come back up. Still, the second that first mouthful of food hit his belly he realized just how starving he was.
“Are you enjoying that?” Sojiro asked after a little while, his smile knowing and Hitsugaya nodded. He could feel his strength returning with every bite, especially when he ate one of the root pieces.
“It's really good,” he said after swallowing, “What type is it?”
Kusaka's smile turned smug and Hitsugaya felt his back tense, uneasy. What was that look for?
“...Sojiro,” he said firmly, and he never called Kusaka by his first name, never, a shift to show that he wasn't playing games here, “What's in this soup?”
And Kusaka smiled in that same way he had when he'd sneaked under Hitsugaya the first time and tripped his heart, closed eyes and a curve of his lips, his pretty self sitting on Toshiro's desk.
“You must be Toshiro Hitsugaya, the prodigy, right?”
Black ice.
“It's called reishi soup,” Kusaka said, and something in his tone caused the hairs on the back of Toshiro's neck to stand up. Something wasn't right here and...“It's made from the boiled branches of the reishi 'trees' in Hueco Mundo.”
Hitsugaya's eyes widened and he dropped his spoon. Hollow reishi? Wasn't that dangerous? So that meant... dear god, had Kusaka poisoned him?
On reflex he reached for his zanpakuto, but he'd left Hyorinmaru in the bedroom so his hand closed on nothing but air. He grit his teeth, scared. No, no, he was such an idiot! Kusaka was an enemy. Kusaka was...
“Ah-ha, there it is, just proves my point,” Sojiro said and Hitsugaya snapped.
“What does?! Don't play games, Sojiro!” he snarled, and if he had to use a kido he could, but after everything that happened he didn't want to think of Kusaka as an enemy. He'd just gotten him back. To hurt him with his own hand was...
“I scared you a bit and you went for your sword, just like I did back then,” Kusaka said, leaning back in his chair calmly, “In retrospect it could have been either of us back then. The Central 46 were just scared of us and our twin zanpakuto. You know, when I found that we both had Hyorinmaru, I was incredibly happy, Hitsugaya. It wasn't a coincidence. We were both chosen for a reason... and then those bastards got in the way.”
He sighed, crossed his arms and Toshiro stood, stalked around the table. He gripped the front of Kusaka's robe, his jaw clenched, and Kusaka looked up at him, at the beautiful sharp ice in his lover's eyes.
“Fine, I panicked, but what about the hollow reishi? Did you poison me!” he demanded, and the older man's hand came up, gently laying upon his lover's clenched fist.
“Normally, the tainted reishi probably would have made you feel ill,” he explained, calmly, “But you've been exposed to the power of the King's Seal, just like I have, and I eat this soup all the time now. The fact that you enjoyed the soup, gained power from it and didn't get sick just proves my second point. We are the same once more, as we were meant to be. So no, you aren't poisoned, Toshiro. You're alright. Don't cry.”
“I'm not...crying,” he said, but in truth he was starting to shake, to feel tears at the corner of his eyes again. Kusaka had scared him. He had thought...
His grip in Kusaka's robe lessened and he wasn't sure how to feel. Part of him was relieved that he'd be alright, but he was also mad at Kusaka and...hurt? No, he'd be hurt if he really had been poisoned, if he was dying or hollowifying. Right now he was emotionally falling, and he looked at Kusaka, his expression so fragile and vulnerable. He opened his mouth.
“...Sojiro... you better catch me,” he said, and then his legs just gave out from underneath him because this was to much, to fast and he was going to hit the floor, maybe pass out again. He wasn't sure.
He saw Kusaka move, surge forward, and the older man looked shocked, scared even. He reached for Toshiro and caught him, holding his lover in his arms and...oh no, had he been mistaken? Had the illness just been delayed? He had needed to check if enough of the King's Seal's power had been absorbed into Hitsugaya's body so he wouldn't be harmed when they cut the King's Seal and he hadn't made the soup to strong... even if Hitsugaya hadn't had enough exposure he shouldn't be fainting.
He lifted his lover bridal style, carried him to the couch in the living room nearby, and Kusaka's heart was hammering in his chest. He had been so sure and... no, no, please!
“Toshiro!”
The younger man opened one eye, saw the absolutely terrified look on Kusaka's face, felt the thumping of the others heart and he had been planning to say 'serves you right for scaring me, ass' but he didn't. Kusaka was giving him that same cornered look he had when the Central 46 had made them fight, and he didn't have the heart to tell Sojiro that he 'told him so'.
So he raised his hand, placed it against Kusaka's cheek and the other man grabbed his wrist desperately, and poor Sojiro. The Central 46 had cracked him back then, attempted to shatter him by taking his life, and between the King's Seal and everything else, Kusaka had glued himself back together. But there were cracks, fissures in the ice, and Toshiro knew he needed to be extra careful with his lover.
Sojiro was already teetering on the edge and Hitsugaya had promised to protect him.
So he leaned up, pressed a tender kiss to the older man's trembling lips, then caressed Kusaka's cheek with his thumb.
“I'm alright, Kusaka, just got a little light headed,” he explained gently, watching the fear beginning to twist in his lover's expression, and suddenly Kusaka was holding him tight to his chest, just trembling. He'd gone all tense again, his back, his arms, and Hitsugaya shifted so he could wrap one of his arms up around his lover's neck, the other around his back.
That look, he'd seen it before; the fear that Sojiro had felt back then shifting from fear of losing his own life to the fear of leaving Toshiro. He had stayed crumpled there, bleeding as his zanpakuto had disintegrated, looking at his screaming, panicked lover and...
Please, I don't want to leave you! Don't let me go, Toshiro!
He remembered being let go, running to Sojiro, screaming his name, but when he gotten to him his lover's life had already fled. Kusaka was dead and the ice had risen up and closed around the ball of pain and squeezed off his heart and he hadn't even cried. He had just sat in the dirt, his lover's blood on his hands.
Sin, his sin. I let you die.
So he squeezed his most important person because Kusaka was afraid that Toshiro was mad at him for his mistake, that he didn't love him anymore, as if his love was so fragile, but Hitsugaya would never not love this man.
“It's alright,” he murmured tenderly into his lover's ear, stroking his hand through Kusaka's hair, the strands black silk between his grown fingers, and Sojiro had been taking such good care of him. It was his turn to take care of Kusaka. “I'm not mad, I love you. I'll always love you.”
He'd forgive. Every mistake, every slip, every flinch. They were only human after all and he already thought the world of Kusaka, he always had.
He kissed him, under his ear, down his throat, and he loosen the top of Sojiro's clothing to glide it down, show the tops of his elegant shoulders so he could kiss there too, butterfly kisses and narrowed, possessive eyes. He could feel Kusaka starting to relax again in his arms, slowly, like a glacier easing, bit by bit, his heart and breathing starting to even out. He even angled his neck a little, giving Hitsugaya more room to kiss, beautiful eyes closed.
“I love you, so much; I won't let you go, my beautiful black ice,” Toshiro continued, vowing it, “They'll never take you away from me again. You're mine, all mine.”
He usually wasn't this possessive but Kusaka needed to hear it and Toshiro was done listening to stupid rules made by cowards. He was tired of watching the people he loved get hurt and taken from him, and if he had to fight the system then he would.
He had survived by making his heart ice but now... if anyone tried to hurt Kusaka he'd show them his fangs.
He nipped gently at the place between Sojiro's shoulder and neck, causing his lover to moan, and he eased the sting with a velvet rasp of his tongue. So beautiful and good and warm. He loved Kusaka, like part of his heart had come home.
“...I'm sorry, snowfall,” the older man breathed, still clinging, “I...exposed you to the King's Seal's power because I don't want you to get hurt when we use it but I... had to make sure it stuck, so I gave you the soup. I'm sorry, I should've...”
“You should have told me that before,” Hitsugaya finished, taking another bite, using his teeth and Kusaka gasped, moaned deeply, his toes curling in pleasure, “I forgive you, love, but you need to tell me these things. I don't like being kept in the dark, I'm not a child anymore.”
“Mm,” his lover hummed, his back arching a little, and Toshiro was sitting in Sojiro's lap and he could feel Kusaka harden beneath him. He smirked a little.
“Hm, so you like being bitten do you?” he asked, letting his dominant streak show, teasing gently, “That's new. Did you pick that up in Hueco Mundo too?”
“T-Toshiro,” he answered, blushing as a shiver of pleasure went up Sojiro's back, “Mm, please.”
“Please? Please what?” he purred, pressing an open mouth kiss to the side of Kusaka's throat and then biting down. It made his lover buck with a whimper of pleasure and this was the reason Sojiro hadn't been upset when Hitsugaya had bit him when they had made love before. He liked it.
He felt Kusaka's hands close in the robe at his back, fingers clutching drops of snowflakes, and Toshiro smiled gently and switched their positions. Sojiro now sat on the couch, flushed and so pretty, and Hitsugaya bent over him, pressing a full, hot kiss to his lips.
Sojiro kissed back, savoring his lover's touch and he didn't think he'd ever get enough of Toshiro, especially now that he was grown and at least a bit happier then he had been. Back at the academy there was always the sense that they were edging into dangerous territory, although by Shinigami law they had both managed to fit into the safe space, least until Kusaka's murder.
Still, he supposed it didn't matter anymore and he squirmed and cooed a bit as Toshiro kissed and nipped at his skin, spreading his clothing. He reached up, sliding his fingers into his lover's beautiful, white, fluffy hair and the feel of it, the softness, the scent, it lifted Kusaka's heart. He loved Toshiro Hitsugaya, loved him more then anything.
“Ah, Toshiro,” he breathed as the younger man kissed and nipped along his chest, his belly, and then Hitsugaya pulled down Sojiro's pants and fundoshi and Kusaka sucked in his breath. He was already fully hard and his eyes widened as he watched his snowfall's head lower, a velvet tongue reaching out to press over the head of him.
The pleasure shot from that exquisite touch all the way up his body and into his core, Sojiro's hands fisting in his lover's hair as he moaned. God, that felt good, and his heart was starting to speed up again, his breathes coming in pants, toes curled in ecstasy. Then he saw Hitsugaya smirk and he...
“You wouldn't,” Kusaka gasped, and those turquoise eyes looked up into his own and he knew, Toshiro by all means would. The younger man showed his teeth, a canine sharp and Kusaka swallowed, both wanting and dreading it at the same time.
“Ah, oh,... be gentle,” he whimpered, and Hitsugaya smiled and grazed his teeth ever so lightly against Kusaka's cock. A burst of pleasure pain took the older shinigami's breath away because he was so sensitive there but the sharpness felt divine and oh, he was going to cum already?
“Mm, snowfall, I'm...” he groaned, and he shuttered in pleasure as Hitsugaya engulfed him with his mouth, hot and wet and tight to suckle on him and it wasn't long before Kusaka caught his own breath, bucked helplessly a few times and cummed directly into his lover's sweet mouth.
Toshiro took him, drank him down, and Kusaka blushed, embarrassed at having come undone so easily but Hitsugaya, he was just so sexy and wonderful, beautiful snowfall. The older man swallowed, biting his lip and watching as his lover let him go with a soft pop, and he'd fallen hard all over again.
So he reached for Toshiro, kissing and tasting himself on the others tongue, and it was so nice, especially after so long. They shifted and lay together on the couch in each other's arms, savoring the closeness and heat trapped between them, and Hitsugaya had his head tucked under his lover's chin and it was just perfect.
They fell asleep like that for a time, Kusaka's pulse beating healthy and strong close to Toshiro's ear, and the younger clung to the soft folds of his black ice's clothing. He wouldn't let him go, wouldn't let him be harmed. Never again.
----
Hitsugaya dozed in the afternoon sun, his lover in his arms and he remembered, back those many years ago when they had fought in the chamber of the Central 46. He remembered Kusaka coming for him in what he had assumed was panic but... as he thought about it, maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe Sojiro hadn't panicked. He had looked scared, that was for certain, but there been something in his eyes, a desperate shifting, back and forth and he'd been... thinking, gauging, judging, but not on Hitsugaya. He hadn't been trying to find weak spots. In fact, every open spot Toshiro had had during that battle, every chance Kusaka had had to wound him, he didn't take, or missed on purpose...
Kusaka had...
“...You were trying to think of a way out for us, weren't you?” Toshiro murmured, shifting to look up at Sojiro's face, and the other was awake, eyes open and his expression softened into a wistful sadness.
“Yes,” he breathed, his hands clasped over his lover's lower back, “I didn't want you to get hurt, snowfall, so I tried to buy time but... I wasn't fast enough and those...those bastards saw what I was doing. That's why they interrupted and stabbed me. They didn't want us to both walk out alive. They were scared of us, Toshiro, scared of what we would become and they judged us despite our loyalty.”
He sighed, shifted a bit into a more comfortable position, holding his love warm and close.
“But, that doesn't matter anymore,” Kusaka continued, “We're together again and we'll set things right. You and me.”
He smiled, so hopeful but so fragile, and Toshiro eased forwards and kissed his lips to sooth Kusaka's heart, his beautiful black ice.
“How?” Hitsugaya asked when he pulled away, because he was not going to be in the dark about this. He was part of their union and he didn't need to be protected from the truth like a child, “Tell me, Kusaka.”
The other hesitated for a moment, his expression unsure, worried, and Toshiro kissed him again, softly to draw out the truth, sweet and gentle.
“You are my heart,” the ice captain told him, “My most important person, so you don't need to be afraid, my love. I'm yours.”
“... And I'm yours,” Kusaka replied, his arms squeezing Hitsugaya gently, hold him lovingly close. After a moment, the older man reached into his pocket and withdrew the Oin, holding it before his lover. It glowed with a gentle golden sheen and even though it wasn't currently active, Toshiro could feel the reiatsu from it; pure and clean.
“The Oin, the King's Seal, has the power over time and space,” Kusaka explained, “With it, you can alter space and time itself. In it's current form, the Oin's power is limited but once it is absorbed into a living soul, that person or people, will be as gods. They can create or destroy, bring life or death... but... it is a dangerous power. If the user isn't strong enough to wield it then it could all come undone. That is... one of the reasons I need you, Toshiro. You were always a bit stronger then myself, the top of our class, and you're still whole. If you were to cut the Oin and took the power, we could build our world as it should be. No Central 46, no unfair laws, no death, and we could be together, forever.”
Hitsugaya was quiet through all of this and it did sound like a dream come true, but he knew that beauty wasn't built on nothing. There was always a catch.
“...You're going to kill the Central 46, aren't you?” he said, his voice calm, matter of factly, because it was the only thing Kusaka could mean when he said that there would be no Central 46. As for the shinigami who would obviously oppose them...
“It is what they deserve,” was the answer, a cold venom slipping into Kusaka's voice. His touch that rose to caress through Hitsugaya's hair was as gentle as ever, but his tone... he really loathed the 46, as he probably should.
“...Kusaka,” Toshiro replied softly, not sure how his lover would react to what he was about to say, “Aizen... killed the Central 46. I saw it with my own eyes... All those that hurt us are gone.”
There was shock and he could feel Sojiro's body tightened beneath him, but it only lasted for a moment, the hand in his hair lowering for Kusaka to draw the pad of his index finger along the soft shell of Hitsugaya's ear, tender.
“...It doesn't matter,” he said, whispered as he eased Toshiro a bit closer, hugged him, “They were replaced by the same ilk, weren't they?”
And Hitsugaya thought about what the new Central 46 had wanted to do to Ichigo, after he'd lost his powers. How they had wanted to use the young man who saved them all as bait. Old Man Yama had refused but...
There had been other things.
“Yes,” he replied, sagging a little to tuck his face under Kusaka's chin, just breathe. Maybe he should have felt bad about allowing Kusaka to take his hatred out on the 'innocents' of Central 46, but in truth he didn't. Hitsugaya knew that the newer Central 46 wanted Kusaka killed, not just for stealing the Oin, but just because he existed.
They wanted to kill Toshiro too, for that matter. For going rogue, for knowing the truth, for all of it.
He felt Kusaka rubbing his back, soothingly, and Hitsugaya closed his eyes for a little while. As beautiful and peaceful as this little cabin in the woods was, he knew it wouldn't last. Even if he could change Kusaka's heart, they'd still be hunted throughout the five worlds; the Living world, Hell, Reiokyu, Seireitei and the Rukongai and Hueco Mundo.
There was no escape but they weren't trained to run. They were trained to fight and defend, and so that was what they were going to do.
“... When do we leave?” Toshiro asked, and he could almost feel Kusaka smile.
----
They left that evening, under the cover of darkness, wrapped in their cloaks with their zanpakuto by their sides. Kusaka wanted to appear on the hill but Hitsugaya shook his head. Appearing there would be like walking into a hornet's nest. If they really wanted to get this done, they needed to go to the source. Their “grand entrance” could come after, once they swept everyone off their feet and blinded them so they couldn't fight back.
Snowfall and Black Ice, and less casualties besides.
“I want to keep the deaths of shinigami to a minimum,” Toshiro said firmly, “They're good people, Kusaka. Like you and I.”
And his lover's hand caressed through his snowy soft hair, and Kusaka smiled gently and nodded.
“We will go with your plan, my love,” the older said, “See? This is why we should be at each other's sides; you're so smart.”
So they kissed, Kusaka's fingers tender under Hitsugaya's jaw, and then the older shinigami withdrew the Oin from his robe and placed Toshiro's hand upon it, his other hand holding and locking fingers with his young lover.
“Let's go make our dreams come true.”
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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."
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Yarrow Oneshots: One
So, I might've forgotten about Tumblr - oops. I figured I might post some of the writing I've been doing. Enjoy the suffering of one of my newer OC's/DnD Characters - Yarrow.
TW: Cults, Sacrifice, Implied Death, Guilt, Violence, Manipulative Relationships [Let me know if the warnings need to change :))
Yarrow had fucked up. Big time. How did she know this? Well, it might have been the cold iron cuffs that dug into her skin or the fact that she lies naked on an altar. Chained would be the better word - she’s not exactly there willingly. At least she’s alone, for now. Not that it helps much, as all she can do is struggle uselessly against the chains as she quietly drowns in her thoughts, adamantly ignoring the panic and dread that rises with each passing second. In retrospect, Yarrow realises with a certainty that almost hurts; she should have seen all this coming. There was never any chance of escape. That prospect died the moment this Godsforsaken cult had her held down and marked with their deity’s symbol. Once, she had seen the twisted, jagged, but somehow ornate antlers tattooed onto her back with pride. Maybe even love. But now? Now, they burned, and all she could feel was this twisting sense of revulsion gnawing away at her. She had no one but herself to blame for this. She should have seen the signs that her ‘lover’ - Mara Varithyn - was more than she said she was.
Mara. Oh, Mara. It’s a shame, Yarrow thinks, that she won’t be able to watch the light fade from her eyes. She’d like that a lot. Mara was the one who led her here, after all. Mara was the one she trusted. Mara was the one who listened and believed her when she came knocking that one night. When Yarrow had no one else, she could go to for help. When she admitted that she’d gotten tangled up in a cult and she didn’t know what to do. Mara’s whispered words of comfort felt more akin to poison now. Even as she lies on the altar, a small part of her hopes that Mara will come and save her. A laugh, one full of bitterness and hate, bubbled up inside her, bursting out of her lips before she could stop it. It echoed throughout the chamber, yet Yarrow found that she didn’t care. She was such a lovesick fool. How Mara put up with her, she’d never know.
An ice-cold hand caressing her cheek had Yarrow snapping back into reality. She’d recognise that touch anywhere, even if it wasn’t usually this cold. Mara.
Fuck.
“Hello, love-”
“- Don’t call me that.” Yarrow cuts her off before she can even begin, too angry to think about the consequences of interrupting her. Mara merely sighs in disappointment, which somehow is enough to shut her up. Yarrow despises that even after everything, she still craves Mara's approval and love.
It must be written across her face as Mara smiles, her hand running through Yarrow's hair in what feels distinctly like a mockery of how she'd use to do it in those quiet moments of peace they'd steal away together. Then it would comfort her; now, it just makes her sick.
"This is quite the predicament you're in, isn't it, love?" Mara murmurs, lips brushing against the shell of her ear, and she shudders. Yarrow wants to turn her head and rip her tongue out of her mouth. She wants to scream and curse her in every way she knows how. Yarrow does none of these things. She instead lies there, staring at the ornately carved stone ceiling. She instantly decides that whoever designed it did not intend this place to be housed by a cult. Who carves flowers onto the ceiling where people get sacrificed?
Unfortunately, she doesn't get to think of an answer to that as painfully cold lips meet hers. For a terrifying moment, all the air leaves her lungs. Black spots dance in her vision, and Mara's too-perfect features blur and mix. For that moment, instead of the raven-haired and green-eyed elf, it's someone else. Someone much worse. Yarrow's blood runs cold at the madness blazing in Her eyes. She'd scream if she could. A whisper floats to the forefront of her mind, it's deceptively gentle, and something in Yarrow's gut twists into a thousand knots. "Soon, little doe, soon."
The kiss finally ends, and Yarrow gasps down desperate gulps of air. She's trying to ignore how badly she's trembling and the dampness that wets her cheeks. The relief she feels when it's Mara - not Her - who wipes the tears away feels like poison in her veins.
"I know, I know you're scared, love. Don't be. It's going to be over before you know it," Yarrow wishes she could believe Mara, but deep down, she knows that's a lie. It's not going to be quick. "you won't feel a thing, I promise."
When Mara pulls away, Yarrow catches and stifles a whine. She will not show weakness like that. Not now. Not as various other cult members start to fill the room. Their eyes burn into Yarrow's skin as they watch her. She'll claw their eyes out, too. That would feel just as cathartic as ripping out Mara's poisonous tongue.
Yarrow tunes whatever else is said next out. Candles are lit, prayers are murmured, and Yarrow dozes throughout. At least that way, she avoids the steadily mounting panic that squeezes her like a vice. A gentle hand on her shoulder has her stirring awake, and Yarrow swallows back the tears and anger. She's not going to have much of a use for them in a bit. So what's the point?
"Close your eyes, love," Mara murmurs, and for once during this ordeal, Yarrow doesn't mind the gentleness. It might make what comes next a little easier to handle.
It doesn't.
#dnd#original character#warlock#dhamphir#Death#sacrifice#creative writing#fantasy#faerun#Beshaba#Angst#Suffering#Guilt#Blame#Implied Death#dungeons and dragons#Goddess#Anger#bisexual oc#This is why I can't have nice things#Yarrow is in some deep shit#Metaphorically speaking#trigger warnings apply
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