#yes I've written a fanfic

[agoddamn]

permafrost, ~6600 words (!!)

Warframe, Loid & Tagfer & Necraloid, gen rating

Tagfer finds out that a bunch of animals aren't great nursemaids for a sick human.

[crystalline-sanders]

"Lee felt bad. He would apologize later. He would make it up to him. But he couldn't do that unless this was a convincing performance."

uhhh based on a fic I'm working on with a lot of terrible awful electrical shock based horror in it!! yipee!!

[valiantlyannoyingbread]

good news: i just wrote the best work of my life, with truly some of the funniest and most touching dialogue i've ever written

bad news: it's a high school musical fanfic

[zukkaoru]

🍵stay through it all🌸

“It wouldn’t do for your tattoo to get infected because of your own inflexibility.” Kaoru turns his nose up. “So, I suppose I have no choice but to help you out.” His tone is callous, but Kojiro knows better than to believe how it sounds on the surface. He knows that this is Kaoru’s way of saying he cares, and even though he’s known as much to be true for upwards of a decade now, it still warms him to know he’s privileged enough to be one of the few people Kaoru truly cares about.

or: kaoru & kojiro taking care of each other through the years

🍵4.4k words || matchablossom 🌸written for @midnight-mistt for the 2024 mb exchange

[polarisbibliotheque]

Nemesis (Vergil x Reader) - Chapter 1, Prologue

Nemesis

Pairing: Vergil x Reader

Summary: The Abyss opening is a rare occurrence. In his youth, Vergil wanted to harness its power, but never thought he would meet his greatest adversary along the way. Years later, the Abyss is once again open and that might call for some rather unlikely alliances.

Age restriction: 18+ - there's a lot of blood, violence, cursing and all those things people want to forbid younger audiences of seeing. Also, cosmic horror is a thing here. Procceed with caution.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Vergil has a LOT of internal turmoil, and both main characters struggle with self-worth, self-hatred, abandonment issues, etc. The reader also gets seriously injured and humiliated in this chapter, so, again, proceed with caution. It gets dark and it might be too much for some people.

Author's notes: And so, it begins! I HOPE I'll be able to update this one weekly, but I don't know if my creativity will be that nice to me xD This is something that has been brewing for a while, based on my initial hatred for Vergil. Expect the slow burn of the century, they'll be hopeless and so friggin' proud in this one :)

Also I'm so proud of this header :')

Chapter 1 - Prologue

The city was swarming with demons.

Vergil had rarely seen anything like it – chaos took over, the streets stained with blood, the sky red with fire. He marched with resolve towards his objective, ignoring the demons terrifying humans.

There was nothing he could do. He wasn’t there to be a savior – only the strong survived and Vergil had no time to spare. He searched for power, and, if he took too long, his opportunity would be lost until another Abyss was open – and that could take years.

Vergil could feel the tingle in his hands, the stench from the demons in the Abyss. The closer he got, the fouler the smell of blood and rotten flesh. He inherited that enhanced sense from his father – and Vergil constantly questioned how Sparda could have lived in Hell for so long with that horrid reek engulfing him. It had to be something he discovered only after locking Hell behind himself.

All of his senses indicated the source of all mayhem was inside the building he had just entered – if it had been a church of sorts, a castle, some headquarters… Vergil wouldn’t know. Everything was destroyed beyond recognition, and he walked upon the rests of what was once inhabited by the humans who used to live in that city.

The Abyss was close. Soon to be near the reach of his fingertips: a source of power not even the most notorious demons had access to. Something ancient, beyond creation itself – source of salvation to some, source of damnation to others.

If Vergil was about to condemn his soul, it didn’t really matter. He had already been damned; since the day he was reborn on that fateful night his home was torn apart.

Another strange smell assaulted his senses, though. Vergil couldn’t quite tell what it was – no demon; that, he was certain. It was a scent of something that certainly did not belong to all that destruction…

And it came from behind a door within his reach – only a few steps away from the entrance of the courtyard: the place where the Abyss had manifested after centuries asleep.

Along with his human heart, came human curiosity. That inherent human feeling, always distracting Vergil from his path and quest for power. That incessant itch in the farthest corner of his soul that couldn’t be ignored – and that made him divert his steps towards that door.

As his hands were about to touch the sturdy wood that resisted the chaos, Vergil’s steps came to a halt when he felt another presence behind him.

“Not a step further, demon.”

And that presence was human.

Slowly turning back, hands already gripping the Yamato and ready for battle, Vergil found a set of eyes filled with fire and resolve. They had something inside them that bothered his spirit, for he did not know logically what it was – his heart, though, seemed to identify something he couldn’t quite put into words.

As you pointed your sword towards him, Vergil furrowed his brows.

“Step aside, human.”

“I will not let the likes of you roam this place.” You tilted your head upwards, revealing in the faint light of that godforsaken place the wounds and bruises that covered your face and neck. Vergil slightly narrowed his eyes; you must have been battling since all of that started. You were probably the last line of resistance of whatever humans lasted in that pitiful city. “Leave before I have to make you leave.”

Vergil’s eyes narrowed even further – not because of analyzing more, but because of your words. How dare someone like you even entertain the possibility of making someone like him leave…?

His hands took their battle stance on the Yamato. You lowered your sword, reading his posture and correcting yours to get ready to fight him.

From all the demons you fought that day, he was the most… Different. They all looked like creatures from the darkest pits of Hell, blood thirsty, power hungry – either ready to kill and fulfill their bloodlust or trying to harness some of the power of the Abyss. But that one in a blue coat who stood before you… He looked human. Painfully human, even. If it wasn’t for the way he carried himself in that battlefield – the way he held his sword, the way his steps seemed so calm among the mayhem, the way his eyes carried only ice and rage – you would’ve deemed him human.

But you didn’t have to be a demon expert to know that blue coated young man was nothing but a demon like all the others you had fought earlier – or, maybe, unlike the others.

Nevertheless, in your experience, once a demon, always a demon.

“I do not have time for this.” Vergil hissed between his teeth, tilting his head upwards in hubris, leaving the Yamato sheathed. He turned his attention back to the wooden door – you were almost as good as dead; it would be extremely unwise to engage in battle with him.

But something Vergil still had to learn about humans was that the heart doesn’t always follow the wisest of decisions – sometimes, it acts by itself; and whether that is a good or a bad thing, it’s debatable upon the situation.

He heard as your steps lunged quickly towards him, giving Vergil only a few seconds to dash from your vicious attack, making you almost hit the door with your great silver sword. He kept looking at you with annoyance – not only because you attacked, but also because that fire in your eyes seemed to glisten even more than before.

“Leave.” You tried one more time – but Vergil was prouder than that.

He wouldn’t let himself be ordered around by a human.

“You chose your fate.” He growled between his teeth, attacking with the still sheathed Yamato.

It wasn’t his intention to kill you – with just a few blows from the sheath, you’d be on the floor, begging for your life or passed out. Vergil wouldn’t kill, but he would teach you a lesson: no human could think they could defeat him. He was much too powerful for such a weak, pitiful creature.

But you parried him – once, twice, three times. Your eyes still carried that fire, burning with rage and that something else. You didn’t fall, so he attacked again. And again. And you kept on resisting, refusing to give in.

You promised no demon would go beyond that point – only over your dead body. And you would keep that promise.

Vergil growled in disbelief, vexed by your resistance. He didn’t have time for this. Why weren’t you falling? Where were you getting your strength from? He was the son of Sparda. A meek, fragile, battle wounded human just like you should have fallen from the first blow of Yamato.

But your movements were as skillful as his. You held your sword with as much grace and strength as Vergil yielded his demonic heritage. With another blow, you parried masterfully in the right timing, both of you stepping back from each other to recover your stances.

You had your head slightly upwards; and you held his gaze. Vergil hardened his jaw, mimicking your demeanor – or was it you who were mimicking his? He couldn’t know; and you couldn’t either. The blood inside yours and his veins burned with the rage to be dealing with someone else as proud – and as arrogant – as the other.

It was the first time for Vergil, such a human thing to feel, but oh… Your eyes were crushing his pride. Your resistance mocked his power. And he couldn’t let that happen.

Charging towards you, Vergil didn’t hold back. You stood your ground, fighting him as best as you could – your body, though, begged for some rest. Even with the pain, you defended and counter-attacked with the might Vergil would expect of someone in a better shape… Of someone as powerful as him.

You, in the other hand, did not expect a demon so versed in martial arts. You thought he was going to use only his strength, like all demons did, but he had skill. As you parried another blow of his – the sheath of the Yamato threatening to break your stance, unbothered by your silver blade – your eyes met his and, there, you saw not only ice, but the sparkle of a fire that could only be human.

His eyes burned with the same fire yours did – the flame that kept telling him you wouldn’t give up: the human stubbornness.

Although you read it as arrogance.

Bothered by your eyes, Vergil pushed you back, with enough strength to make you stumble on your hurt feet and plant one of your hands on the ground so you wouldn’t fall. You let your head low for a while, taking a few deep breaths to control your spinning head. Vergil furrowed his brows as he noticed the smell of blood came from a wound in your flank – making the fact you were there, fighting him, even more absurd.

“Hmpf.” Even with that realization, he couldn’t recognize the strength in you. That would mean a mere human, battered and hurt even, could put up a decent fight with him. That you both were in the same level of power. Vergil would never accept that. “You’re not worthy as my opponent.”

You shot your head upwards, eyes stark in his blue silhouette as that demon turned his back at you in a nonchalant manner, going back to his business. He didn’t even want to kill you. That was mortifying. With those words, sharp as a sword, he cut through your heart and your pride: you weren’t even worthy of dying in a fight.

With the blood boiling in your veins, you used your silver sword to help you up. As he heard your movement, Vergil stopped; turning around slowly only to find you cleaning the blood running down your lips – those eyes setting his soul on fire.

“I am not done yet.” You spat the blood on the ground, almost hitting his boots. Vergil didn’t give you the joy of seeing how much his temper was affected by your attitude – even though his hardened jaw betrayed him. Lifting his head slightly to try to remain above his opponent, Vergil slowly walked towards you; and you mirrored his demeanor, even if you weren’t doing it in a conscious manner. “Demon.”

This time, Vergil didn’t allow you to attack first – he would set the pace of the fight; almost like leading a deathly waltz. You were his partner and you would follow his lead to your demise; as he always did with every opponent.

As soon as his domineering footwork tried to set the pace, yours refused to dance according to his lead. He tried his best to tame you – but that fire kept glistening in your eyes, and your footwork followed your own beat.

You tried to break his and make sure you were the one setting the pace, but that man in a blue coat had too much will to let himself be lead across the battlefield. His steps worked on his own – and he had the audacity to try to dominate you; the same way you were trying to do with him.

Your tiredness and his annoyance, though, made Vergil knock you down again – but still, you got up. And again. And one third time.

As you took your sword from the ground, barely able to stand up and wield the silver weapon with bruised hands, Vergil had a hard time hiding his shock – cloaked by the annoyance under his furrowed brows.

How were you doing that? You had no demonic blood like his to mend your broken body and burn in flames of survival. How could you get up, over and over and over again…?

“C’mon, demon.” You muttered one more time, raising your head as you could.

“Enough.” Vergil growled between his teeth, charging at you with a speed a human would never be able to counter.

You fell once more. With the sword away from your hands, you had to crawl on the floor to try to grab it again, as Vergil finally unsheathed the Yamato and walked towards you as a death omen. The blade glistened in the last cold rays of the day, as you ignored the blood dripping from your mouth and reached out for your silver sword. The demon approached, unrelenting, and if you couldn’t get back to your weapon, those would be your last breaths.

“Y/n! No! NO!”

The voice of a child made you and Vergil freeze where you were – eyes shooting up to the door he almost opened out of sheer human curiosity.

“Stay back!” You immediately screamed, pointing at three children looking at you both in horror. “Lock the door! Take the other children! Get out of here!”

“Y/n, no! We…!”

“GO! GET OUT! I’LL HOLD HIM BACK!” Your eyes were stinging with tears, knowing full well they wouldn’t have a chance against the demons – but you could at least give them a chance to run and save themselves.

Vergil’s fingers froze on the grip of the Yamato, his glaciers’ eyes stuck in that scene. His heart couldn’t let him move, couldn’t let him breathe. As you struggled more and screamed the last words that made the children finally close the doors and run – with a bunch of steps that could only be of a group of at least fifteen children – he watched as your bloodied fingers held the hilt of your sword once more, tears falling from your eyes as you struggled to get up.

You cannot kill your own mother.

Those words echoed through Vergil’s mind as he watched your struggle to protect the ones weaker than you. All that fight, all that will, all that power… It came from that. You weren’t just keeping people safe by forbidding demons to walk towards the Abyss – and forbidding anything to come out of it – you were there to help those kids find a safe path through the city to a safe haven. You came back to that hopeless building because of them.

Eva had died saving Dante from the hell their home became on that fateful day. She plunged in the fire for her child, she did it out of love and protection. Vergil had heard Eva tried to save him as well, throwing herself in the danger to keep him safe – but he couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t live with the knowledge that he had his mother killed, he didn’t want to believe that; and so Vergil decided to remain with the belief that she had abandoned him for Dante, even if his stupid human heart screamed otherwise.

As you tried to get up from the ground once more, Vergil saw his mother – crawling on the floor, blood dripping from her lips, tears staining her face while she muttered his name, doing her best to keep her children safe. He couldn’t kill her; Vergil couldn’t kill you.

He was brought back to reality as the floor rumbled violently. Snapping his head towards the courtyard, Vergil knew quite well what was happening: all the fighting had taken too long.

“We are done.” His words were muttered between his teeth as Vergil used the sheath of the Yamato the keep your hand pressed on the floor.

With a last glare from his silvery eyes, he left in a hurry before you let your head fall between a deep sigh.

The children were gone, they were safe. Your job was done.

**

There were many circles and places in Hell, accounted for throughout history in all sorts of arcane writings.

There was, however, one place unaccounted for – with little information, whispered around as a legend of a nightmare: the Abyss.

Some believed it was real, some said it was nothing but a tale to scare children at night. Vergil had read enough to believe in its existence – as well as to know it could take centuries for another gate to be opened once more. No one knew when they manifested or where, but one thing was certain: there was power to be harnessed on that place.

The kind of power was another mystery. The Codex Daemonica had no information on it or what kinds of demons it harbored – if it was inhabited by demons at all. Some believed Sparda had locked Mundus in shackles in that deepest part of Hell, while other said it was the home of something… More ancient.

Vergil approached the courtyard with his hand on the hilt of the Yamato, ready to unsheathe it. There was a fissure on the ground, in the middle of the dilapidated stone garden. There was no sound to be heard: no leaves, no wind, no walking. Only silence.

His steps were calm but firm, approaching with care but never leaving their regal pace behind. The closer he got, the warier his heart became. Something wasn’t right – but, at the same time his soul told him to leave, something inside him told him to walk towards the edge and peak inside.

Vergil had already decided he would be the first one to venture in the Abyss in search for power and, upon coming back, telling his findings in his arcane journal. If his father had trapped Mundus inside it, he saw no reason why he, the son of Sparda, wouldn’t be able to enter it and survive. In order to protect himself, to make sure nothing would happen to him again, Vergil needed that power – and he would go to the farthest depths of Hell and back to make sure no one would be able to threaten him anymore.

Stopping at the edge of the Abyss, Vergil looked down, trying to see something – he had already had many experiences with Hell and knew how some places looked like.

But all he found was darkness.

A darkness that came from the deep – that had no end and, still, seemed to go as far as the depths of his own soul. It was an all-consuming darkness, one that would pull Vergil willingly to its clutches – one he couldn’t understand.

He held the hilt of the Yamato with more strength, the sweat almost making it glide down. His heart pounded inside his chest and Vergil could hear the blood flowing through his head. The darkness consumed his eyes, searching for the deepest part of his soul… The part he smothered, hiding even from himself. The part covered in bruises, blood and self-hatred; the part Vergil couldn’t bear to see: his own mirror, naked and vulnerable, staring right back at him.

He had to get out of there.

Vergil’s heart rate increased and he had no air in his lungs. He didn’t want to look; he didn’t want to see. All those things, all those feelings, all those wounds… Himself. He didn’t want to see himself. He had broken all the mirrors, buried all the broken shards left from his heart, asphyxiated the light from his soul… But there, right in the back, covered in darkness, one mirror was left. One fragile heart made of glass. One ray of light cradled by his bony, bruised, pale white hands.

He had to go. He didn’t want to meet Vergil. He couldn’t look him into his eyes. Not those pitiful, helpless, bruised eyes begging for help… Begging for love. He had to go.

“Vergil…? Vergil…!”

Inside the Abyss, a familiar voice echoed, snatching Vergil away from that last mirror alone in the depths of himself. In that deep darkness, his eyes couldn’t see nothing more than the void, but a voice called him down in the depths.

“Are you there Vergil…? My son…!”

It was Eva.

Vergil hadn’t heard the voice of his mother since the day he discovered the extent of his demonic blood. Many times, he heard her voice inside his head – knowing it was all but a memory; the ghost of his mother coming back to try to comfort him in his desolation, at least a little bit.

But that voice in the Abyss… It wasn’t in his head. It wasn’t a memory. It was there… It was in there.

“Can you hear me…? Vergil…? I… I am scared.”

“I am coming to get you, mother.” Vergil’s voice was no higher than a murmur, but it was filled with resolve.

Ready to take another step and finally venture into the Abyss, another earthquake took the city. He lost his footing, tumbling backwards and falling far away from his mother’s voice as the courtyard came down and the Abyss slowly closed.

“Vergil…! Don’t leave me here alone…! Please…! My son…!”

“Mother… No!” Vergil did his best to run towards the very place his heart and soul screamed at him to stay away, ready to plunge into its depths not knowing what would happen next.

As Vergil finally reached the center of the courtyard, his hands and knees found only the stony floor as everything stood silently still.

The Abyss was closed.

**

Your empty eyes stared at the crumbling pieces of the city as its last pieces came down in destruction.

They promised. They should have waited for you. That was the deal: you went back for the children and your friends would wait for you all to come back – if you weren’t with the children, they should have waited fifteen minutes.

It had been ten minutes. You were on time. You were on time. There was no reason for leaving you behind.

They were the last way out of the city, the very last ride. The last hope of survival.

And they left you there, in the middle of those crumbling flames, filled with blood and death. You had dragged your feet until the meeting point, you wandered around, screaming their names in hopes they were just hiding to keep themselves safe. You searched; you did your best. You did your best.

No one was there. No one appeared. You were left behind. You were alone.

“Oh, child… Hush…” A snake-like voice dragged itself from the shadows, followed by cadenced steps. It was sweet, mesmerizing… Too comforting for all that desolation. “I know, I know… Your heart is broken. You don’t have to cry.”

“I am not crying, demon.” Your voice was hardened like stone, resonating between your teeth. Even if you wanted to cry, your pride wouldn’t let your tears fall for that kind of betrayal. Not for those people. They didn’t deserve your tears.

“Oh, but your heart, I can feel it…” The she-devil approached you, her hands resting seductively on your shoulders. You would have wiped them off, but you didn’t have the will to do so. “It is… Dead. Completely dead inside that little chest of yours. There’s no reason to lie to yourself… They forgot you, child. That is worse than being left behind, isn’t it? Your already hurt heart is in pieces, I can feel it.”

All your life, you learnt demons lied to get what they wanted. They listened closely to the winged words people let out of their mouths without thinking and later used those to their advantage. That demon, though… She wasn’t lying.

Your heart had already been hurt numerous times before, but that… That was the last blow to kill you. If you were left behind, people at least had thought of you – but they didn’t even remember you existed. You were forgotten, that’s how important you were. You meant nothing, you were worth nothing. Left to die because no one remembered you were dying.

Indeed, it was as if your heart had been torn out of your chest… And there was nothing. Not even tears.

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. Your chances of survival were close to none. You had been sentenced to death by those who couldn’t remember all they had to do was wait only five more minutes for you to come back.

“I know… There is no reason to fight anymore, no reason to remain in this pain…” That voice was now close to your ears, so sweet, so dangerous. “I can give you rest child…” It whispered in your ears, always so seducing. “Just give me your soul… Your blood. And I can make it all go away.”

“Hmpf.” You opened your eyes again, slowly turning to look into the blood red eyes of the voluptuous demon who stood behind you. Beautiful, but something in it made you wary. “You can have my blood, demon. But only over my dead body.”

“Hmmm. So be it.” The she-devil rolled her eyes, immediately nonchalant with your attitude. “You are as good as dead anyway. I could’ve made it painless, pitiful creature.”

Her words allowed a band of lurking demons nearby to approach and you finally noticed you weren’t being attacked before because she had claimed you as her prey. You were too weak even to fight her alone, but a whole bunch of demons… Your death was certain.

Taking a deep breath, you held your silver sword with pride. If it was for you to die that way, at least you would make it worthy of a hero. You wouldn’t fall easy and you would take as many demons as you could with you.

*

As he left the city, Vergil felt a commotion. With lost steps, still disoriented by the voice of his mother, he was naturally brought to the place – as if the demon inside himself wanted blood from the fight happening nearby.

He had never had an experience as the one with the Abyss. He was very aware of demons with psychic powers, able to instill confusion and hallucination in their victims… What he experienced with the Abyss was different.

Was his mother trapped in there? All this time, all alone, in the deepest, most dangerous part of Hell? Years and years in suffering, instead of spreading her beautiful wings as the angel she should’ve become upon giving her life to save Dante…?

Furrowing his eyebrows, Vergil let out an audible huff. He didn’t know what was worse: to believe his mother died trying to save him or that she had been trapped for endless years in the suffering and desolation of Hell.

It was definitely easier to believe she forgot him, saved only Dante and died, watching her beloved younger child from Heaven. Feeling anger was easier than mourning. It was easier than guilt.

Being forgotten was easier than being loved to death.

“Oh, child. Give up already!”

“I can keep going… Demon.”

Vergil immediately paid attention to what was happening in the distance – there he found that stupid little headstrong human who delayed him enough so he lost his chance to enter the Abyss to harness its power… And even to save his mother. He narrowed his eyes, ready to burn all his anger in you.

Until you were hit by a demon and fell on the floor, barely able to get up. They were all laughing, humiliating you. They kicked your sword away from your hands, making you crawl towards it, spitting blood, as they screamed and laughed, telling you to give up.

But, as you did with him, something made you get up and keep on fighting.

Vergil watched in awe as you finally pulled yourself again to your feet and looked at your foes, barely able to hold your silver sword.

It was pride.

The demons attacked you once more and, this time, your eyes couldn’t keep open. You put on your last defense, your last stand. You tried, but you were only human. There was nothing left inside of you and you could only do so much – you could keep your pride, but your physical strength had come to an end. You let go of your sword and allowed yourself the be engulfed by darkness.

Vergil’s hand stopped your bloody body from hitting the floor as the other yielded the Yamato.

“What a shameful thing…” He muttered, lifting his head above the eyes of the demons who stared at him. “Resorting to humiliating a half-dead weak human to feel powerful.” With those words, his hand gently left you on the floor, his feet walking in front of you to take a fighting stance. He couldn’t let you die – not like that. You deserved a better death. You deserved to die by his hands in a fair fight, not humiliated like that. “It’s time to teach you what real power looks like.”

The demons were decimated by the blade of the Yamato – in all that fight, Vergil didn’t touch your body a single time, not even accidentally. If those creatures wanted your blood, they would have to go through him, the son of Sparda. Your death was his, you were his nemesis. No one would touch you.

It took a human to kill a monster. Maybe, one day, his death would be yours as well.

**

A dark, cloaked figure of a tall man walked with resolute steps under the rain, cradling a frail body in his arms, keeping it from the water and wearing the dark veil of the deep night as protection.

Vergil carried you all the way to the next city – avoiding the looks of those concerned with and helping those who were able to flee and seek shelter nearby. He stayed in the shadows, keeping away from the big groups of volunteers who received injured and lost people – providing food, shelter, warmth and care.

You needed that. You were as good as dead in his arms. Vergil could hear as your breath was barely none, as your heart rate fought to keep you alive. Even in the brink of death, it was as if your body struggled for its own survival.

The hospital wasn’t big, although it was one of the biggest buildings in town. Seeming like an old mansion turned into a public building, Vergil crossed the entrance garden with his strong steps, not hearing much nearby. Most of the staff was probably working on receiving the refugees from your derelict city.

Going up the very few stone steps, he stopped by the door, finally protected from the rain. It was a great wooden door, heavy, adorned with iron, with a single candle keeping some kind of warmth and light in the darkness of that desolate night.

Vergil left you on the floor, ringing the bell on the wall. A woman peeked through the window, immediately initiating a fuss inside – it wouldn’t take long for them to pick you up and start your treatment.

His job was done. You would be alright.

As he was about to leave, Vergil noticed how your lips were already painted with a tinge of purple, your skin too cold for your own sake. Taking off his midnight blue scarf, he wrapped it around your body – it should be enough to keep you alive until the hospital staff took you in.

When the door opened, that strange man wasn’t there anymore. Gone like a shadow, the only one left was that poor person – beaten up, bloodied, bruised… Cozily wrapped around a deep blue scarf.

Respect was implied when one had found their greatest enemy.

**

To be continued...

[goldnhourwrites]

yall i really, really was not expecting to become a kayn stan. when heartsteel first dropped i was like "ok. yone and k'sante. that's what i'm here for i've picked my faves" NOPE. shieda kayn has hit me like a bus.

[katia-dreamer]

She touches Percy’s cheek with her palm. His skin is warm against hers. He looks up at her, and his eyes are full of tenderness that steals her breath.

Then he reaches up and presses his palm against her cheek. She smiles, and he smiles.

They are a reflection of each other.

“That was a good talk, darling.”

He hums softly, reaches up with his other hand, and runs his fingers through her hair. “It was.”

“Would you like to have it again?”

“I do have other points I’d like to make.”

“I’m sure you do,” she says, then she leans down to kiss him.

inspired by x

[cynicaldesire]

Almost all of the coverage I've seen regarding Polin has been centered around how Colin Learned to See Penelope and how She fell first, He went completely unhinged. All the nice, good, positive things about friends-to-lovers and two people falling in love.

But one thing I haven't seen discussed is Penelope's actions between hearing that he would never court her and his apology.

She thinks after he goes out of his way to save her from her cousin's fake ruby mines and dances with her and "You're special to me, I'll always look out for you" that Colin must've finally come to see her as a romantic option. But then, when confronted by some toxic dudes about their relationship, Colin is like Ew, no, never in your wildest fantasies.

She's been in love with this boy for years at this point and this is the final nail that he, and by extension the rest of the Ton, will never see her as anything other than a joke. She has no respect, she is not viewed as a romantic option, her and her family are a joke. And it was Colin that said it.

This is her final straw. She's hurt and so she hurts him. Either on purpose or in an attempt to protect herself. She never says whether she read his letters, we only hear that she never responded. He said to her before that she is a constant in his life, that she would never forsake him, and she does just that. Because he did it first (without knowing). She withholds her friendship and affection because he doesn't want to court her.

Sounds a lot like a certain subset of men. Men who befriend women and are nice with the expectation of sex. (I don't truly believe this, but it was brought to my attention in this way.)

She withholds her letters, the one thing that he looks forward to on those trips, because he unknowingly hurt her. Cutting him off from her affection is what causes him to realize some measure of his feelings for her, so it ends up working in her favor, but it's still an abusive move.

It does help her find the strength to finally confront him about his behavior last season, which is the communication they needed to move forward. But it is in her anger and giving up that she is able to find the strength to even remotely touch on her feelings for him, and his feelings for her.

[insane-weasel]

I think as writers we should hold funerals for our WIPs more often.

Dearly beloved, gather us here today where this fic of some middle-aged man getting rawdogged and this other fanfic about the importance of friendship are laid to rest, because the author got really distracted playing that new video game.

We celebrate what could have been, cut-and-recycle those really good lines or ideas, because I swear I'm going to use them, I swear! And drag this poor document not to the great recycling bin or trash, but to the "graveyard" folder because sometimes I like to commune with the dead.

[cat-scarr]

I need to stop being secretive and start posting about my Ben 10 continuation/oc

[necromeowncy]

Title: Heat

Pairing: WoL x G'raha Tia

Rating: Explicit

Words: 15.5k

Link:

Summary: A Seeker of the Sun in heat was an intoxicating rush, the Warrior of Light was finding. He realized that G'raha's people were aptly named, for he felt scorched by the sun's rays in his presence. He could do nothing except receive - and he would receive him, as many times as it took - as he settled in for however many days of heat his partner would endure.

Obligatory heat fic. G'raha goes into heat; the WoL helps him out. Gratuitous smut (an understatement). Elezen WoL. Dorks in love/established fluffy relationship.

[asydicsydney]

Guess who started to write a fic during the great AO3 shutdown and finished a month later!!

Ever since I saw that post about Kevin being bird-coded, I've imagined him with wings tattooed on his back. Here is Carlos (and frankly, Kevin) discovering them while stuck in a Desert Otherworld

TW for average Kevin stuff (mentions of blood and injury), 1.2K Words

"Could I study you, Kevin?"

Kevin's third person camera flickers as he spins his chair to face Carlos in the shared office space. "Wha-ha-at?" His nerves bubbling up in laughter in the middle of the question.

Carlos continued, "I've done a study on Cecil before. You know, marking his Night Valean qualities. I wondered last nigh- yesterd- earlier... If you had any similar qualities, since you're doubles and all." He eyed Kevin up and down, searching for a resemblance that didn't quite come up.

"Ohhhh-kay!" His tone lilted up to hide his initial perception of the question. "But I can assure you, Carlos," his voice was tinged with blood oranges, "I am genetically identical to... Him. We are doubles."

"I'm not certain on that," Carlos corrected him, walking to his side of the office and lifting his arm up. Kevin flinches. He does not know if it is from trauma or affection or an odd twilight between the two. "You don't have tattoos like he does. You've seen his, yes?" An 'mhm' is squeaked out through pursed lips as he stares at Carlos' hand turning his arm over. He does not notice his nails digging into his palms. "He has these tattoos of tentacles all over. They move not quite on top of the skin like an animated film. And I know they're not really tattoos because they turn into real tentacles. It's... Fascinating. But you don't have any..." Carlos sounds oddly upset at his final note, dropping Kevin's arm back on the armrest.

Now that he's been freed of the clinical gaze and grasp, Kevin lets out a shaky breath. The desert otherworld may be stuck at 76 degrees Fahrenheit, but his arm and face are reaching the mid 80's, at least. Only now does he process what Carlos said. "I do have a tattoo, actually."

Carlos drops the notes he was returning to and turns on his heel. "You do? What is it? Where is it? Does it materialize like Cecil's? Can I see it?"

The mention of the rival radio host from Carlos' mouth gives him pause, like it has been for the past few months since they built their shared living space, but he regains his composure because, oh my smiling god, he's finally interested in something about him! He does not read into this reaction. "Of course!" He takes the hem of his standard-issue StrexCorp yellow sweater vest, with it's interlocking triangle design across the chest, and starts to pull it over his head.

"Woah, wait, I-I-I didn't mean for you to str-"

"It's on my back, Carlos."

"Oh."

-

The sweater vest lays piled on his office chair like the grand mountains of the otherworld. He feels this ethereal weight lift off of him. Must be the heat. Really, who wears a sweater vest in 70 degree weather? He positions his third eye just so to aid the process in unbuttoning his work shirt. No one really gets how hard it is to push little buttons though little holes when your depth perception is every which way. He usually doesn't even entertain the thought. Back in Desert Bluffs he could be summoned to a meeting at any moment. There wasn't time to change into his hot pink satin loungewear.

"Do you...need...help? With that?" Carlos snaps him out of his walk-in closet mind at the same time he snaps a button off of its thread.

"I'm fine," he smiles a panicked smile, a smile he's perfected though it is not perfect, "Why would I need help?"

"I can see you biting through your cheek."

A bloody stream of spit drips onto his lapel. He stops chewing and lessens his smile. The last button comes undone and he moves the third eye to look back at him because he can't believe it. He's wearing a Desert Bluffs town fair volunteer shirt. Originally yellow but stained orange by the blood dunk tank he was running. DBCR was a shining sponsor of the old summer event. He smells traces of cotton candy (and blood) and sighs while his face is hidden from view. He tosses the undershirt on to the chair with the other pieces of his work outfit and turns around. "It's neat, right? I can't exactly remember when I got it, but it moves just like...His."

Carlos's brain starts backlogging information. Kevin's gaunt figure, scent, the many scars and still open wounds, his usage of the word 'neat', and the faint gold depiction of wings that, true to his word, are moving. They seem stiff, individual feathers stretching back to full plumage. And although they are not quite as sentient as Cecil's tentacles, they seem to shiver with fear. Carlos traces the sunset arc across Kevin's shoulder blades, feeling the slightest singe on his finger. Unlike with Cecil's markings, he could not keep his hands on the heated skin, not without lab gloves or giving off wrongful impressions of intimacy. "Can you materialize them?"

"I... don't know?" The wings ache each time he tries to move them. Their unfurling requires the energy of a younger Kevin, one who has not been physically shackled to a desk and forced to read out stock reports.

Carlos scratches his five o'clock shadow (he had just started growing it out before getting stuck in a dimension where nothing changes) and 'hmms' thoughtfully. Kevin's third eye spectates Carlos' scrutinizing, he sees his own body tinge red with increased blood flow, and he sees Carlos stab himself in the hand with a scalpel.

"CARLOS! Are you okay?" He moves his vision to get a better look at the wound. Oh, how the blood oozes and gathers to start building a scab and how expertly trained on the location of certain vital internal parts Carlos must be in order to still be standing right now. He bites his lip and draws blood there too. He tastes it and wonders what Carlos' would taste like.

"Kevin. Your wings- they're- astounding." The third eye whips back around to see its body's wings in all their gold tinged glory for the first time in years. Unlike their inked form, the manifested wings are a stark white that ignore whatever lighting conditions surround them, although the tips of each feather still shine a golden glow.

"They...they are. But, how did you get them out? I was, um, distracted."

"Oh, right! Well, Cecil's tentacles can involuntarily manifest when he's excited, and I know you like blood, so I stabbed myself. I can't actually do any damage, the Otherworld will just heal it. Look-" Carlos raises his hand to where he thinks Kevin's looking, showing the complete lack of a scar or scab on his palm, "I'm not hurt. And-" he squints as he walks closer to his lab partner's wings, "These are just stunning. The way they emit pure light is mind-boggling and makes them really hard to look straight at. Can you fly with them?"

-

Kevin freezes while his body feels a rush of heat never before known. He sees the endless sky outside the Otherworld lab, with zero smog clouds and just one ever present lighthouse. He sees himself next to the red light, wishing it a good morning, and diving off the railing. He sees his town, his new town, from a perspective unlike those of his spectral eye. The masked army looks like regularly sized people and Carlos looks like a very scientific ant. He lands next to his radio station and he folds his wings back together before he lets them dissolve back into the golden tattoo under his magenta DBTCR tank top, the same color he used to see the world through. He opens the door and the vision dissolves too.

-

"I can try."

[timetravelbypen]

I am just going to be chewing on that Chris Chibnall podcast interview forever. Just red-string-conspiracy-board, on-the-other-hand, back-and-forth thoughts forever.

Because on the one hand, I think I agree with him that 13 and Yaz not kissing is the more heartbreaking narrative choice. To have them both know what they want, and know that the other one knows and wants the same, but never quite being able to get there... that's devastating. Living with the "what if"s for both of them, forever, even as it's a choice the Doctor's made for them - and most especially for herself - to try and spare some of that pain. It's meant as a kindness for both of them... but is it? They'll never really find out.

(And especially considering what Chibnall said about a) the Doctor not wanting to do to Yaz what he did to Rose, and b) the EotD-PotD three-part story arc being, essentially, the Doctor preparing Yaz to be without her. Considering that narrative arc I am even more convinced that the Doctor's "you know what this means, right?" - and the fact that Yaz DOES know - when her hand starts glowing means that they talked. A lot. Maybe not about everything, but about a lot of things. Because we've seen Yaz push back on the Doctor's secretive bullshit, but she doesn't here, because she doesn't have to. The arc culminates in the companions as a whole, and Yaz especially, literally being "the power of the Doctor." YAZ DOCTORIFICATION *ahem*)

I'm not entirely convinced that I agree that getting the ice cream scene on the TARDIS roof means you could have that OR a kiss. I mean, maybe my shipper heart wants to have my cake and eat it too.

But the editor in me wouldn't have put the kiss at the end, in that case, as a goodbye.

I would've put it right after Yaz helps the Doctor un-regenerate and come back into herself. When she stumbles out of the box and into Yaz's (and yes, also Vinder's, shhh) arms and says she's got a "whole new lease of life."

Because she thinks, in that moment, she has more time. And if she has more time, if they've beaten Time's prophecy, if that was it and they won, then maybe that mental calculus is different. Maybe that's a beginning and not an ending.

But then of course, they run out of time anyway.

[bhaalbabebardlock]

Chapter 21- Sweetness

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Summary: Ilara continues to dream, and remember. She pays penance for her friendship with Gortash, so he shows her a moment of tenderness. Durgetash fluff.

She stopped in the shadows of his office, the way she had been doing for the past few weeks now every time she came here. She observed him quietly, the way she always did. She hadn't been to see Raphael in some time, his call through her magic having remained silent. That was fine, she wasn't ready to talk to him and have him pry information out of her about her plan to steal the crown from his father. He would probably laugh, encourage her to see what fun could come out of it. She was grateful for the respite in what sometimes felt like never ending submission between him and her father.

Her father. She had come to Enver this time after having been punished for being here at all, and she took pleasure in the fact that this meeting would only increase Bhaal's annoyance with her. Maybe he would release her and end her miserable life so she didn't have to waste away bringing him corpses to decorate his altar. She flexed her fingers against the chafing, raw pain in them and clenched her teeth against the heat of dried blood on her back.

Scleritas had not been kind as her father made him count those lashes, and she had screamed her throat raw while dragging her knuckles across the bloody stones. She shook her head, trying to bring herself back to her body. Pain wasn't new. Pain she could handle. And she had certainly handled it, every night of the last two weeks as she pleaded, said she would bring others and that for now, they needed Bane and his servant and their plan. A begrudging acceptance from her father, but her punishment was swift nonetheless. Defiance would not stand, even if there was a better plan.

What she couldn't handle was him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She had spent so little time with anyone outside of devils, myconids, other worshippers at the temple, victims she kept at arms length until she needed them to warm the floor with their offering of blood. She was not used to the way he asked her probing questions. The way he was interested in watching her as she sat sketching. She had furrowed her brow at him in confusion when she had returned after that first day, him holding out the small book to her, along with a small leather wrapping of pens.

You said you liked to draw. I figured you could use this, when you're here. I won't look in it, it'll be safe for when you want it. She had taken the book and small pouch in her hands, stunned by the simple act of kindness. Nobody had ever given her a gift before, certainly not without a cost. When she incredulously asked him what he wanted from her and he said just your company it had only made the worms in her stomach squirm even more, her confusion grow brighter.

When he had suggested that they sit together and she draw while he works on some blueprints, she found herself agreeing, curious at what spending leisure time with someone else looked like. She found herself regularly peeking up from her sketches to see what he was doing, only to see him looking back at her, his eyes quickly going back down to his own work. Their banter had grown comfortable and light in those few weeks, the two of them falling into a natural rhythm to see who could have the upper hand. More than a few times he had reached forward, gently rubbing his thumb over ink she had gotten on her nose. She wondered what he was thinking in those moments, if like her, he felt that pull to find a connection amongst the chaos of their lives. She finally stepped forward, clearing her throat as he looked up at her.

She was so used to his normal mask of apathy that for a moment, she was caught off guard by the emotion she saw flicker across his face. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought it was concern.

"You're bruised." She felt a pleasurable warmth in her stomach at the sound of his voice, and she couldn't help but let out a small bitter chuckle.

"I am always bruised, Enver." She watched him closely as she spoke, the way his eyes softened slightly as she called him by his name, the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he pushed against his desk, standing and walking over to her. The familiar tang of the magic from his coat hit her tongue, the warmth of his own scent hitting her nose. He always smelled like warm soap, fresh water. Clean and sharp and dark. She flinched as he raised a hand to brush her face, his fingers only stopping inches from her skin before he dropped them, realizing what he was doing. This time, he cleared this throat.

"You've got dirt all over your face, your hair is a rats nest, and you are covered in what appears to be your blood as well as a spattering of bruises. What happened to you? I only saw you two days ago and you certainly were not this worse for wear." She found herself prickling at the insults, annoyed as ever by the fact that he was not afraid of her. That damn coat.

"Do you take the god of murder to be kind, Enver? I was supposed to kill you, and yet I come here every night and laugh with you while we sit by candlelight. That defiance comes with a price." There. There it was again, another flicker of emotion. She faltered as she stared back at him, noticing that this time he didn't smooth over his face. Guilt. He was looking at her with guilt. He reached his hand up again, letting his fingers whisper against her cheekbone as he brushed her hair out of her face.

"You were hurt because of me. Punished. Because of me." It wasn't a question, just a statement of facts. She said nothing in response, frozen in spot by the delicate touches. Nobody had ever touched her like that. It was always starved, hungry, desperate, wanting, hurting, bruising, taking. She wasn't sure if she preferred this, but it made warm prickles of heat curl inside her chest so she did not pull away. She closed her eyes, instead finding herself leaning into his touch, his palm warm against her cheek. They stood there like that for a moment before she realized what she was doing, and she snapped her eyes open, taking a step back from him and watching as his hand fell back to his side, as that careful mask of apathy slipped back over his features.

"I'll draw you a bath. And get you some clean clothes. And food." She opened her mouth and he must have seen the incoming objection because he lifted his hand, that voice he used when he didn't want an argument coming out.

"This isn't a discussion, Ilara. You'll be taken care of. It's my fault you're uncomfortable." That annoyed her too. It wasn't his fault, not really. She had a choice. She still has that same choice, should she want to. But she could endure the punishments. Those long nights spent laughing by candlelight and asking each other questions was too tempting to give up, at least for now. She was too starved of friendship to not put up with a few lashes.

"It isn't your fault," she heard the words come out of her mouth, stunned by them. She was not used to trying to comfort people, to assuage their guilt instead of her own. It was so foreign to her. He smiled at her, and the way his lips tilted up sent a small trickle of heat running through her stomach, her eyes drawn to them. Her mouth felt like cotton, her eyes snapping up to his as he spoke, heat spreading across her face at the thoughts she had been having about those lips.

"Gods, you are a matryr. Of course you'd say that. Bathroom, now." She didn't argue with him as he reached his hands out, placing them on her shoulders and lightly spinning her around, urging her towards the stairs where she knew his bathroom and bed were. They hadn't been back to his bed since that first night's tense conversation as they had sat across from each other, sizing each other up. She couldn't help but think that the hot bath would feel good on her aching muscles, on the raw skin striping her back. She felt him gently push her again when she didn't move, casting an irritated glance over her shoulder at him.

"I can walk, thank you." The words came out harsher than she intended despite her desire for the bath, and she saw that familiar flicker of amusement at her neverending sass dance in his eyes. Sometimes, she wished he were afraid of her. Sometimes, it was nice for the fear to not be there at all. She wondered if he would fear her without that coat.

"Then by all means dearest, walk." Dearest. She wondered why he did things like that. The sketchbook. The soft names. He was such a puzzle to her. She shook the tension out of her muscles, turning back around towards the stairs and heading up them. She could hear his quiet footfalls behind her, watching him carefully as he went ahead of her and into the bathroom.

She stopped in the doorway, observing him with that same carefulness she always did. He had started the bathwater already, dropping small oils in it by the time she appeared to watch him. She wondered for a moment why he was doing this himself, he had plenty enough servants he could have asked to do it for him. She assumed it was some of that misplaced guilt, that he felt like he owed her something. Her sins were her own, she didn't know what to do with pity.

She could smell the warm scent of rain and flowers wafting up from the building steam, and it made her chest burn with longing for a life long gone. Not that he would have known that. She walked forwards, stopping at the edge of the tub next to him, watching the steam curl off the top of the water.

"There are towels over there, when you're finished. I'll be downstairs if you'd like to join me when you're done." She felt her hand snap out before she could think, her fingers ghosting against his arm as he turned to leave. They both froze in spot, equally surprised by her rare touch.

"Will you stay?" The question felt too intimate and she immediately felt herself blushing, the tips of her pointed ears burning with heat. She didn't know why she had asked him that, but for some reason, being alone felt worse. She had started to open her mouth again, to laugh and say nevermind she hadn't meant that, but his next words stopped her.

"Of course." They were almost too simple in their conviction, as if he hadn't been surprised she'd asked and was annoyed she would think he would have said anything else.

"Will you turn around, though? So I can get in?" Her face still felt warm, and it only got warmer at the burning look in his eyes as he traversed them up and down her body, stopping back to meet her gaze.

"If you wish." He turned, clasping his hands behind his back, waiting patiently for her to get into the water. She hesitated for only a moment, so unnerved by both her own request and his agreement that she thought it might be better if she left. Then she got another waft of that warm, flower scented water, the nostalgia for her old life, and she found herself quickly slipping out of her tunic and pants, stepping over the edge of the tub, and sinking into the water with a sigh. She pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on them as she stared at his back.

"You can turn around now." She drank in his desire as his gaze slid back to hers, his eyes sliding down to where her knees rested in the water. She was almost tempted to lower her legs, to let him see her, but she felt oddly aware of herself in a way she usually didn't. He always made her feel that way. She watched him as he stepped forwards around the tub, her head tilting softly as he stopped, some decision crossing his features before he sighed. He turned back around, removing his coat and folding it neatly, setting it on the sink before turning back to look at her.

Well, that is certainly new. She hadn't expected that at all, as many times as she had poked and prodded to try and unravel the mystery of that coat, he had offered no explanation beyond he simply did not want to deal with the messiness of something as trivial as fear, and that no, he would not be removing it. She quirked an eyebrow as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing the smooth expanse of his strong, tanned arms.

"What are you doing?" She asked as he walked around the edge of the tub, stopping behind her. He picked a cup off the floor, gesturing down to the water.

"Can I wash you? Just where you're comfortable, you don't have to move. Your back and hair maybe." Of all the things she had wondered that he might ask, that was the farthest from her mind. She didn't know how to respond to his request. Even in all her years of that mockery of freedom, she had never had anyone offer to bathe her. Myconids weren't ones to need such things, and her victims she lured to the temple certainly had no time for hygeine or base comforts. Her baths in the boudoir at the house of hope hardly counted even if Haarlep was sometimes there, the healing waters necessary to erase the signs of Raphael's affections.

"How many times?" She froze further at this next question, casting a glance over her shoulder to look at him. He was staring at her back. She sighed.

"You don't want the answer to that."

"I do." She saw something flash across his face. If she wasn't so unnerved already, she would almost say it looked like fear. Interesting, she thought.

"It was only twice the first week, three times the second. Now it's three dozen every two days that you are not dead. I get one day between for reprieve and in that time I am to repent by bringing other lost souls to the temple to lay their lives down instead of yours." She tensed as she felt him reach out, tracing one of those callused fingers she had wondered about so many times down her spine.

"I'm sorry." The words hung there between them, and she wished that she could swallow them down, wipe away his shame at her pain. She wanted him to understand it was worth it, that he was worth it. That she was feeling raw in a way she had never been allowed to feel before. She couldn't say the words, too frozen by the aching fear of her own vulnerability.

She flinched as warm water spilled over her shoulders, relaxing as he lifted the cup again to gently pour it over her head. She tilted her head back, letting her eyes close softly as he continued to pour water through her dark curls, the water beneath them turning a murky red with the dried blood that seemed to always be hidden in them. A soft sigh left her mouth when she felt his fingers softly, almost tenderly massaging against her scalp, the scent of his fresh rainwater soap filling the air. Maybe being vulnerable wasn't as bad as she thought it was going to be.

She couldn't help the way the tension seemed to melt out of her shoulders, the sharp sparks of pain uncoiling as he gently pressed a soapy washcloth over her back, washing clean the wounds from her punishment. She almost felt angry at the tenderness he was showing, undeserving of it as she was. He knew what she was, he knew what she did when she left Wyrm's Rock to crawl back to her chains, her doctrine, her duty. But the feeling of his hands brushing against her skin so softly, the glide of that warm water on her aching bruises- it was too sweet to say no to. She wanted to savor this moment, to remember it always. She hoped against hope that she would never forget this.

She almost felt bereft when his hands left her skin, as he stepped away towards the sink and grabbed a towel, turning to hand it to her before he averted his gaze. She reached out slowly and took it from him, intrigued by the color in his cheeks. She wasn't used to him not making direct eye contact with her, with anyone really. She stood, wrapping the towel around herself and continuing to look at him.

"Thank you," the words felt foreign on her tongue. She was used to thanking for many things between devils and Gods, but thanking the man before her for washing her was not something she had seen coming.

"Don't thank me." His voice was softer as he looked back at her, seeming entranced by the way the water dripped off her skin, his eyes traveling down to the top of the towel sitting just below the tops of her breasts. He cleared his throat loudly, turning back to the sink and grabbing his coat, sliding it on before waving a hand in the air, indicating she should follow.

She did so wordlessly, almost disappointed when he slipped it back on. He had seemed so much more raw in those few moments he could feel everything, and she found herself craving to see more of that softness. They stopped in his room, and he turned to her, pointing at the dresser behind them.

"You'll find clothes there. They might be too big on you but you'll be comfortable. You can sleep in my bed. Do not-" he continued, holding up his hand at her incoming protest- "argue with me. I will sleep down on the couch. Your father will live. I want you to get a good night's sleep, for once. I'm sure my bed will be more comfortable than whatever you have cobbled together at that temple." Her bed in the temple was not uncomfortable, but it was not comfortable either. Large and hard, relatively flat. She had sat on Gortash's bed only a few weeks ago, and had to admit that it was much more comfortable.

"Stay with me. Don't... Don't go sleep on the couch. Sleep with me." She didn't know why she wanted his vulnerability so bad, why she wanted to show him her own. She didn't want anything from him other than the comfort of his body laying next to hers while she slept. His eyes softened again, and he nodded slowly.

"If you wish." She did. She didn't know what exactly it was she wished for, but she wished very, very much. She nodded her head, and needing to feel not as embarrassed she turned and walked over to the dresser, pulling out one of his shirts. She turned back to him, purposefully letting the towel fall and carefully watching the look of desire cross his features as she slipped the shirt over her head.

"Are you not going to put on anything else?" She smirked softly, a game she was now familiar with playing.

"Nope." She thirstily took in the way his eyes raked down her thighs, stopping where the shirt did, lingering.

"Very well. Go. To the bed." His voice was lower, strained, and she could tell he was barely maintaining that careful control he tried so hard to keep in place. It made more heat curl in her stomach, but she obeyed, walking slowly over to the bed and sinking down amongst the sea of soft silk. She watched as he, for the second time that evening, removed and carefully folded his coat. Her hungry gaze watched as he removed his pants, rolling up his sleeves and standing before her in just his boxers and undershirt. He slid into the bed next to her, their bodies only inches apart under the blanket.

She didn't know why she did it, but she found herself closing that space, pressing her face against the crook of his neck. She was almost as surprised as he was at her rare burst of affection, a soft gasp leaving his mouth as he slowly, hesitantly wrapped his arms around her. She felt safe. She never felt safe.

"Goodnight, Enver," she said quietly.

"Goodnight, Ilara," he whispered back.

***

[thaliawritesblog]

MHA HOPE AGENCY VOLUME 1 COVER REVEAL!

I attempted a cover for my fanfic! Here's what the girls look like haha.

Read Hope Agency: Wounds that will not Heal Vol.1 here.

[gristol-liker]

Chapters: 2/6 Fandom: Psychonauts (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith/Truman Zanotto Characters: Truman Zanotto, Gristol Malik | Nick Johnsmith Additional Tags: forget Enemies to Lovers, this is enemies and lovers, they hate each other so much Summary:

Truman and Gristol have a few encounters after work.