#and like it was manageable when the dark moments had reduced and i was relatively okay. but as soon as i got bad again... oh

[stellacadente]

i realized how much it scares me that my mind will convince itself of even the ugliest things if i start thinking them often enough and it's... yeah. like i had a good session with my psychiatric rehabilitation therapist i think it was very useful but then at the end i got hit by this feeling of fear... like i'm so scared of myself and how low i can get

[inkformyblood]

Divinity in the mundane (Ghost/Soap)

(Established early relationship, Canon verse)

“Soap. How copy?”

Soap shifts from one foot to the other, trying to crack the joints seemingly welded into place in his boot. There’s a bead of sweat pooling in the divots of his spine, pausing for long enough that he thinks it’ll finally just stay fucking put and he can focus on something else before it slides down to the next notch. He is already dreading what will happen if it gets close enough to the scratches decorating the planes of his hips. He’s not being shot at so that’s something at least. It’s only a small something given the unbearable fucking day of sunny weather that the universe has saw fit to bestow him when there’s an inspection and he can’t enjoy it.

“Just peachy, LT. Haven’t seen you around yet today.” Johnny had thrown on the throat mic only mostly out of habit, and if he had been hoping to hear Ghost in his ear then that is entirely his business and no-one else’s. He had heard Ghost plenty the night before, but Soap is a man of simple tastes and, right now, that is entirely Ghost.

Ghost hums and Soap tries to picture his expression like he’s trying to line up a jigsaw in his head, constructing half a thousand stolen glances at the exact shape of pale eyes and the idea of his mouth beneath dark fabric.

“Thought you were meant to be good at this, Johnny,” Ghost says and something in Soap’s stomach tightens. He feels like a dog at a starting line, Ghost’s hand looped through his collar (through the dark fabric keeping the mic attached to him, a leash he’s put on willingly each and every morning), waiting for the word to run.

He’d throw himself off a building if Ghost asked him to.

He has done it before.

“See if you can spot me, Johnny.”

“Yeah?” Soap scans his immediate surroundings, the empty stretch of the training grounds and the low huddle of the buildings just beyond it. Behind him is the crawl of an abandoned observation tower, tentatively blocked off by hazard tape and about six months worth of pigeon shit. He can only guess that he’s been stationed all the way out here to reduce the chance of the higher-ups from stumbling across him and his very sensible and necessary questions about their explosion budget. “Do I get something if I win, LT?”

There’s the low rumble of exhalation that hisses into static before Ghost answers, “What are you thinking, Johnny?”

Soap can picture him clearly like he’s already spilled his heart onto the pages of his sketchbook, the background inconsequential compared to the hazy fog of smoke filtering from Ghost’s mask, his gaze dark from beneath pale lowered lashes. He shifts where he’s standing, standing up straight and pressing his thumb into his palm to try and alleviate the craving to touch, to hold, to tear. It only mostly works. “I could think of something.”

“I’m sure you could.”

There’s a likely building at the edge of the field, one side freshly painted in such a blinding shade of white that Soap thinks it could be used in place of a floodlight if someone put a candle too close to it. There’s a set of admin offices inside he thinks, helpfully packed to the brim of anxious nail-biters and Ghost, his Ghost, tall and broad and nearly always dressed in black, would stick out like a sore thumb. Not impossible then, but looking less like an option.

“Do I get any clues, LT?” Soap rasps, prodding at his lower lip with his tongue. He knew he should have taken the chance to bring one of the little shitty plastic cups of coffee out with him, knew the moment he had walked out of the door grumbling about this dogshit location that he would. He bets Ghost has got a cup of tea with him, probably managed to terrify one of the new recruits into bringing him one.

A pigeon lands heavily on the ground next to him, some huge unit of a bird with pale blotched feathers over its chest. It coos, eyeing Soap up with mindless uncomprehension before it patters off back into the relative shade of the structure behind him.

“Three clues, Johnny. Think you can manage it with that?”

“Yessir.”

Directly across the field is one of the training rooms. The windows are set high up on the walls and three of them are open, all clustered in one corner. He thinks it might be one of the speciality courses inside, one of the collections of discarded children’s playground equipment being passed off as a high-tech and intentionally designed training course. Soap swears one of the ropes is actually a skipping rope with the handles cut off. Ghost could be in there, the location suits him given that it is high up so he is unlikely to be stumbled upon by any higher-ups in their carefully pressed dress uniforms. Soap can picture him sprawled out over one of the higher platforms, bisected by a careful circle of sunlight that had drawn a pale arc over the wood beneath him, his mask pulled up over his nose just so he can grin his sharp-toothed smile down at Soap’s misery.

He might as well make sure.

“Can I have a clue, LT?”

“I’m outside, Johnny.”

Soap’s carefully constructed picture crumples into dust. He might try to draw it later, get some of the itch in his fingers out with the scratch of pencil, hold his thumb up to the curve of Ghost’s waist to commit the angle of it to memory when he knows how it feels beneath his hands.

Outside. Wind in his hair, sun on his skin.

He’d had to do a science experiment in school once, packed off home with two plants in shitty plastic pots and bundled into a shopping bag he’d had to bring in with him. His Ma had grumbled a little about that, asking if she was meant to fortify him with a hammer and nails whenever the school needed repairs done too but she had pulled one from the depths of the kitchen drawer readily enough. One of the plants had been set on the kitchen windowsill and its height tracked carefully in Johnny’s exercise book, while the other had been relegated to the cupboard under the stairs. He’d wept over the plant, he remembers, stricken with grief over the stretched-thin yellow thing that had emerged, grown too high to support itself, searching for a light that it would never find.

Ghost reminds him a little of that plant, grown too fast, drained of colour, devoid of even the scant kindness that sunlight could offer him.

Wouldn’t be for long if Johnny got his way.

“Do you know what the vicar said at the farmer’s wedding, LT?”

“No,” Ghost says, a note of starved amusement in his voice. It’s the same as a handler’s whistle, a signal for Johnny to sit up and pay fucking attention to what’s being offered to him, a glimpse behind a mask made of more than just dark fabric and some paint. Johnny thinks about kissing him, about learning the shape of his mouth in every way he can.

“Speak now or forever hold your peas.”

Ghost laughs in a short sharp exhalation and Johnny burns with something he doesn’t dare name. Not yet. Not here in the uncaring light of day, the thought feels better suited for the slightly larger-than-average bed in Ghost’s room that holds his warmth and his shape like the world had curled itself around him, just like Johnny had. “Not bad. Not good either.”

“I can take that.”

There’s a large field between Johnny and the main section of the compound. In the distance, he could just make out the huddled sacrifices of those unfortunate few dragged in front of the higher-ups to be interrogated, have their hands shaken, poor bastards. Could his initial thought be wrong and Ghost is amongst them? He would have to be speaking quietly in order to still speak to Johnny (and something burning and possessive coils in his throat, neatly laced around the strap of his mic) and Johnny grins to himself about it all. “Another clue, LT?”

“I’m far away from nearly everyone.”

For fuck’s sake.

Could Ghost read his thoughts? Johnny widens his stance slightly, swaying back into the meagre hollow of shade the decaying building offers him, and presses his fist into his palm. It’s not a full shoulders back, head bowed, on your fucking knees, hands together in prayer, but it’s as close as Johnny gets nowadays when he’s not kneeling on the faded carpet of Ghost’s room with a reverent hand in his hair and he can see divinity in the sunlight streaming through the cracks in the blinds that catch the jagged edges of Ghost’s shoulders.

Hang on a fucking second.

A pigeon coos somewhere behind him, low and sonorous, and Soap looks up.

It’s just a building at first, decorated with heavy pools of shadow and a liberal coat of bird shit along every possible edge, imposing in a cheap horror movie kind of way and Soap cups a hand around his eyes to try and blot out the sun. Then, Ghost moves, swings one leg out and back again in his heavy duty boots with the laces knotted so many times they’re an archeological exploration to undo (but Soap would pledge himself to it) and he’s transformed into flesh and blood and bone.

Ghost waves. “How copy, Johnny?”

“Ghost.” Johnny grins up at him. “Good to see you. You been keeping me company?”

“Better you than anyone else,” Ghost says. “Ready to head inside?”

Soap glances away, tracking the dark shift of the higher-ups as they head towards the exit of the site, and back again, hungry for even this distant study of Ghost. “Yeah, LT. Got to claim my prize after all.”

[that-gay-jedi]

Who's your favorite star wars character and why are they your fav?

Thank you for sending me my first ask! It's definitely Anakin but the WHY always says more than the who or what :)

So.

Partly I just. I really like villains, fallen heroes, monsters, antagonists and baddies in general, specifically I feel so connected to them all because their stories are never THEIR stories, and that's something that due to my own upbringing and probably some of the marginalized demographics I belong to I feel in my bones.

From a writing perspective there's the satisfaction of seeing a complex, dynamic and well-studied character, especially someone who has both literally and mentally worn so many faces and in a way has lived many different lives. There's some kind of incredible emotional alchemy that happens when I try to reconcile TPM Ani with Vader, or Vader with ghost Anakin, etc.

And then there's how the PT so admirably invokes elements that made classical tragedies from Greek to Shakespearean great and then makes them so digestible to our contemporary sensibilities. Anakin's downfall is a narrative that tilts on all these axes of Choice and Fate, of Virtue and Fault, and of our ordinary human lives and the cosmos and all the messy ways they mix. That tragedy element is in turn very well served by how the OT managed to create a mythos so popular that people forget it's scifi (AND I happen to love scifi, so there's that).

Aesthetics, like DEAR GODS the aesthetics. I dunno I've always had some kind of gender thing for tall pretty men with a certain aura and it gives me gender euphoria to watch him sweeping around in flowing robes looking dramatic. I grew up in a time and place where secondhand gender euphoria was almost the only gender euphoria people like me ever got, so I derive a deeply personal sense of comfort and fulfilment from engaging with the aesthetics of RotS Anakin and any character who hits me in a similar way.

Even though I never saw *ANY* Star Wars content at all until 29 there's this element of how much my younger self would have loved Anakin, like, edgy moody millenial me who was actually using those stereotypes about mall goth teen angst as a way to wear my very real trauma in a relatively socially-safe if somewhat coded way and, by reducing its hiddenness, actually rob that trauma of some of its power and loosen its hold on my life.

And then with Anakin it's like. In a lot of ways his underlying emotional makeup seems so similar to mine in ways that are so painful and so healing to acknowledge, I just- his most Dark Side moments in AotC, RotS and TCW are so true to who I still have to work so hard every day not to be, not necessarily in their severity but in their overall flavour and direction. I so rarely get to see that in heroes OR villains, and the fact that he was both just-

That's not just darkness, that's *MY* darkness, to the point that if I can care about and admire Vaderkin then surely I'm capable of loving myself too, of seeing someone with all my most unattractive and deepest most toxic impulses as someone worth fighting for, someone who deserved better... even someone capable of redemption.

Luke saying "I'm a Jedi, like my father before me" while fully knowing who his dad is is some kind of potent antidote (that I didn't even know I needed) to the damage that both my personal traumas and the early exposure to media that villainized queerness, disability, and neurodivergence did to my psyche.

Relatability kind of comes full circle back to visual elements too. Anakin is shown crying so often and we never once get the slightest suggestion in the movies that he's any less of a warrior for it- nor any less of a man. In a society that both demonizes women and has gendered the hell out of how people experience and express emotions, I can't begin to describe how refreshing it is to see a male character, and one we're supposed to empathize with, shown breaking down so often in multiple ways. Strong and rapidly changing emotions, the outward expression thereof, fear, sadness and even an intense and painful desire for human connection are all disproportionately attributed to women, and shunned. And yet we have Anakin. That the terrifying gravitas of Darth Vader comes from that same person is a statement in and of itself.

Speaking of Vader's power, despite a lot of veeeeery problematic dimensions to how disability is portrayed in the SW universe, he remains one of the most intimidating fictional characters to have prosthetics that don't function identically to Anakin's original legs, which is to have had to *adjust* to an injury, and to have both such conspicuous adaptive equipment and such combat prowess that we the audience associate his medically assisted breathing primarily with a battle that could spell the end of all our protagonists. Having lost a chunk of my own mobility and acquired chronic pain, I find myself wishing for more characters who are never physically the same again, yet have a type of agency and power that isn't purely mystical/cerebral, nor indirect.

I'm sure there's more, but I'm gonna stop here and say thank you again for asking.

[writerpeach]

Club Mimosa - [Ch. 6] Dangerous

---

Read on AFF

Read on AO3

There was a lot to love about Tokyo’s winter season.

Barren trees swayed after being kissed by frost after the season’s first snowfall, making the entire city more beautiful as ever. The ground beneath your feet looked pristine as a thin soft white sheet blanketed the streets.

Tokyo looked and felt like an entirely new city during winter.

Perhaps your favorite part was the reduced crowds. Taking a subway to anywhere within city limits no longer felt like you were fighting for air to breathe with a hundred different strangers.

You loved the way the cool crisp air felt on your skin every time you left your apartment and the way you could visibly see your breath lingering in the air.

Winter was your favorite season, you anticipated it more each year since you could take public transportation and easily enjoyed it without worrying. Cold temperatures were your companion, and you welcomed the season with open arms.

The season also marked your third year living in Japan.

Culture shock became less of a shock and something you grew accustomed to. There was hardly any food you couldn’t eat without trouble. You had tried all sorts of delicacies that would have been seen as “weird” back in the west, and while you didn’t enjoy them all you never regretted experiencing them all.

Your favorite thing about Tokyo outside of its attractive women, delicious food, and incredible culture was the club that had become your second home. Club Mimosa was your favorite place to spend both your free time and money. Your name was known throughout the establishment from flirty hostesses to managers, to the sexy ladies behind the bar serving stiff drinks.

But there was still one person that hadn’t managed to meet you yet.

Minatozaki Sana.

Momo painted a vivid picture of her, but you hadn’t seen her in the club. You didn’t know what she looked like, what she acted like, you knew nothing but what Momo had described.

You got updates sent from Momo every couple of days, letting you know how things were progressing. Slowly, it seemed, which wasn’t surprising. It wasn’t easy, even with years of experience under her belt there were a plethora of things unaccounted for, hostesses to train, management to find, equipment to gather. Even with a small team helping her there was a lot to do. Momo was going to be staying in Kyoto for quite a while it seemed.

Japan was a relatively small country comparatively, but even on a one-way trip on a bullet train, you were looking at over two hours, which was hard to justify even to see such a beautiful woman as Momo. You kept in contact over the phone and video chat, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss those late nights with her, screaming each other’s names so loud you were afraid the neighbors were going to knock at her door.

That’s where Club Mimosa came in.

You had needs. Everyone had needs, and if those needs were talking to gorgeous women in expensive tight dresses for hours on end, well then, those needs were easily satisfied.

Those needs were harder without Momo there, sitting inches away from you, close enough to smell her perfume while she sipped on her drink and munched on whatever meat was on the menu.

You had spent time away from the club, feeling the distance away from Momo more than you thought you would. But if you trusted anyone to offer a suitable replacement it would be one Hirai Momo.

It all felt familiar to you as you stepped off the subway and walked into the snow-covered streets of Tokyo, feeling less smothered by the crowds thankfully. You could see the bright lights a mile away as if it’s neon lights were calling for you personally.

You entered the club and the first thing you noticed was everything seemed louder. You were surrounded by familiar faces and sounds and an atmosphere that could only be described as alive.

“Welcome back to Club Mimosa, sir!”

You didn’t know how you felt about being a regular in a place where you were liable to spend way too much money in one night, but there were worse problems to have.

“Do you have anyone specific you'd like to request? Or would you like us to find someone for you, sir?”

You hesitated before making your choice of words carefully.

“I’d like to request Minatozaki Sana,” you said. The manager looked at you like you’d just summoned something unstoppable.

“I”m sorry, sir, but she is no longer an active-”

“It’s fine, I’ve been expecting him.”

You didn’t know where the voice came from, but her words were like honey slowly dripping out of a bottle, every syllable full of seduction.

Stepping out of the shadows was the owner of said voice, a stunning young woman who took your breath away at first sight. Her hair was blonde, her legs were long, and her curves were deadly. Minatozaki Sana was an absolutely perfect woman. Her dress was tighter and shorter than anything Momo ever wore, as if she wanted to show her up now that she wasn’t here.

Momo saying she had a body to die for was putting it lightly and didn't do her justice.

“About time you showed up,” she giggled, placing her hands on her hips. “Momo has told me a lot about you.”

“Hopefully not too much, Miss Minatozaki,” you replied.

“Oh, you can just call me Sana, I’m sure Momo has her secrets. A woman never tells everything. Now, where should we take you? A normal booth won’t do, and you’ve already defiled - I mean visited our VIP booth…”

It was hard to find a response to that as your cheeks reddened.

“Yuki-chan!” Sana called over.

“Yes, Minatozaki-San?”

“Are the karaoke rooms occupied?”

“No, they haven’t been used all day. They were just freshened up this morning.”

“Perfect, thank you, Yuki-chan. Now, if you’ll follow me…”

When Sana asked you to follow her you didn't dare refuse,  as she led you down a separate hallway you'd never seen before, her fill hips swaying with every step.

"After you," Sana said as she held the door open, leading you into one of the few rooms in the place you hadn't been in before.

Red couches lined the walls of the large karaoke room, spacious enough to accommodate several people. The focus of the room was the big mounted screen centered between two dark marble tables, large speakers, colorful lighting filled the room.

"Usually these rooms are used for multiple clients wanting more than one hostess, but I'll have you all to myself in here," Sana said flirtatiously, gesturing for you to take a seat.

"So, what does Momo's favorite client like to drink?" Sana asked as she sat down to your right, flashing a hint of a mischievous smile.

“Favorite?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, she hasn’t specifically said that, but I could see it in the way she talks about you,” Sana replied, biting the tip of her finger.

“And what does Momo say about me?”

“It’s not polite to ask a lady to reveal her secrets,” Sana teased, scooting closer to your body.

“But she does say you’re cute and charming, and that you have a nice body. I can certainly vouch for the first two, but the third, I’m not quite sure yet.”

There was a lot you could tell just from a person’s smile, and Sana’s smile was the cutest thing you’d ever seen. You could tell Sana wasn’t like the other hostesses, as cliche as that might be to say. While she had an immeasurable amount of sex appeal, there was an equal amount of cuteness mixed in that swirled together to create one incredible package of a woman.

“I think I’m okay with water for now,” you told Sana nonchalantly. This was your first meeting and you didn’t want to overdo it, surprised at how comfortable you felt around her already, not a hint of nerves.

“Water it is,” she replied as she got up and fetched two bottles of water out of a nearby glass cooler that you had somehow completely missed.

“Oh. I could have just gotten it myself,” you said with a hint of embarrassment.

Sana sat back down and shook her head as she handed you a bottle, grasping the other in her small hands.

“It’s my job to take care of you,” Sana said as she tilted her head back and opened her mouth, carefully letting water pour out without letting the bottle touch her lips. Even drinking water Sana looked incredibly sexy, although you sensed she was doing this on purpose.

The one thing you quickly realized about Sana was her vast experience. While Momo had confidence in her veins, she had her rare moments of awkwardness or when she suddenly turned nervous and stumbled over her words after something had been said.

But Sana, you could tell she had been doing this for more than just a few years. While you’d become a regular at the club, you felt at times you needed to pick your words carefully during a conversation, while Sana’s words flowed out of her lips automatically.

“So, Sana. Since you know a lot about me, tell me about yourself,” you said after a moment's pause. You were still so awkward with meeting new women, but you didn’t want this to come off as an interview. Sana could sense your own awkwardness, but her gaze calmed you down.

“Hm, where to start,” Sana said, running a hand through her silky golden locks.

“This is my sixth year as a hostess here. Although I’m not really a hostess anymore, I mostly train new girls and help run the place,” Sana said, keeping her gaze towards you.

“Sounds like you’ve put in a lot of work.”

“I have. We had a rough patch this year, but we made it through. I’ve been here since the beginning when we only had two hostesses besides me. Back then we struggled to get five customers a week, barely making enough money to keep the lights on. I ate a lot of ramen that first year.”

“And now look at this place. You’re the most popular club in Tokyo, and you’re opening a second location. You must be swimming in money.”

Sana smiled shyly. “I have Momo to thank for that. She volunteered to help run it, at least until everything is running smoothly. I miss her.”

“I do too,” you said, the words came out of your mouth before you had realized what you were saying.

“She told me you recruited her to come here?” you asked.

“That’s right. We met at university. We had different majors but ended up seeing each other almost every day. She needed extra money for tuition and I was already working here at the time, so I suggested she join me and put in a good word.”

“The rest is history as they say.”

“It is. God, she was so shy back then, she could barely look a man in the eyes. She spilled a drink her first shift and she was so clumsy for the first month. She almost quit the first week, but I convinced her to stay. And now she’s the most popular and requested girl.”

“That’s quite a success story.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less out of our Momo.”

Sharing glances with Sana you fumbled for words to say to break the awkward silence.

“Just talk to me like you’ve talked to Momo,” she said, and you abruptly felt her hand rubbing your thigh as she maintained eye contact.

“I don’t bite,” Sana said with a grin on her lips. “Unless you want me to.”

You didn’t know if you felt more at ease or more nervous, but her smile convinced you it was the former.

“I’ve instructed everyone to leave us alone unless called for,” she said, her smile turning into a smirk.

“Momo left you all to myself to play with, and I don’t want any interruptions.”

“Play with?” you repeated.

“Yes,” she replied with a flirtatious giggle, running her delicate fingers through strands of her hair again. Sana’s ways of flirting were about as subtle as a trainwreck, but you didn’t mind her methods.

“You know, for a karaoke room we’re not doing much singing,” you said, changing the subject.

“You’re absolutely right,” Sana said, leaning forward to grab the heavy book on the table, flipping through it.

“What do you want to sing?” Sana asked.

“Me? I’m not much of a singer, you should choose,” you said, deflecting the choice. You were terrified by the thought of sharing a stage with a beautiful woman, you didn’t dare display your terrible lack of singing prowess.

“Hmm, I’m not sure what to pick,” Sana said, flipping through several pages at a time.

“Then just sing your favorite song,” you replied. Sana paused, thinking about what she wanted for a moment.

“I don’t really have a favorite song,” she said, shaking her head as you furrowed an eyebrow.

“Everyone has a favorite song. Maybe something you’ve heard here a lot?”

“I hear a lot of songs here. There was this really cute song that I always sang during the first year I started here…” Sana said as she tilted her head, fingers fumbling through pages.

“Ah, here it is!” Sana said with excitement, her eyes widening as she keyed in numbers into the giant remote. The monitor in front lit up in response, flashing a white screen as the song started playing on the giant display. Sana stood with both hands on the mic, anticipating the start of the music.

The first notes were cheerful and bright as Sana sang along to every note of the bubblegum pop song, still remembering every lyric as if the song were personally her own. You had recognized the song, perhaps heard it during your time in the country in a mall or on tv. It was the perfect karaoke song, catchy and fun, and easy to sing.

Her duality here was something else. She even seemed to know all the choreography, all though it was rather simple. Her arms and legs moved in time with the rhythm and you were amazed at her still being able to dance without missing a step with such high heels on. With such full movements, singing such a cute song while wearing a tight dress that was designated to arouse was such a striking contrast.

Sana was most enthusiastic during the chorus.

“Fly so high, follow me, follow me, follow me, follow me, baaaby,” Sana sang along happily, a smile etched across her face as she used exaggerated movements and mimicked what she saw on the screen.

The song winded down and faded out completely, as the score tallied towards the end. After several seconds of anticipation, numbers spun and spun until displaying her final score an impressively high 98.

"Wow, you're amazing,“ you said as Sana bowed and sat back down, taking another swig of water as she handed you the microphone.

"I may have had a little training before I became a hostess. It wasn’t working out so I decided to apply here instead.”

She turned her attention towards you, mic still in hand.

“Your turn!”

Your expression betrayed your thoughts as you politely refused it, staring at it as if the object were suddenly lit on fire.

“You’re going to have to put a lot of alcohol in me if I’m going to start singing, Sana,” you said.

Sana pouted in response. ”Well then, I guess we better order a case,” she said. “But I won’t make you sing if you don’t want to.”

“Thank you, Sana.”

“Instead, I will ask you embarrassing personal questions,” she said, suddenly surprising you.

“Oh. That’s fair, I guess,” you replied, not exactly sure at what she was going to ask, but you figured it was a nice trade.

Sana didn’t waste any time wanting to get to the good stuff.

“When was the last time you and Momo…?” Sana asked, her voice trailed off deliberately as her eyebrow raised.

“Went on a date? A week before she left,” you confidently said.  

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Sana frowned.

“I don’t? What possibly could you mean then?” you teased.

“When’s the last time you know... You bent her over, pulled her hair, and made her scream?” Sana said, abruptly getting straight to the point.

She clearly wasn’t going to pull any punches. You took another sip from your water before attempting to answer.

“You really just expect me to kiss and tell just like that?”

“I do. I can't help that I'm nosy, " Sana giggled.

"Well, Momo never asked me to pull her hair, but the last time she and I got…intimate was the morning she left for Kyoto. In the shower."

"The shower, huh?" Sana repeated. “Some girls don’t like to admit they like their hair being pulled, but I think we all secretly love it.”

"I'm gonna need something alcoholic now," you said, embarrassed at your reveal.

"Coming right up," Sana said as she headed the intercom by the exit door.

"Send up the priciest bottle in the place!"

"Right away, Minatozaki-san!"

“Don’t worry, it’s on the house,” Sana said before you could voice any concern as she sat back down beside you.

"I always figured Momo was the vanilla type of girl," Sana said.

"Vanilla is still a good flavor.”

"There's nothing at all wrong with vanilla. But sometimes you want something a bit tastier."

There was a quick knock at the door, Sana voicing her approval to enter. The door swung open and a waiter walked in carrying a tray with several items, sitting everything down on the table and putting it in a bucket of ice.

"Please enjoy," the man said, bowing and leaving as quickly as he entered.

“Oh, we will,” Sana said as she opened the bottle. Putting a few ice cubes in each glass she filled them partway, handing you one as your glasses clinked.

"It’s been a while since I had a drink," you said, staring at the mysterious dark-colored liquid, swirling it around.

"Sip it, don’t down it.”

“Bottoms up,” you responded, putting the glass to your lips as you took your first taste. It wasn’t too strong, a mixture of sweet and sour, and a taste you quickly grew accustomed to.

“Well? How is it?” Sana asked, waiting for your review.

“It’s good. I was expecting it to be stronger by the way it looked.”

“We can’t get too carried away on our first meeting.”

“It’s really good.”

“Glad you like. Now, time for more questions!” Sana said, full of enthusiasm.

“I can’t wait,” you said half sarcastically.

“You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

“What’s your favorite part of a woman?”

"Uhh," you quickly hesitated, sinking back into the couch before you could think of what to say, letting more alcohol into your system as you took another drink.

“Let me change up the question,” Sana said, getting off the couch as she hopped up onto the table in front, crossing her legs and leaned back, resting both hands behind her.

“What’s your favorite part of me?”

You were caught off guard as Sana practically presented herself to you like an art display. You tried to keep eye contact, not wanting your eyes to roam her perfect tight body as much as you liked to.

“It’s okay to look. It'd be rude if you didn’t,” Sana said, lips curling into that same sensual expression. You let out a deep breath as you respectfully looked at Sana’s body, taking a gander at her smooth milky skin, eyes wandering every curve of her deadly body.

“I don’t have nice big tits like Momo does,“ she said, a slight frown forming on her lips. “But I think I do pretty well in other departments.”

Sana uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, trying her best to bring out your arousal and you swear you caught a glimpse of something. It wasn’t going to take much. She was now the center of attention in the room, but you couldn’t help but feel like you were her prey, and she was a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

“You’re dangerous, Sana,” you blurted out. She reacted immediately with that familiar smile.

“That’s not the first time I’ve been called that,” she said, adjusting the straps of her heel. “I never get tired of hearing it.”

Sana was closer to you than you realized, and you felt the temperature of the room heating up. You had spent plenty of time with hostesses at the same club, but something about Sana brought out something in you, something you couldn't understand. A mixture of nerves, excitement, and fear, like the first time you had asked a girl out.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sana said, biting on the tip of her finger seductively as she straightened her posture.

“You’ll have to repeat it. I forgot it already,” you lied.

Sana knew you didn’t. “Tell me...what your favorite part of me is. What your favorite part of my body is,” she said, every word crystal clear as she stared into your eyes.

Honestly, how she expected you to answer her with just one thing was beyond you. You went for the classic, yet cliche response.

“I like your eyes.”

Sana was so taken aback by such a cheesy answer it took her a moment to find the words to respond.

“My eyes, huh?” she said, a chuckle alongside her answer. “That’s funny, because ever since I hopped up here you’ve looked at every part of my body but my eyes.”

Caught in the act. Who could you blame you though? You were being seduced expertly by a blonde vixen, you couldn’t have been expected to spend every second gazing at those brown beauties when the rest of her body was so delicious.

“I don’t mind though,” Sana said. “You’re paying to spend time with me, I’m not going to stop you from undressing me with your eyes.”

“Although I’d prefer it if you used your hands,” she said, biting her lip.

You nearly choked. Maybe dangerous was too generous of a word to describe her. But sometimes the rush of something or someone dangerous was worth the risk.

“You don't have to tell me, I’m pretty sure I can figure it out already,” she said, beaming with confidence.

“Oh, do you?” you asked, trying to call her bluff.

“I do,” Sana said, giving you one more deadly look, letting you see the color in her beautiful round eyes. In an instant, Sana’s legs parted and she spread them invitingly wide, leaving you with the perfect view between her thighs. Even better was the lack of any underwear underneath her tight dress, exposing her pink pussy that sucked the life out of you momentarily and left you breathless.  

You tried to keep it together, even though you both knew Sana had the upper hand. Nothing could divert your gaze from in between her creamy naked thighs and the beautiful pink flesh of her gorgeous pussy, dripping with arousal from her actions already.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

“Maybe,” Sana said, still as playful as ever.

“Is that allowed, Miss Minatozaki?” you asked, falling back on formality.

“Of course it’s allowed. I help run this place, who’s going to stop me?” Sana replied nonchalantly. “As I said, it’s my job to take care of you.”

The room definitely grew infinitely hotter as Sana leaned forward, her legs still spread, and rested her hands on the inside of her inner thighs.

“You know, you’ve had a couple of drinks tonight,” Sana said. “But you must be starving. And what kind of hostess would I bet if I didn’t offer you anything to eat?”

If that wasn’t enough of an invitation, Sana hiked her dress up and spread her legs as wide as they could go.

“I am feeling pretty hungry,” you said, your mouth salivating at the pink flesh in between Sana’s spread thighs. “Aren’t there cameras here?” you asked, looking up at the ceiling.

“Yes, for your safety and mine. But I turned them off after I ordered our drinks,” Sana said, flashing a cheeky smile.

“You think of everything don’t you?”

“It’s my job to. Now, how about you bring that cute face over here and taste me.”

You didn’t need Sana to say another word as you scooted off the couch, resting on the edge of it, and tried to get comfortable.

Sana had already done most of the work for you, keeping her legs kept open as you touched her bare skin for the first time, feeling how smooth and soft it was as you ran your hands up her creamy thighs. Looking up for approval, Sana gave it immediately as you planted several kisses on the soft flesh of her inner thighs, earning a soft delicate moan for the first time.

Her breath hitched as you licked long stripes up her sensitive bare thighs, ending with wet kisses, looking up to see the reaction on Sana’s face and finding nothing but satisfaction.

“Are you going to tease me?” Sana asked.

“That depends. Do you like being teased, Sana?” you replied.

“I love being teased, but not here. You can tease me later when my hands are wrapped in your bedsheets. I’m warmed up enough,” Sana said, running a finger through her pink wet slit as held up her finger in the air, demonstrating her slick glistening in the light.

You were a bit disappointed. Part of you wanted to test Sana, to see how much she could take, to drive her absolutely crazy the same way you did Momo. But Sana was wired differently. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t scared to take the lead. Plus, you were about still in public, it was best not to dawdle.

That didn’t stop you from kissing Sana’s thighs one more time before you brought your mouth to her pretty pussy, licking against her wet slit in one slow long stroke. Sana moaned, a sound that was as pretty as it was needy as you repeated it, licking up and down her pussy several times as you had your first taste of Sana.

Sana tasted utterly delicious. If you had to describe her taste, it was a mixture of sweet with just a hint of tanginess to it, not unlike the expensive drink you had both indulged in. There was no doubt Sana tasted much better.

You wanted more of her taste as your tongue explored Sana’s silky wet folds, gathering up her nectar into your lips and ran your tongue aimlessly.  

“That feels so good,” Sana moaned, running her fingers through the strands of your hair as your tongue roamed in between her thighs, wandering around her wet hole as if it wanted to get lost in her sensitive warm flesh.

You wanted more of Sana’s intoxicating taste, you wanted to taste as much of this sultry woman as you possibly could. Looking up at her satisfied expression, you licked through her cunt and latched your lips onto her clit, earning a mixture of whimpers and moans and the added pleasure of her warm thighs wrapping around your head, like a snake coiled around its victim and you were more than happy to be Sana’s prey.

It didn’t take long to turn Sana into what you wanted, a pretty squirming mess unable to control her movements on the karaoke room’s table. Her hips bucked as she tried to ride your face and you were thankful that the room you had chosen to devour her in was already designed to be soundproof.

“Mmm, fuck, that tongue is amazing,” Sana said as you felt both hands frantically pulling your hair harshly as you slurped on her swollen clit, trying to draw out more of her tasty juices.

The more you ate Sana up the louder she got, voicing her satisfaction. The louder she got the harder her thighs squeezed around your head, rubbing the sides of your face with her soft smooth skin. Her nectar quickly spread all over your lips and chin, coating your face with her essence.

“D-don’t stop, don’t fucking stop,” Sana cried out as you pushed her past her limits already, alternating between sucking and licking around her sensitive clit, and kept your eyes on her the entire time, watching her become an absolute writhing mess.

You could barely breathe but it didn’t become a concern, all you wanted at that moment was hearing Sana’s pleasure. You’d prefer being suffocated by her pussy and her aroma, patiently waiting for those three words that meant you had done everything right.

“I-I’m gonna cum!”

Perfect. With warmth surrounding your head and wetness spreading all over your face, you gave everything you had and feasted on Sana’s pussy, moving your tongue and lips together to obtain what Sana desperately needed.

The moment came quickly as Sana hit her peak. The competing sounds of your lips slurping around her clit and her loud erotic moans filled the small room as her juices bathed your face, the wetness already there intensifying. Her thighs violently trembled and her toes curled, her back arching as she held on to your head for dear life, hips bucking wildly and you did what you could to keep her centered on the table as she came all over you.

Sana was a beautiful mess during the entirety of her orgasm, and you loved watching every second of the pleasure that grew too much for her. Sana showered you in her sweet juices and you were happy to receive every drop. You kept the pressure on her clit until Sana couldn’t take anymore and pushed your face off her as you were able to breathe freely, wondering if it was worth the trade-off to not being smothered by her heavenly thighs.

You stared into the round glazed-over eyes of the gorgeous woman you had just pleasured to completion, gasping and breathing heavily and cleaned up her thighs of her stained juices, wanting to dive right back.

“Wow,” Sana said between heavy drawn-out breaths. “Momo was right, you really do know how to please a woman.”

“I do my best,” you responded, wiping the juices off your lips and chin and making a show out of licking your fingers clean.

“It helps when you taste as good as you do,” you said, causing the full pale cheeks of Sana’s face to blush.

The redness of her cheeks gradually faded, replaced by a mischievous smile as you waited for her next step was. It came right away as Sana lifted herself from on top of the table her backside was resting on. With the quickness of a cat, she climbed onto your lap and wrapped her hands around the back of your neck, focusing her seductive eyes on your own.

"Your hostess wants to know what else I can do for you," Sana said, with a hunger for more. You felt weak as your face was almost close enough to rest against her own, the tension in the air the only thing separating you.

“I think my hostess should do whatever she feels like doing,” you replied, Sana’s eyes beaming at your response.

“Leave everything to me, sir,” Sana giggled, falling back into her role, eyes laced with lust and desire. Her head lifted up, seeing the expression on your eyes as her hands fiddled with your shirt, slowing unbuttoning the first few buttons.

She kept constant eye contact and Sana seemed to enjoy slowly undressing you, tilting her head to the side and leaned in close, lips finding your own and crashing against them in a deep warm embrace as she loosened up more buttons until your shirt was completely undone.

The kiss was brief but you both longed for more as Sana pulled your shirt open, admiring your bare chest, and traced it with one finger, planting her lips just below the middle of your collarbone and leaving her lipstick stained on your skin.

She cupped the side of your face and you felt her lips on you again, soft as silk as her tongue found its way into your mouth, needing no invitation as you wrapped your hands around her slim waist, desperate to pull her your bodies closer.

You were rewarded with one more kiss before she dismounted your lap, slowly lowering herself on the room’s black and white patterned carpet as she got on her knees as if she had done this many times before.

Sana didn’t say much as she unbuckled your belt, letting her actions do all the talking as she unzipped your pants and tugged them down to your ankles. Her warm hands caressed up and down your thighs, sending blood flowing to all the right places. It didn’t take long for a bulge to form through your boxers, arousing Sana equally as she rubbed it through the fabric of your underwear, tracing the outline of your shaft.

Sana sought out the rest of your naked body, quickly stripping your underwear off and leaving you with nothing left but the shirt on your back. Sana gasped at your newly exposed throbbing cock, eyes lit up with hunger as she licked her lips to let you know she liked what she saw.

“So, this is what Momo has been hiding from me,“ Sana said, spreading your legs wide as she wrapped her slim fingers around your hard cock and gripping tightly, applying firm pressure and slowly pumping you.

“It’s all for me now, ” she said as her tongue ran along your rigid shaft, sending shockwaves of pleasure as she painted up and down your cock from base to tip. Sana swirled her wet tongue around your sensitive head, lapping up your leaking slit and kissed your tip, cleaning it off.

Sana couldn’t take her eyes off your cock, spitting on it repeatedly and jerking you off in her small delicate hand, the pleasure rising already in your body.

"I should get more comfortable," she said, giving your shaft just a few more pumps before standing upright. She knew your eyes were drawn to her as she slipped each black strap down each shoulder, wiggling out of it as it fell to the ground, leaving a black lace bra the only thing preventing you from seeing every inch of her beautiful body.

She paused her work on your cock, letting your eyes roam her tight body and you did so happily. Her legs went on for days, her body tight and slim in all the right places. You had already seen her beautiful pussy and explored it with your mouth, but you wanted to feel her all over, and wanted to make her gasp just at your touch.

You focused on her tight stomach, her abs weren’t as defined as Momo but you’d still eat off of them. Then there were Sana’s breasts, pushed up nicely, and wanting to escape from their constraints. Momo clearly had the size advantage, but Sana’s tits were shaped nicely, big enough to get your hands on.

“Help me out?” Sana asked, interrupting your scan of her body as she turned around, facing away from you as she presented to you her almost bare back and most importantly her plump round ass that looked delicious and so utterly squeezable.

You regretfully remained patient as your hands grasped the thin fabric that made up Sana’s bra, undoing the clasp and helped her out of it, running your hands through her soft skin and wondering how such a beautiful creature existed. Sana quickly spun around on her heels, lifting her arms over her head and letting you see her newly exposed breasts in all their glory. Your jaw dropped at them, the perfect combination of round and milky mounds, looking soft as possible.

Staring was all you had time to do as Sana got back to her favorite position on her knees, grabbing your shaft. One more kiss on your tip and Sana parted her lips with your cock, wrapping her mouth around the first few inches. Her lips were impossibly soft and warm and you moaned loudly as Sana began sucking your cock, moving up and down and applying pressure, hollowing her squishy cheeks.

You found yourself unable to speak as Sana’s head bobbed up and down, trying to process the pleasure you were receiving.

“It feels so good,” you moaned as Sana upped her pace, lips sliding up and down your shaft as her tongue played with your underside, swirling around it at the same time.

“Good. I hope I’m taking good care of you.”

“You are, Sana. Fuck, you really are.”

Sana smiled and continued her assault on your cock, slurping away as her lips went deeper, keeping her eyes on you the entire time. Her hands rested on your thighs, digging her nails in as her head bobbed faster, slurping on your cock and leaving it covered in drool and warmth. You loved the feeling of her sucking you off, as she went even deeper towards your base you melted even more.

You closed your eyes and tilted your head back in response, savoring the feeling of her lips swallowing up your cock, slurping loudly as her lips traveled back and forth, slobbering all over your shaft.

“Fuck, you’re so good at that.”

Sana got progressively messier and louder in response, and you opened your eyes almost involuntarily as you felt your cock hit the back of the throat, not gagging her even a little. Her lips rested at your base for several seconds before slowly retreating, fondling your balls as she took you in and out of her warm wet mouth with ease, rapidly bobbing her head more as you moaned in delight.

Sana loved nothing more than working her magic in between your legs, and you didn’t think there was a better feeling in the world as she gave the wettest loudest blowjob, but you knew the best was still to come. Sana’s messy slurps as she feasted on your cock was music to your ears, and you couldn’t help audibly sharing your satisfaction every time you felt the back of her throat.

“Don’t cum yet,” Sana teased, stroking your cock furiously as she sucked on your balls tenderly, latching on and slurping just as loudly. She released them only after they were equally given attention and covered in warm saliva, knowing what you wanted next.

“It’s time for the best part,” Sana said as she climbed back on your lap again, her thighs pressed on either side of your own as they wrapped around your hips. She took your hard cock into her hand again, stroking slowly and teased herself with it, running it through her very wet folds, the warmth radiating from it driving you insane already.

Sana found a comfortable position as she nudged your wet tip against her pussy, lining it with her soaked entrance up perfectly, the anticipation killing you both already.

“Ready?” Sana asked, and you gave a silent nod in response, although you weren’t sure if anything would be able to prepare you for what you were about to experience.

It took a few final seconds of teasing before Sana lowered her hips and sank down onto your cock, entering her for the first time as you both moaned in tandem at the initial penetration.

“Fuck, you’re so big,” Sana gasped, trying to work her hips back and forth, grinding and stretching herself out little by little. Her tightness was overwhelming, the wetness and heat smothering your cock like nothing else. You watched between her thighs as the tip of your cock disappeared and reappeared, the mixture of her saliva and juices from her pussy helping guiding you deeper into her hole.

“That never gets old,” Sana said, and you were inclined to agree. The feeling of entering a woman for the first time was one of your favorite things, and if that woman happened to be an insanely sexy hostess named Minatozaki Sana you loved it even more.

Sana took it slow at first, something that you were surprised by but you knew that wasn’t going to last if the way she gave head was something to go by.

You could tell by the greedy look on her face that she needed more as she lifted her body almost entirely off your cock, leaving just your sensitive tip drenched with her fluids inside.

Seconds passed as you both braced yourselves for what was next as Sana used all the force in her hips and slammed herself down on your cock, impaling herself to the hilt and moaning needily.

“Oh f-fuck,” she cried out, and you waited for any adjustment she needed as she held onto your shoulders, eyes half-lidded with pleasure already.

Taking a deep breath Sana began moving slowly, lifting her hips up as her warm walls hugged your cock. You held onto her slender waist, watching the erotic expression on her face as she began bouncing on your cock.

"You feel so big inside me. You're so fucking hard," Sana moaned as she stretched her tight slick walls out. Her tightness drove you crazy as she took you in and out of her body, establishing a rhythm.

You were content at the moment to let Sana do all the work, watching her eyes full of lust as she was expertly grinding on your cock, moaning loudly as her head tilted back.

"You feel so good, Sana," you said breathlessly, exploring her body with your hands.

"You do too. You feel so incredible inside me, I love your cock stretching me out," she said as the look on her face continued to be full of wanton need. Sana had seemingly all the experience with riding a cock, and she was proudly going to demonstrate it, grinding those powerful hips with purpose as her beautiful tits bounced up and down.

“I really wanna ride you harder,” Sana said, even though there was no need to ask for permission as she ran a hand through her messy hair as she bounced and bounced, covering your shaft in her nectar.

“Then ride me harder,” you replied, giving her ass a simultaneous slap on each cheek that echoed throughout the karaoke room. “Ride me as hard as you can, Sana.”

She bit her lip in response, flashing a devilish smirk as if preparing you for what you had just unleashed. Sana took a few moments to let you relax, letting you get ready for the calm before the storm was about to take place.

“Ride that fucking cock,” you taunted, making sure she wasn’t about to hold back. You felt her small hands around both sides of your neck as her hips began gyrating wildly back and forth, desperately trying to feel all of your hard cock inside her tight pussy.

Your hands roamed her lower back before finding her soft ass cheeks and squeezed them both, giving repeated smacks against the warm flesh, adding an extra oomph to the loud erotic moans already escaping from Sana’s devilish lips. Sana continued upping her pace little by little, bouncing her tight frame on your cock as you were hypnotized by her movements,

“I’m so fucking wet,” Sana said, her juices dripping down her thighs and leaking onto your body as she rode you balls deep confirming her every word.

You wanted Sana to be even wetter if such a thing were possible. You wanted her to lose yourself in the pleasure she was finding, as if riding your cock wasn’t enough for her, and it most certainly wasn’t.

Momentarily, you left your hands from the warmth of Sana’s tight ass and ran them up her back, pushing her body forward to grant you easier access to her delicious bouncing breasts. Sana was too focused on the hard cock impaling her tight cunt as you turned your attention elsewhere, teasing her hard pink nipples with your tongue, swirling around them as you latched and sucked harshly on her tits.

“F-fuck yes baby, suck on those tits,” Sana demanded, not that you needed any further instructions. You squeezed her sizable breasts, sucking on each of her rosy nipples with equal attention, biting and licking them one after another.

“That feels so good. You like my tits?”

“I love them. I love your body so much, Sana,” you said as you continued to hungrily close your lips around her swollen nipples, applying a firm but gentle pressure.

The harder Sana rode you the more sweat began accumulating on your bodies, which you responded to by licking between her cleavage. You wanted to lick her entire body clean, nuzzling your face in between her tits as your tongue ran across every surface you could find.

Sana lifted her arms up and put her hands behind her head as if she suddenly read your mind, and you licked the sweat off from her neck before diving down and licked her armpits, desperate to taste every inch of her naked body.

“You’re so fucking delicious, Sana. I wanna taste you all night.”

“I won’t stop you,” Sana said in response, continuing to harshly slam herself on your cock, driving herself crazy with the hard shaft between her legs constantly spearing her constricting wet walls.

You sat there in awe of the situation, savoring the way Sana’s dripping hot flesh wrapped around your cock while her thighs loudly smacked against your own as your bodies were drowned in a sea of pleasure.

“I-I’m about to cum again!” Sana said, finding the right words more difficult by the moment, her walls clenching more and more letting you know that her limits were once again being breached.

“Cum for me, Sana,” you said, grabbing two handfuls of her perfect ass, squeezing harshly. Sana paid no attention to your words, only focusing on using your cock for her pleasure, wildly riding you without any other thoughts as she took you inside her at full speed and riding you as hard as she possibly could.

Her arms snaked around the back of your neck again, locking her wrists together as she demanded her maximum amount of euphoria, chasing another climax greedily before you even had your first.

“I’m going to cum!”

Sana’s pretty voice echoed throughout the room as her walls pulsated around your shaft, squeezing the life out of your cock almost painfully so before releasing you in waves. She moaned desperately into your ears as she came on your cock, juices flowing like a river as her body shook uncontrollably and her movements were no longer her own as she turned to jelly and slowly rode out her orgasm to completion.

Her high went on for several moments and time lost all meaning for Sana as the aftershocks of her explosive climax took over. She held onto your body as she slowly came down, barely able to open her eyes as her hips rolled ever so slowly to ride everything out.

“H-holy shit,” Sana said, recovering her senses gradually as she attempted to make eye contact.

“I came so hard. I can still feel it,” she weakly said.

“I can tell. I’m really glad this room is soundproof,” you teased. Sana looked up with glazed over eyes, showing appreciation for her satisfaction as she brought her lips and pressed them against yours, passionately but softly kissing you.

“I want to taste myself on your cock,” Sana said, dropping such a filthy set of words so casually.

The lustful expression on Sana’s features never faded as she slowly slid herself off your lap and dropped to her knees, taking your drenched shaft between her soft lips again and took you inside her mouth again, slowly sucking her messy wet juices clean.

“You’re right, I am delicious,” she giggled, once again her cute and wild sides contrasting each other was the theme of the night.

“You must be close, how do you want me? Where do you want to fuck me?” Sana asked, stroking your cock as she kissed your thighs.

So many options. You looked around the small private area, weighing each one. There were a lot of easily accessible surfaces in this room. The couch was comfortable, but you’d spent plenty of time on it already. You stood up without another word as Sana regretfully removed your cock from her small warm mouth, and helped her to her feet, letting her be the one who was in anticipation this time.

You circled around Sana’s body, scanning her curves and eyeing every inch of her milky bare skin. Not wanting to waste any time, you pulled her towards the side of the karaoke’s marble table, spinning her body around so she was facing away from you and gasped at your suddenness.

Viewing her beautiful backside you grabbed Sana’s shoulders and bent her forward until she was at an angle that you liked, the upper portion of her body pressed against the table and her breasts mashed against its surface.

"Don't fuck me like you fucked Momo," Sana said, her words twisting your face in confusion.

“What does that mean?”

Sana paused as she looked over her shoulder. “It means you don’t have to be gentle with me. I’m not a delicate flower that bruises easily.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Sana.”

She paused before answering. “Sometimes a girl likes being hurt,” Sana said, flashing a cheeky smile.

For the first time of the night, you were speechless.

“Be as rough as you want with me. It’s just us, and I want you to make me feel every inch of that amazing cock. Don’t keep me waiting.”

Well, you certainly weren’t going to as you gave her bent over body a quick lookover, focusing on her perfect round ass displayed for your eyes only, giving both of her supple cheeks a quick peek and stealing another taste of her delicious pussy.

In the meantime, Sana grabbed the karaoke remote off the table, pushing a few buttons on it as the television once again sprang to life.

“Random mode. Felt like adding a little bit of atmosphere,” Sana said.

Even though the place was supposedly soundproof, the added bit of noise to cover up the sounds your bodies were about to make was most welcome.

You ran your hands over all the warm soft skin you could find, spreading Sana's legs wide. You couldn’t wait to feel her warmth again before grasping a hip and lining your cock with her entrance, running your tip through her silky wet folds.

"Fuck me now," Sana demanded, pushing her hips against you to hurry things up. Her wetness nudged against your cock as you embraced yourself for the warmth your cock was about to enter again. You wanted her just as bad as she wanted you as you used your hips and slid inside the slippery tight walls of Sana’s pussy, filling her to the very hilt and earning a loud needy moan from her lips.

Warmth and wetness hugged your cock everywhere and you looked forward and caught Sana’s needy eyes, knowing no adjustment was necessary from her.

You held onto her hips and started moving, fucking Sana from behind with a slow deliberate pace as those tight wet lower lips wrapped around your cock gripped hard, keeping you inside the comfort of her body.

“You can do better than that,” Sana said, the disappointment obvious in her voice. You took her words as a challenge, squeezing her hips tighter as you picked up speed, sliding in and out of her wet hole with ease with the aid of her messy juices lubricating your cock.

You picked up the pace quickly, your hips moving faster and faster with each thrust as those delicious silky lips squeezed and squeezed your cock, letting you know your shaft wasn’t going anywhere. Sana’s moans grew more satisfied the faster you went, but she still needed more, and she wasn’t going to be content until you gave her everything she wanted.

“Harder. Fuck me harder!” she demanded, pushing her body against your hips again. You held on to her warm body and gave deeper thrusts, using more energy and starting smacking your body against her ass cheeks, causing her flesh to jiggle.

“There you go, was that so hard?” Sana taunted, demanding you give her even more.

Soon the sounds of your skin slapping against each other began filling the room, as you filled Sana to the hilt with each thrust, her wetness spreading over every inch of your needy shaft. Her walls squeezed every time you entered her, keeping a tight grip on your cock as you pistoned your hips and found a perfect rhythm.

“That’s it, fucking pound me. Make me take all of that big hard cock!”

You went even harder, encouraged by Sana’s loud lustful moans as you slammed into her pussy, causing a layer of thin sweat to form over your bodies again. You remembered her words from earlier as you ran your hands all over her sweaty back, collecting a handful of her blonde hair and tangling your fingers in it, forming a loose makeshift ponytail and yanked on it gently as you felt her walls clench in response.

“Fuck yes, you’re so deep! Keep fucking me just like this!”

You yanked back more carefully, pulling her torso upright off of the room’s table as she looked straight ahead into the screen in front, as if she were looking into a mirror. You had gone this far already, so you decided you should up the ante even more, giving her ass a smack.

“Mmm yes, slap my ass, baby!”

You responded by giving another slap to her soft supple cheek, followed by another on the opposite side.

“Harder,” Sana said. You gave two more slaps, adding more impact as her flesh rippled each time.

“I said harder. This isn’t the time for you to hold back. Slap my fucking ass like you mean it.”

You certainly weren't going to disappoint her for a second time. As you drilled into her tight hole you gave her delicious ass repeated slaps, each one harder than the previous one, making sure to not hit the same part twice. You slapped Sana’s tight ass again and again, the crack of your palm against her bare skin echoing as you gave in to her desires, turning her cheeks a visible shade of red and each smack against her bottom made her tight walls clench in approval.

While your fingers were entangled with the strands of Sana’s hair you pulled even harder and made sure you kept your pace steady as you fucked her from behind.

Hearing her gasps and moans of delight filled your ears as your cock plunged in and out of her warm wet hole, each time you withdrew the juices covering your shaft glistening in the room lighting.

“Is this what you wanted?” you growled at Sana as you drove your cock as deep as possible, her tightness smothering your cock with each entrance into her warmth.

“Y-yes! Don’t stop fucking me!” Sana said as her voice cracked, her whimpering moans escaped alongside her words as you gave into your needy urges. You make sure you didn’t stop your movements, pounding into her tight cunt as roughly as possible and fucked Sana as hard as your body allowed you to, the music blaring from the screen doing little if anything to dampen your combined moans.

Your hands found their way back to her perfect hips, saving your energy for the most powerful thrusts you continued to give Sana, returning the favor and using her pussy just like she used your cock earlier, caring little for much other than your own selfish pleasure.

“Are you going to cum soon, baby?” Sana asked, sensing your need for your own desperate release. You were surprised you had somehow lasted this long inside this impossibly hot woman. The juices collected on every inch of your shaft grew by the second, and the knot in your stomach tightened more and more with every deep thrust into her tight wanton body.

With the way Sana looked back at you, there wasn’t any way you couldn’t survive any longer, her needy eyes wanting your climax as much as you did.

“I-I am. I’m so close, Sana,” you blurted out to her delight, flashing a lustful smile in your direction.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. I want you to cum. I need you to cum inside me. You’ll do that for me won’t you?”

“O-of course,” you replied, finding the air in the room harder to take in.

“Fuck me hard, and don’t you dare stop until you fill me.”

You’d never forget the erotic look of Sana’s desires as she made eye contact one final time. You kept your eyes on her bent over body, sweat dripping down her lower back as you pounded her pussy and plunged your hard cock deep into the warmth of her tight cunt, chasing the only thing that mattered to the two of you.

“Cum inside me. Please cum inside me, “ Sana pleaded with her words, and you had nothing left, eager to give in to her, to give her everything she wanted. All you could take was a handful more of thrusts, smacking your hot flesh against her own as you felt yourself being thrown over the point of no return.

There were no more words shared as you grunted loudly, moaning Sana’s name on your lips as you squeezed her hips so hard you didn’t even have time to worry about bruising her.

Your shaft violently throbbed inside her tight walls as you erupted inside her. You filled Sana to the brim with your warmth and coated her insides with your huge load, groaning with every spurt of thick semen that shot deep into her womb as your balls were drained deep inside her.

Sighing a sense of relief, your bodies stayed connected as your orgasm slowly ran its course. Sana’s tight pussy milked every single drop from you and you rested inside her while you recovered, struggling to catch your breath as you panted and gasped as you felt the most satisfied you had been in quite some time.

You didn’t remember how long you were inside Sana after you came. It might have been a few seconds, or half an hour as you regrettably withdrew an inch at a time from her warmth, leaving her body with a loud pop. As soon as she was empty your thick load slowly leaked out of her, dripping down her thighs and making a mess below.

“That was amazing,” Sana said, equally out of breath as she gingerly turned around, gripping your spent cock one more time and stroking slowly, making sure not a drop was wasted as she licked her fingers clean.

“You’re amazing, Sana.”

“Not bad for just a replacement, huh?” Sana said, cutely giggling.

“I think I might have to request you again. You really take good care of your clients.”

“Thank you. But you know you don’t have to come to the club to see me,” Sana said.

“Is that so?”

“Of course. I’m not really a hostess anymore. I don’t have quotas and I certainly don’t need the extra money. “

“I'll take you up on that offer then.”

“You’re certainly welcome to spend time and money here, but you’ve done so enough, so your wallet deserves a break. Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll take you somewhere with some real privacy?” Sana smirked.

“And where might that be?” you asked.

“You’ll see. Somewhere where you’ll be able to see just how loud I can get.”

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 15 - The Storm’s Prelude.

Words: 15,264. 

You can read the rest of the story on AO3 here :) 

Summary: Three heart stones are required to wake the Guardian. Your group manages to find the first two without a lot of difficulty, save for a moment of bleak realisation that rattles your perception of yourself and brings out a side to Death you haven’t yet seen. The Horseman realises a few things about Karn’s perception of you. And then, you find the final stone....

---

The passage of time, if overlooked, can often prove to be a ubiquitous inhibition. Walls can crumble and fall in your path, great swathes of the earth can be torn apart by shifting, tectonic plates. Rivers and streams carve through even the toughest rock, eroding it away over millions of years to form the steep walls of a gorge that impedes your progress when you stumble upon it – a gorge much like the one you find yourself at the edge of now.

You, Death and Karn stand silently on the precipice of the escarpment, peering across it to the far side of a great, long hall. The western wall has completely collapsed in on itself after having suffered through centuries of faulting and erosion, and the stone blocks that once stood so strong have fallen into the wide gorge sitting between you and progress. 

Death's eyes are fixed ahead, occasionally flitting back and forth in search of a way to cross, all the while aware that he's being watched expectantly by a human and a maker. He knows precisely what the pair of you are waiting for, and the longer he fails to come up with an alternative route, the more irritable he becomes, because it means that he'll have to once again reduce himself to a horseman-shaped projectile. 

Still, he does appreciate that you've both stayed quiet whilst he stews. It takes him a few more moments of bitter contemplation before he finally concedes and accepts that if he wants to get across, he'll need the youngling's help. “....Fine,” he growls.

Teeth grit, the Horseman turns his frightful glare onto Karn, who at least has enough sense to keep his lips firmly sealed as he moves to the edge of the escarpment and wordlessly lowers his hand.

“You know,” Death grumbles, clambering into the maker's waiting palm, “I'm beginning to suspect that you two enjoy this far more than I do.”

Karn doesn't reply, merely peels his lips back and flashes you a grin. 

“Hey, I'm just glad it's you and not me,” you say, holding up your hands appeasingly, “I don't have your knack for sticking a landing.”

If he wasn't so certain you'd accuse him of hypocrisy, he'd call you a coward. After all, he'd made it abundantly clear that he doesn't even want you to be thrown by the maker.

Biting his tongue, Death merely expels a weary sigh. “Let's just get this over with, Pup.”

Bracing himself against Karn's thumb, he twists his head around to catch your gaze and holds it firmly, waiting until he's sure you're paying attention. “Stay close to the maker,” he tells you, then as an afterthought, he adds darkly, “And if either of you go wandering off, you'd better pray that the Corruption finds you before I do.”

Then, with that thinly-veiled threat still ringing in your ears, Karn tips his arm back and launches the Horseman into the air like a boulder fired from a trebuchet. 

Admittedly, your heart skips several beats at the sight of Death sailing gracefully over a plummetless gorge, but just as before, Karn demonstrates that he has impeccable aim and judgement, for the Nephilim lands on the far side with practiced ease and little more than a low grunt of exertion.

Only then do you release the breath you'd been holding.

Standing up, the Horseman dusts himself off and throws a quick, backwards glance across the gorge, eyeing his two protégés for a moment longer before he turns on his heel and strides onwards, disappearing through a set of dilapidated, wooden doors.

With Death gone again for the time being and little else to do but wait, you venture back towards the edge of the escarpment and peer down over it, at once noticing the pull of gravity as it tries to tempt you into that dark, fathomless chasm. A stone that had been resting on the very lip is nudged loose by your boot and you anxiously watch it tumble down the side of the cliff, feeling decidedly nauseous that you can hear it bouncing off rocks and debris long after it has disappeared into the darkness below. 

“Heck of a long drop,” Karn chuckles nervously, shuffling a little closer to you.

“Yeah. It is...” Seemingly lost in a world of your own, you're quiet for a minute longer, and the youngling opens his mouth to make another observation, only to find himself cut off when you suddenly ask, “Hey, Karn? Do makers ever feel l'appel du vide?” 

“La.. apple doo... Eh?” 

“It's the call of the void,” you explain with a faraway smile, “A lot of humans get it, I just wondered if the feeling was universal.”

His ears prick forward with interest and he admits, “Never heard of it, what's it do?” 

“Well, mostly it's this phenomenon where you get the urge to jump from high places-”

You nearly choke on your own spit when gloved fingers suddenly curl around you and you're hurriedly ushered back to what Karn deems is a safe distance – right behind his boot. “Don't say stuff like that!” he all but howls, agitation turning his breaths shallow. 

Amused, you raise a brow at the ruffled maker and say, “...If you'd have let me finish, I was going to say it's the urge to jump from high places, but knowing that you never actually would.” 

All at once, Karn blinks hard, and some of the colour rushes back into his cheeks. “O-Oh, right. I knew that,” he tries to save face, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck. 

“You didn't really think I was going to jump in, did you?”

“No, no! O'course not!” 

'Liar,' a voice whispers at the corner of his mind. Fumbling for an excuse, he glances around rapidly before his gaze falls on some loose pebbles gathered on the cliff's precipice and he gestures to it, eager for a distraction. “But the, err... The.. the ground's weathered away right near the edge. Don't want you fallin' in by accident, ey?” 

Poking your head out from around his leg, you cast a wary eye over the drop off and hum, “No, I suppose not.” Then, in a more jocular tone, you flash him a grin and add, “I don't think I'll be able to save you from Thane a second time if anything happens to me.” 

Karn's face instantly pulls into a grimace. “Ach, don't remind me of that. Thought he'd never stop yellin'.” 

The youngling hesitates for a few beats and you watch curiously whilst he rolls his tongue around in his mouth, a thoughtful expression drawing his brows together and puckering his forehead. After another few seconds, he angles himself so that he's turned away from you slightly, his stare pointed towards one of the holes in the ceiling. “Actually, I've been meanin' to thank you for that.”

“Thank me?” you echo, “For what?”

Rain trickles down from above in sporadic patches all across the chamber, allowed in through the gaps where the ceiling has eroded away. Karn just watches it fall for a while before his shoulders raise into a shrug and he lets them drop heavily again, sucking in a breath that seems to glue his throat shut. Still, he manages to admit, “For stickin' up for me - against the Horseman, and against Thane.” Pausing to scratch at his chin, he stammers, “I – uh... I've never really.. had a – a friend who'd do that for me before...”

He still won't look at you, but you can't hold that against him. So, rather than try to catch his gaze, you instead follow it up to the ceiling whilst one of your hands lifts surreptitiously and gives the side of his leg a few, companionable pats. “Well, you've got one now,” you tell him, “Just... please don't go riling anyone else up for a while, yeah?” 

“Ha! You're one to talk! Maybe I’ll tell ol’ Eideard about you standin’ so close to cliff edges, eh?” he retorts with a smirk, at last dragging his gaze down to look at you, finding that you're already peering back, the corners of your eyes forming pretty crinkles that seem to hold a boundless supply of sincerity.

“You would not,” you challenge.

Without really knowing he's doing it, Karn's face slowly tries to mimic your expression in the hopes that it might convey to you the immensity of the gratitude he wishes he could say out loud.

All too soon though, movement on the other side of the hall draws your attention and you break eye contact with the maker to squint across the gorge, your face brightening at the sight of Death as he emerges from the far doorway. “Hey!” you wave, raising your hand high into the air before the stretch sends a twinge of pain down to your side and you wince, trying to casually lower your arm again.

From his relatively safe distance, the Horseman allows some of the tension to seep from his shoulders when he notices that you and the youngling are still standing where he left you, and in one piece, to boot.

“Didj'ya find a way around!?” Karn hollers.

“No luck, in that regard!” Death replies, “We'll have to turn back and try a different path! The heart stones must be elsewhere!”

His response elicits aggravated groans from the pair of younglings and he finds himself letting out a chuckle that comes dangerously close to the realm of fondness. Snapping his jaw shut, he's quick to catch it and stuff it back down before he clears his throat, continuing, “Just stay where you are – I'm coming back across!”

He sees you share another confused glance with Karn, then you turn back towards him and shout, “Um – How're you going to get back over here?! It took a maker just to get you to that side!” 

Death doesn't seem nearly as perturbed as you think he should be. “Let's just say... this wasn't an entirely wasted journey!” Beneath his mask is a self-assured smirk and it remains plastered on as he takes several, calculating steps backwards, away from the precipice he stands upon. 

“Wait!-” he hears you call, “ - You're not going to?! -” 

Before you can even finish your sentence, the Horseman is on the move, darting forwards into a reckless sprint and garnering a yelp of alarm from the other side of the gorge. 

“Death! What are you doing!?” you can't help but shriek, throwing your hands up to bury them in your hair, mouth hanging open in disbelief.

The Horseman leaps clear from the edge, sailing out over the gaping maw that lays in wait below him. 

Then, he begins to drop. 

Blinded by panic, you dash around Karn following some, misguided thought that you could stop Death's fall. Even the maker jerks his arm up, stretching it towards the descending Nephilim, although he at least has the presence of mind to throw his other hand out in front of you to keep you away from the edge.

Whilst you watch, your stomach drops alongside the Horseman, plunging into your shoes and you wonder if this is the kind of panic that Karn had felt when you mentioned the Call of the void.

All of a sudden, to your astonishment, a brilliant flash of purple light erupts from Death's outstretched hand. 

You'd almost think you were seeing things if you weren't already standing in a different plane of existence next to a giant. 

What looks to be a large, ethereal hand explodes out of a gauntlet strapped to Death's wrist and stretches up towards the roof, riding on threads of coiling, purple smoke. Translucent fingers wrap around one of the ceiling beams and the room fills with the sound of creaking wood as Death launches himself across the vast gap, thrusting his body forwards at the apex of his swing and you gasp when the purple hand abruptly lets go of the beam. 

The Horseman's momentum carries him the rest of the way and you stare agape as he lands lightly on the plateau in front of you, straightening up without a care in the world. 

For several, quiet moments, both you and Karn blink owlishly at him, whilst he merely peers back until at last, his brows dip into a frown and he snaps, “What?” 

With the spell of shock broken, you shake your head rapidly from side to side and adopt a scowl of your own. “What do you mean, 'what!?'” you bark, gesturing to his arm, “Why didn't you tell us you could do that? Karn and I nearly had a heart attack!”

At that, the maker clears his throat, picks his jaw off the ground and breezily attests, “Ah, I knew he had somethin' up his sleeve the whole time.” 

“Quite literally, in this case,” Death muses and holds up his arm, showing off the new accessory adorning his wrist – a gauntlet carved into the shape of a screaming, silver skull.

Unnerved by the blank-eyed face staring back at you, you drag your eyes away and turn them to Death, softly admitting, “I thought you were going to get seriously hurt.” 

“Yes, well...” He pauses to shove aside an ensuing burst of warmth and folds his arms tightly, partially obscuring his gauntlet from view, “I hardly think you're in any position to be casting judgement after some of the stunts you've pulled.” 

Your mouth opens despite having nothing of any real substance to say in your own defence, and the flat look he's giving you is enough to extinguish the fire in your belly. Biting your lip, you glance away from his pointed stare and mutter, “Touché.”

With a smirk, the Horseman claps you on the shoulder, steering you around and giving you a guiding nudge back in the direction you'd come in from. “Now then, if you've finished sulking, I'd like to get a move on,” he says firmly, “We need to hurry if we want to get these heart stones before nightfall.” He strides ahead of you to once again lead the way, leaving you sandwiched between himself and the maker at your rear. 

“I reckon we'll manage,” the latter pipes up, “Should be easier now that you've gone and found yerself a new toy.” Struck by a sudden thought, the maker trails off, frowning down at his boots for a few steps before he murmurs, “S'pose that puts me out of a job, eh?”

Craning your head over a shoulder, you shoot him a quizzical look and ask, “What d'you mean?” 

“Well-” He gestures to Death “- He's got that fancy new trick now. He can get about on his own just fine. Won't be needin' me anymore, will you.” 

“Of course we'll still need you, Karn,” you assure him, smiling when you see his ears perk up at your words, “You're the group muscle, after all.”

Death can practically hear Karn's chest swell up with pride and he stifles a scoff at the notion that a youngling could be stronger than the eldest of the Four.

“Huh. Reckon you might be right there,” the maker agrees, hooking his thumbs into the straps of his pack, his ego adequately stroked, “We adventurin’ types tend to carry muscle more than most, y’know.” 

The Horseman's low, grumbled comment is lost underneath your ensuing chatter. 

“That must make me the brains of this outfit....” 

Fortunately, neither you nor the maker seem to hear him and he lets out a sigh, shaking his head as he continues to lead you through the Foundry, back in the direction of the Guardian.

---------------------------

Your journey through the enormous structure's depths soon brings you to another, dead-end chamber. This one however, unlike the first, at least contains one of your sought after quarries.

Stretched out before you lies a long, marrow catwalk that stands mere meters above a roaring moat of lava, and at the far end, suspended high above the ground by a vast, metal clamp, is the first heart stone.

Unfortunately, much to the Horseman's chagrin, it doesn't look to be quite as accessible as he'd assumed it would be... 

Upon stepping through the doors of the chamber, the heat encompasses you like a heavy blanket and you let out an audible gasp, instantly raising your hand to fan yourself. “Ugh, god, it's like hell's sauna in here!” you complain, earning a chuckle from the maker behind you. 

After taking just a few steps into the room, you stop in your tracks and begin to fight with the hem of your jumper and Karn's amusement swiftly turns to a grunt as he's forced to come to a dead-halt as well, lest he trip over you. Curious, he tips his head to the side and blinks down at you, watching you tug the fluffy garment up and over your head... 

….And then, he promptly swallows his tongue when your tank top is pulled up as well, giving him an uninterrupted view of your midriff. For a few, glorious seconds, the sounds of the chamber, nay, the whole world seem to dip to a graceful hum.

Perhaps it's because this is a part of you he's never been privy to before. Perhaps it's because the flash of skin he catches sight of feels so... intimate, as though this is something he shouldn't be allowed to see, and now that he has, his heart has set to pounding like a war drum on the brink of a fearsome battle.

Then all too soon, your head pops out of your jumper and you breath a sigh of relief, and Karn is given no time to regain his composure.

If he thought your midriff was entrancing, he's wholly unprepared to see the rest of you.

In the rich, golden and orange light cast by the churning lava, your skin glows like it's on fire, every pore seemingly beset by thousands of tiny jewels that sparkle when you move and the sweat beading on your collar bones appears more like a cloak of shimmering stars to the young, awestruck maker. 

All the magic in the realm couldn't have held his attention the way you do when you twist your head back to smile up at him and he catches the delicate bob of your throat, his ears twitching forwards in anticipation to hear the sound of your voice. 

“Hey, would you mind hanging onto this? It's way too hot to wear it, even if I tie it around my waist.” 

Seconds tick by and all you receive as a response from the maker is a long, dazed blink. 

“Karn? You... don't have to if you don't want to...” 

“PUP!” 

The two of you jump at Death's abrupt, authoritative bark and you whip your head over a shoulder to find him glaring up at the maker with a look that's cold enough to send icy fingers dancing up your spine, despite the heat surrounding you. 

“I believe she asked you a question,” the Horseman drawls, his casual tone a million miles away from matching the rigidity of his stance. 

Raising a brow at the unexpected hostility rolling off him in waves, you turn back to Karn and see that he's giving his head a hard shake, blinking back into focus. Fumbling over his words, he reaches out and takes your proffered jumper between two, colossal fingers, gingerly lifting it out of your grasp. “A-aye, sorry.” 

At his stumbled apology, you put on a heartfelt smile and say, “Thanks, Karn.”

The youngling only manages to gulp, “Yup,” in response. 

You try to catch his gaze again, but the effort is futile and your confusion only grows when his lips tug into a troubled frown that he punctuates with a sigh, flipping open a pouch on his belt and carefully tucking your jumper inside as though it were made of glass. Giving a mental shrug, you turn back towards the heart stone and you can't help but notice that Death keeps his glare trained on Karn until you pass him, and only then does he tear his eyes away from the youngling to watch you instead. 

“So,” you declare loudly, eager to ease the unplaceable atmosphere that has descended over the room, “How in the world are we going to get that stone down from there?” 

At your side, Death regards the heart stone with equal perplexity. From the corner of his eye, he notices that Karn has sidled up next to you as well, the youngling's face now a rather satisfying beet-red and his eyes fixed on the ground at his feet. It's almost laughable that the look of quandary plastered on his face has nothing to do with the heart stone's inaccessibility. Death only hopes he doesn't hurt himself by thinking too hard on it.

The Horseman is no fool, and unlike you, he can see all too clearly that the young maker is struggling to get to grips with his fondness for you. Actually, after having witnessed the conspicuous glances that Karn has been shooting you every five minutes ever since he first laid eyes on you outside the Cauldron, Death is inclined to believe that this may have surpassed the realms of fondness. 

No... unsettlingly, the territory being trodden upon here has begun to border the realm of something far stronger, something the Horseman can no longer ignore. 

Karn is immutably, unflinchingly besotted with you...

The very idea causes Death's lips to curl in distaste. After all, the foolish notion has only come about because you've been overwhelmingly kind to the youngling, and now, what he thinks he's feeling is nothing more than an intense need for companionship, garnered after such a long time spent being lonely.

However... Now is not the time for Death to let himself be distracted by such matters, he reminds himself sternly, not that he should ever have been distracted by them in the first place. What does a Horseman care of the tender friendship being cultivated right before his very eyes?

Brushing the thoughts aside, he focuses on the heart stone dangling high overhead and narrows his eyes, musing, “I could knock it loose, if I could get up there.”

“What about using your new gauntlet?” you ask, but the Horseman only shakes his head. 

“It's reach is impressive, but I don't think it'll carry me that far....” Trailing off, he swivels his eyes around to contemplate the maker, humming deep in his throat as his mind begins to form an idea. Seconds later, he barks, “Pup, don't move.”   “Eh, what-?” The youngling goes rigid when Death begins stalking deliberately towards him, his concern mounting with each step that brings him closer. Still, he remains obediently still, only just suppressing a shiver as the Nephilim suddenly scurries up his back and onto the bewildered youngling's shoulder where he straightens up and smirks at the look on your face.

“You know, if you wanted a boost, Horseman, you only needed to ask,” the maker huffs, though he finds his complaint largely ignored by Death, who simply lifts an arm over his head. 

From his gauntlet, spectral, purple limb bursts forth and flies up towards the ceiling. Ethereal fingers snag around one of the clamp arms that hold the heart stone in place and then, Death kicks off from the maker's shoulder and zooms into the air, dragged up by his unconventional grappling hook. Just before he crashes face-first into the stone, he throws out his real hand and catches the flat top of it in a vice-like grip. 

Fascinated by his feats of acrobatics, you watch raptly as he braces his boots against its side and dangles there, one hand keeping him suspended far above your head whilst the other pulls his scythe off his back, and he flips the weapon upside down to use its blunt edge like a hammer, slamming it violently down on top of the heart stone. Each strike produces a resonant chime that rings in your ears. 

At first, you don't think Death's strength alone will be enough to dislodge something so well-secured to the ceiling, but after a few more hits, the whole thing suddenly comes loose and falls at an alarming rate to the ground far below. With a deafening 'WHUMP', it lands, and not a second later, Death follows, though his impact is carried out with far more grace and poise, thankfully.

“I've got it,” Karn declares, stepping around you and sauntering up to the heart stone. He crouches down beside it and wraps both hands around each side, his teeth grit together tightly as he lifts the gigantic load up, throwing it up and onto his sturdy shoulder, one hand keeping it steady whilst the other is free to use his hammer, should he come to need it.

Death rolls his eyes at the maker's obvious peacocking, but you at least seem entertained, clapping your hands appreciatively when Karn checks to see if you witnessed his impressive display of strength. 

“All right, enough showboating, the pair of you,” Death grumbles, placing his scythe back on his hip and striding past you along the catwalk, “We need to get this stone back to the Guardian.” Pausing mid-step, he casts the youngling a sly, appraising glance, “Or... we could head straight for the second stone... if Karn thinks he can carry two of them at once?”

The youngling seems to visibly wither under Death's cool observation, but he still sputters, “O'course I could!” all too aware that your gaze is also trained on him. 

To his relief however, he's let off the hook after you rather kindly suggest, “One stone at a time, Death. Karn needs a hand free to fight constructs, right?”

Putting on a dramatic sigh, the Horseman replies, “Ah, but of course. Sensible as ever, aren’t we.” Sarcasm drips poignantly from his lips and he half expects you to offer a retort, so it's somewhat disappointing when you don't, at least to his knowledge. With his back to you, he misses the obnoxious face you pull, though he does have to wonder why Karn suddenly begins to snicker.

-------------------------------------

You can't ignore the strange feeling that the Guardian has been awaiting your return as you all stroll across the courtyard and between its legs before coming to a stop in front of it once again. 

No lights bloom in the construct's carved-out eyes sockets, but in contrast, the heart stone begins to pulse with a dazzling, blue light, as if it knows its purpose is just moments from being served and its host is finally, finally within reach after centuries spent apart. 

There's also a sense of anticipation in the air whilst you wait for Karn to raise the stone from his shoulders. 

“So... what happens now?” you ask, wondering how you're ever going to scale the Guardian to fit the first heart stone in place. 

All you get in response is a secretive smirk from Karn and a whisper of, “Watch.” He doesn't tarry any longer though. 

Lifting the stone into two hands and heaving it over his head, the maker offers it up to the Guardian, and while at first you regard his antics bemusedly, your jaw promptly drops open when the stone is simply lifted out of his hands by an unseen force.

It floats gracefully through the air and eventually slows near the construct’s left shoulder where it snaps into a carved hollow and seals itself in place with a flash of dazzling light. 

“Magnets?” you blurt out, so busy trying to rationalise what you're seeing that you momentarily forget the magical occurrences you've already witnessed. “Sadly, no,” Death sighs, “Only magic, Plain and simple.”

It's a strange reality you've found yourself in where magic is considered run-of-the-mill.

At the look of of perplexity on your face, the Horseman snorts and jerks his head towards one of the remaining doors you haven’t tried to enter yet.

“Shall we?”

-----------------------------------------

“Okay. Let's try again. Ready, Karn?”

Death's thumb and forefinger reach into the sockets of his mask and he indulges himself in a moment of massaging his twitching eyelids. As much as he's privately grateful that Karn had set you upon his broad shoulder after you started falling behind, he wishes you hadn't taken it as an opportunity to entertain the youngling by teaching him one of your juvenile 'earth games.'

Keeping to the head of your bizarre group, the Horseman tries to focus on the twisting cavern path that stretches out ahead, eyeing the corruption that grows from its walls in the form of pustule-yellow crystals, each one oozing rivers of glistening, black liquid. He picks his way carefully around a puddle of the vile substance and tosses his head over a shoulder to check that Karn is keeping his eyes peeled as well. 

A scowl darkens his glare when he notices that the youngling barely gives the puddle a fleeting glance and just steps lazily over it in one, gigantic stride before returning immediately to the human on his shoulder. 

You have an arm stretched out before you, fingers curled into a loose fist and after regarding your appendage closely, Karn lifts his hand and does the same. Giving him an approving smile that turns his ears beet red, you begin yet another round of the strange game, exclaiming, “Rock, paper, scissors, GO!”

On the word go, your fist bursts apart and you thrust it in the maker's face, your fingers pressed together and held flat like the 'paper' you're trying to emulate. At the same time, Karn lifts his bulky arm and holds his own fist up for you to see, earning himself an exasperated sigh.

“Okay, now I think you're just letting me win.”

Perplexed, the maker lowers his hand and frowns down at it. “How come I lost that time?” he asks.

“Because!” you laugh, “That's the fifth time you've chosen rock!”

“Aye, 'cause rock's the strongest,” he retorts matter-of-factly, crossing his arms and tipping his chin back.

“That's not – I mean, that isn't really how the game works.” Pausing to chuckle at the absurdity of explaining the logic of such a simple game to someone who'd never even heard of scissors five minutes ago, you continue, “Okay, so the rules are, scissors cut paper, paper covers rock, and rock breaks scissors.

“Aha!” The maker's exclamation is so abrupt, you can't help but flinch as his head whirls sideways to look you in the eye. “There, you see? Rock breaks scissors! Rock's stronger!”

“Yes, but I didn't choose scissors, I chose paper,” you explain, patiently.

“....But... rock could just tear through paper!” The pitch in Karn's voice raises a little alongside his mounting confusion, prompting Death to finally interject.

“Perhaps, Y/n, it would be sensible to stop this game before the amount of brainpower it requires to play literally kills the Pup.”

Sticking out his lower lip, Karn glowers at the ground, but the quick pat you give his neck is enough to put the maker's smile back in place. “Don't worry,” you assure him, “There are plenty of other earth games I can teach you.” 

“All of which will have to wait, I'm afraid,” Death quickly interjects, shuddering at the prospect of another minute spent listening to Karn fail to grasp even the most basic of concepts, “Whilst I understand that you two are having... ugh, fun, we can't afford to lose focus in this place.”

Like a switch has been flipped, whatever good mood had taken hold of you is promptly snuffed out. 

'...Fun?...' 

Something uncomfortable accompanies that word. It hits you more jarringly than it logically should, and your laughter tapers off to an uncertain chuckle, which in turn becomes a smile that fades slowly until an invisible weight settles itself over your heart and wipes any semblance of enjoyment clear off your face. 

'I'm having fun...' 

It doesn't seem... correct, somehow. Fun implies an instance of happiness. ...And happiness... Well. The term sits like a bad taste in your mouth and you can hardly believe it took the Horseman’s throwaway comment to draw your attention to it. You can't be happy, can you? How can you be happy after...

A ball of anxiousness starts to form in your stomach. 'Y/n,' your horrified mind seems to whisper, accusing and cold, 'Are you getting over them so quickly?'

“Oi?”

 Your leg is given a gentle shove and you flinch, startled to see Karn's finger slowly pulling away. He has his sights set on you, his jaw hanging open in a way that radiates concern and when you  flick your eyes ahead for a second, you notice that Death's head is twisted to the side, just enough to give you a glimpse of white bone behind his ebony hair.

“You okay? We lost you there for a moment,” the maker urges, quietly adding, “...again.” 

It comes far too easy, the knee-jerk reaction to throw yourself into an overenthusiastic response. Kicking your heels against his shoulder, you huff out a quick laugh that grates at your ears. “I'm still here, buddy. Just thinking about how you and the others are going to react to Monopoly.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Seriously, Karn,” you chirp, the grin stretching at your lips uncomfortable and awkward, “I'm fine.” 

God, isn't that just becoming easy now? Far easier than it ever used to be. 'I'm fine' rolls off your tongue like a lie that you're desperate to convince yourself is in fact, a truth. Still, it at least seems to have placated your gigantic companion, whose smile has returned within moments of seeing your own, so ready to accept that his friend really is okay. 

Or perhaps, he's just desperate to believe it, like you are. You wish Eideard was just as difficult to lie to, thinking back on the conversation you'd had with the Old One in Tri Stone yesterday. 

Stalking ahead, Death is once again turned away from you, but you aren't sure if he's ever been an easy man to fool.

The network of vast corridors finally come to an end as you turn another corner to see dull, grey daylight pouring in up ahead.

With you still sitting astride his shoulder, Karn follows the Horseman through an arched entryway and out into a spacious, grandiose courtyard, where you're pleasantly surprised to note that the rain has finally started to let up, leaving you all doused in little more than a light drizzle. 

Shielding your eyes, you squint up at the blanket of clouds overhead and spot the pale suns hiding behind them, trying to break through. You appreciate their effort, but the courtyard is still bucolic without the suns' rays shining down on it.

Like its sister, the stone is held fast to the gazebo's roof by a great, metal claw. “How come you makers all put the heart stones in such hard-to-reach places?” you gripe, raking your gaze over the area to search for anything that might be lurking in the shadows, unaware that Death has already done the same and found the coast is clear. 

Karn's boots splash through puddles as he stomps after the Horseman and replies, “If a maker lives long enough, their soul gets too old to pass through the Well. N'when that happens, they'll seek out an empty vessel - like a heart stone. And what would you do if you had your hands on a stone that held a human's soul, hm?” 

You consider the question carefully for a moment, then lift your arm in a shrug. “I... guess I'd try and keep it as safe as possible?” 

“Exactly!” Karn grins, snapping his fingers, “Those heart stones ain't just powerful artefacts – they carry the life force of our ancestors. We keep 'em up high like that for their own protection. S'a way to stop wee beasties from scratchin' em up, and the like.” 

Up ahead, you fail to notice that Death's fingertips are creeping up to gently touch at the wound on his chest. He ascends the steps into the gazebo and comes to a halt directly beneath the suspended heart stone, tipping his head back to regard it pensively with half of his attention on the surrounding area whilst the other half idly hones in on the faraway voices that whisper in the dark recesses of his mind. To quiet them, he brushes his fingers over the amulet's remains that are imbedded in his skin, just above the spot where his heart used to beat. 

Suddenly, the Horseman is yanked from his thoughts by a loud splash and a cold spray of rainwater spattering on his leg. Cranking his neck around slowly, he glares hard at the human who has appeared unexpectedly next to him.

Evidently, Karn had lowered you down from his shoulder and – like a human would – you'd elected to jump the last few feet to the ground, landing squarely in a puddle beside Death. The Nephilim's icy glare has you ducking your head and pressing your lips together.

“Pup,” he growls, never taking his eyes off you, daring you to let a grin slip onto your face, “Come over here. I'm going to need another boost.” 

The young maker strides forwards, raising his boot as he passes you and giving it a threatening jerk towards the puddle you're standing in, causing you to let out a gasp and leap backwards, shooting him a playful glare once you're safely out of the splash zone. 

Showing off his tusks, Karn stops at Death's side and offers his hand. It shouldn't have been a surprise that the Horseman gives it a dirty look before he eventually steps onto the glove, his pride taking yet another hit. Karn however, is beaming from ear to ear as he lifts Death up past his head, more than likely glad to be of help. 

The Horseman's scowl recedes ever so slightly at the young maker's expression and with a bit of difficulty, he manages to swallow some of his pride and dips his head in an almost imperceptible nod, as close as he'll ever come to admitting thanks. He doesn't see the maker's reaction, but he does feel Karn bounce excitedly on the balls of his feet, prompting him to turn his eyes skyward and heave a sigh as he sends his phantom appendage up to snag the heart stone.

As soon as the maker's hand is free, he shifts his gaze down and sweeps it across the ground at his feet, heart rate spiking when he doesn't immediately spot you nearby. Opening his mouth to call out, he raises his head and suddenly, your name catches in his throat. 

It turns out you haven't wandered far at all. You've only moved several steps away and turned your back on the maker, currently busy staring down at your reflection in a puddle. Curious, but erring on the side of caution so as not to startle you, he carefully leans sideways and tries and get a look at your face, hearing the telltale ‘shing’ of scythes being drawn above him. 

Your eyes are heavy-lidded, yet they remain transfixed upon the water, its placid surface casting a grubby and hazy reflection back up to you, and Karn wonders what you must be seeing in there that has caused your face to grow so haggard. 

Are you merely seeing yourself? From his angle, all he can see is the vague shape of a human.

Just then, a loud clang shatters the peace of the moment and you suck in a gasp, snapping to attention once more.

Death raps his scythes mercilessly against the heart stone until it comes loose from its metal bindings and plummets to the ground just as the first had, causing Karn to grimace at the treatment. Whoever's soul has inhabited the stone, he only hopes they don't take umbrage. 

“Well, Pup,” Death grunts as he drops down beside it again, bending his knees as he lands, “I believe you know the routine by now.”

Brushing a thumb under his nose, the maker nods and waddles over to hoist the stone up into his grasp whilst the Nephilim begins to head back the way you’d all come from, only faltering in his step when he finds you staring down into the puddle once more.

Karn doesn't notice this time. He's too focused on digging some dirt out of the heart stone's notches with the tip of his forefinger and then using the back of his hand to sweep it clean.

It's only when you finally speak up, your voice quiet and subdued, that he tips his head towards you and begins paying close attention. 

“Can... can I tell you guys something?”

“Well, o' course you can!” Karn booms eagerly. In contrast, Death merely spares you a curious, sideways glance.

Picking absentmindedly at a nail on your left hand, you try to speak, only to find the words aren't coming as easily as you thought they would, so you let your jaw fall shut again and swallow thickly before making another attempt. “It's just something that's, uh, well, it's bothering me. I feel guilty about it, but – Christ, I hope you guys don't think less of me for saying this but – I think I… I'm actually having a -.... a good time?”

The heavy weight of their stares presses upon you until, after a moment, Karn's face brightens and he announces, “Well that's great,” moving the heart stone further up his shoulder so he can beam down at you, obviously failing to see why your having a 'good time' might be causing you distress.

“No, it's not, Karn! It’s wrong.” Sighing roughly, you rake your hands through your hair and try to explain in a way the young maker would understand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap, I just... I’ve been feeling a bit guilty lately.”

“Guilty?” he asks, “For havin’ fun?” 

“No, no. Well, kind of but... I mean, It’s only been a few days. How can I be feeling happy after losing so much? It just doesn’t seem....” Fishing your hand through to air as if you might pull the right words out of nowhere proves futile and you eventually give up, letting your hand drop back to your side. 

“...Right?” Death's voice flutters into your ear and you pull your gaze up off the ground to stare at the swaying, ebony hair in front of you, uncertain whether he'd intended for you to hear him.

All the same, you answer. “Yeah... Exactly.” 

You fail to notice that Death's jaw has set into a hard line, teeth clenched tighter than a vice underneath his mask.

The Horseman remembers vividly how he'd been nigh inconsolable the day he took Absalom's life. His own brother... Every fibre that made up his wretched, twisted body had come alive with a rage unlike anything he'd ever known. 

Creator... He'd been so angry - at the Nephilim, at Absalom, at the Charred Council and his siblings... It had taken centuries before he'd been ready to admit that all he was doing was distracting himself from the real target of his ire. Death always liked to believe he was above falling victim to guilt, yet there it was – still is, in fact - settled in his chest like shards of glass, and no matter how much time passes - centuries, eons or a hundred thousand years – it will never be enough for the Horseman to escape the shadow that guilt casts upon him. 

It bears no significance how often he tells himself that his shame is foolish and unnecessary, that he and his brothers and sister did what had to be done. The Nephilim could not go on the way they were. They had to be destroyed, or else the rest of Creation wouldn't have survived. 

They had to be. 

In moments that are few and far between, Death catches himself wondering what his un-life would have been like if someone else had taken up the mantle of 'Kinslayer.' No, he doesn't regret what he did. He would never choose to go back and change the past... But that doesn't spare him from experiencing the residual shame of what he'd had to do, even so many years down the line. 

He almost envies you, in a way. 

How easy had it just been for you to admit that you're haunted by guilt? What kind of bravery is that and where in the nine hells had it even come from? How could you say – out loud – something that had taken Death centuries to even admit to himself? 

Well, at least in that regard, you're less of a coward than he is.

“It sounds as though you’re clinging to guilt,” he murmurs.

His words strike you hard in the chest. “Clinging?” you echo, “Death, I don’t like feeling guilty!”

“No,” he concurs, patient as ever, “But you don’t like feeling happy either. Because feeling happy makes it seem as though you’re coping. And feeling you’re coping is almost worse, because who could possibly be coping after they’ve lost so much?”

The Horseman’s question is rhetorical, you know, yet still your mouth falls open to respond, though you soon find nothing emerges other than a silent breath in place of words. When you don’t offer up a reply, he turns to the entrance and tilts his head over a shoulder, regarding you from the corner of his eye, adding, “You think being happy after a tragedy makes you a bad person?” 

Swallowing down past a thick lump in your throat, you give a hesitant nod. 

“Well...” he huffs, “From what I’ve seen, I think I can safely attest that you’re not.”

“Definitely not,” Karn agrees with a decisive bob of his head. 

You have to blink hard a few times to chase away the tears that threaten at the back of your eyelids. “Thanks, guys... Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty though.”

“And it likely never will,” Death says matter of factly. 

“That’s a bummer.” 

The human colloquialism is lost on him but he gets the gist of your expression and lets out a soft snort before he replies, “Perhaps. But grief and guilt do become easier to bear.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“Well, maybe not for a long, long time, and perhaps, every so often, they will rear their heads and strike with a vengeance, but it does get easier, because you will learn to live alongside it. I’ve seen it time and again in humans. You’re nothing if not a resilient little species. You will live with anything, if you give yourselves time to learn how.”

And with that, he faces forwards again and begins the long trek back across the courtyard to the tunnels that brought you here. It isn’t long before you catch up to him and keep stride for a few paces, followed, as always, by the loyal maker at your back.

“Huh... thanks, Death,” you smile earnestly up at him. The heaviness hasn’t shifted at all from your chest, but you find that it isn’t quite as difficult to carry as it had been moments ago. “I think that’s one of the most comforting things you’ve said to me yet.” 

“Hmph. Yes. Well,” he grumbles, “Don’t get used to it.”

---

With the second heart stone offered up to the Guardian and sealed into place, the three of you turn your attention to the third and final tunnel - the one you’ve yet to travel down, and not least because, emanating from the entrance is an eerily familiar, yellow glow. 

Still, with little other option, the three of you gradually make your way through the open doors and find yourselves in a lower subsection of the Foundry. Karn is almost suffocatingly close to you, causing even the maker-intended tunnel to feel cramped and claustrophobic, although you have to admit that having a giant walking so near to your heels does leave you feeling adequately protected from behind, that is, until you come upon a relatively small, nondescript chamber. Or, it would be nondescript and wouldn't even particularly stand out from many of the Foundry's other chambers had it not been for the dozens upon dozens of corrupted, crystalline growths that burst like a fungus from every, available surface. 

Death's eyes narrow upon them. “Stay close,” he warns, leading the way down the narrow staircase and keeping as far from the crystals as he can, more for the sake of the two younglings behind him than any sense of self-preservation.

He hardly needs to tell you twice.

The light from those terrible growths of corruption almost seems to burn at your skin as you pass them, and for a moment, you begin to wonder if it's radiation that causes the unnatural glow. Then, you decide you don't know enough about chemistry and put it from your mind. There are far more pressing matters to worry about, after all.

“Death?” you hum, feeling the familiar, winding knots of unease begin to coil around in your stomach. 

The Horseman's eyes zero in on a dead construct sitting slumped in one corner. “Stay close,” he growls, but even then, he reaches a hand backwards and blindly grabs the hem of your shirt, tugging you until you're very nearly stepping on the heels of his boots. 

On an unspoken whim, Karn closes the distance to an even more claustrophobic degree. 

Dangling from a clamp set into the ceiling overhead just like its brethren, you spot the third and final heart stone, and from just one glance, you know you'd been right to worry about things that come in threes. 

“Uh, isn't that supposed to be blue, like the others?” you ask, nodding towards it.

“Aye.... It is,” Karn mutters darkly, ears flattening to his head, “There's somethin' very wrong with this one...”

The heart stone glows the same, pus-like yellow as the crystals growing all around it. Black gunk oozes from within it, dribbling down the patterns carved into its surface until each rivulet converges right at the stone's pointed tip, forming one, big globule of corrupted liquid. Eventually, it grows too large and you watch in horrified disgust as it finally relinquishes its hold on the stone and drops to the ground with a loud, wet 'Plop!'

“Ew,” you declare. 

“At least this stone doesn't require that I use you as a springboard, Pup,” Death remarks, rolling his shoulders and lifting his arm towards the ceiling.

Recognising the steadily increasing glow emitted by the gauntlet around his wrist, you dart out a hand and snatch his arm back, earning yourself a fearsome glare in return. With the Horseman's golden eyes boring down into you, your nerve begins to waver until you eventually pull away, yet the question bubbling up inside your throat still manages to find its way out. “What are you doing!?” you blurt, “The stone's corrupted!”

“I can see that,” Death coolly replies, making to raise his hand once more before he catches the fleeting look of alarm that you send up at the maker beside you. Sparing you a brief sigh, Death forces his glare to soften, if only a fraction. “Y/n, if we stop here, we'll have come all this way for nothing.” 

“But if we put that thing in the Guardian, something could go wrong!” The Horseman subjects you to his most uncompromising glare, one he's often been driven to use on his petulant siblings. 

“And if we do nothing, then nothing will change. Corruption will continue to spread across the Forge Lands, Tri Stone may eventually fall, and we'll be no closer to the Tree of Life.”

“But-” Hesitating, you chew on your lip and glance up at the maker. “- But Karn will have to carry it... You said we shouldn't let Corruption touch us!” 

Death's expression turns grave and you can see the pinch of his brow, hidden as it is beneath his mask. “I know,” he admits quietly, “It’s a risk. But unless you can think of another way to get it to the Guardian -” 

“I don't mind carryin' it!” Karn interrupts, jabbing a thumb into his own chest, “Corruption'll have a tough time gettin' under this thick skin.” 

You tip your head back to look up at him, worry laying heavily across your brow. “But, Karn-” 

“Oi, don't you go worryin' about me.” The unexpected gentleness of Karn's voice is anything but typical and reminds you more of the dulcet tones you might hear from the soft-spoken shaman, not your zealous and excitable young friend. “I'll be all right.”

Helplessly, you turn a pleading look onto Death, but you find no reassurance in the Horseman's calm and enigmatic eyes. 

Your acquiescence comes in the form of a resigned sigh, and once he's satisfied you won't protest further, Death hums approvingly and raises his hand once again towards the heart stone.

It seems so baffling to you that the ghostly appendage that flies from his gauntlet can be so strong and solid. Long, skeletal fingers latch easily onto the stone's uneven surface and clamp down, hard, seconds before Death is pulled up towards the oozing stone and clings to it, withdrawing his scythe. 

As he knocks the stone loose of its clamp, you can do little but hold your breath and watch, hands jumping into closed fists when it suddenly crashes to the ground with a dull but tremulous 'whump!' and a moment later, Karn is using the back of his gloved hand to nudge you away from it, giving him enough room to step protectively between you and the corrupted heart stone.

Death drops down to the earth beside it and moves around the maker, keeping a close eye on him whilst he bends down and slides his hands around the stone, braced and ready to react should anything begin to happen. After a few moments of regarding it as though he expects it to spring to life at any second, Karn sets his jaw and with a strained grunt, he hefts the cumbersome load up and settles it upon his shoulder. 

The tension in the chamber is thick and oppressive enough that you can almost feel it lend a heaviness to the breaths that enter your lungs. Whatever time-stream this realm rides upon seems to grind to an abrupt halt and you're all left in perfect stillness, watching.... waiting.....

… But nothing happens. 

One of Karn's eyes cracks open, having been squinted shut after he first touched the heart stone, and he glances down at himself, letting out a muted 'oh,' of surprise. 

“There, you see? He's fine,” Death tells you, “Now, let's get this stone back to its host.” 

Barely needing to be told twice, Karn begins to pick his way around the crystal growths and heads back toward the entrance whilst you and the Horseman walk in line with one another, following his path.

“So,” Death starts, folding his hands behind his back, “Are you learning to trust me yet?” 

“I already trust you, Death. I mean, it took a while but, I am there.” You're too busy admiring the broken construct you pass by to notice the shock that flashes across Death's eyes. 

You trust him?... 

And you really think a few days is a while? 

He drags his gaze off your face and elects to frown pensively at the straps of Karn's boots. At his silence, you continue, “Just because you trust someone doesn't mean you don't think they can be wrong sometimes.”

The old Nephilim huffs, uncertain of whether he should be insulted that you think he makes mistakes, or impressed at the philosophical side to your argument. After all, he himself would trust his siblings, but is more than aware that they're capable of erring from time to time. 

Appraising you thoughtfully from the corner of an eye, Death opens his mouth to accuse you of spending too much time around the puzzling and sagacious Eideard when, all of a sudden, Karn lets out a startled cry, disturbing the relative peace that's fallen over you.

Yelping his name, your eyes snap up to the maker, whereas Death's immediately land upon the reason for his alarm. 

From deep within the heart stone, Corruption's hideous consciousness had sensed a fresh, unwitting host, and temptation spurred it to send an insidious part of itself forth in search of the body it yearns to inhabit.

Blood rushes into your ears at the sight of the black, oily tendrils that stretch out of the heart stone and you barely register that you've taken several steps towards Karn before a hand is suddenly hauling you back and you soon find yourself gaping up at the bristling shoulders and jutting spine of a predatory Horseman. 

However, much to your shock and dizzying relief, Corruption’s target isn't the youngling. 

The heart stone lurches in Karn's grasp and he digs his fingertips into its callouses to keep it steady as the tendrils detach from their main cluster and drop to the ground near his feet. Rankled, the maker back-peddles up the steps and away from the writhing mess of darkness, whilst all you can do is watch from behind Death's guarding arm as corruption slips and gurgles its way across the room like a grotesque slug, heading straight for the broken-down construct slumped in the corner.

By the time Death realises its intent, he's too late to stop it. 

The flailing ball of corruption reaches up with its tendrils and slides them underneath the stone plates that make up the construct’s chest.

“What is that thing!?” you exclaim. 

When Karn takes in the pieces of stone on the ground, his face turns pale and he sucks in a sharp breath, his stomach sinking like a stone. “It... it’s a custodian,” he utters, his horror lending to your own. 

“Karn!” Death barks, and you suddenly find yourself grabbed yet again and shoved none-too-gently towards the young maker, “Get her out of here!” 

Acting swiftly, Karrn drops the heart stone and dashes back down the steps, clumsily curling his fingers around your torso and ushering you back to the entrance, away from the shuddering custodian. 

A pair of brutally strong hands that look well-equipped to dish out some serious, blunt-force trauma pound into the earth, gripping fistfuls of stone as the thick and undulating strands of corruption knit the broken body back together. The arms are first, dragged across the ground and slotted into the shoulders whilst a blocky head is set into a round, open cavity on top of the custodian's torso, which in turn, is lifted onto the last component; a rotating, stone sphere. 

Suddenly, the crevasses where its eyes would sit fill with the sickly yellow light you've come to know so well, and they lock straight onto the Horseman, who stalks backwards further into the room, deliberately drawing the construct away from you and Karn.

With his quarry's attention fixed wholly on him, Death whips out his scythes and splays his shoulders out wide, offering himself up as a challenge, though you can't help but think that bait would be a more appropriate term. Eerily, the hulking beast doesn't utter a sound from its stony maw, it merely pivots its body towards Death and begins to roll like a charging bull across the room, carried by its spherical base. 

It reaches him and rears itself back, arms thrust high over his head, ready to pummel the Nephilim back to dust. You're ashamed of the way his name leaves your lips in a helpless, desperate cry.

Less than a second before he's flattened however, Death strafes expertly to the side and skirts around the custodian, leaving mere inches of space in his wake as its fists obliterate the ground where'd he'd been standing. 

Lightening-quick, the Horseman strikes out at its exposed back, though it doesn't stay exposed for long. 

The custodian's size and weight give the impression of a creature that should be slow, it's movements cumbersome, yet the ball that bears its mass allows for a much broader range of movement. Namely, within a split second, the custodian whirls around on its axis to face Death, swinging its arm out in a wide arc, a move that would have bowled him clear off his feet had he not leapt back out of the way in time. 

Even from halfway across the room, you can hear the growl of frustration that escapes from underneath his mask as he makes another attempt to get close enough to the wildly swinging construct to even land a single blow on it, yet every time you start to think he may have found an opening, he's sent careening back by a sweep from one of the custodian's fists. 

“We have to help him,” you realise after the construct once again bludgeons one of the yellow crystal growths to smithereens in an attempt to reach Death. Glancing up at Karn, you find him staring grimly out at the battle with his lips peeled back over gritted teeth and it soon becomes evident that he hadn't heard you. 

Jaw setting, you turn about and begin to falteringly make your way down the steps. No sooner have you made it to the bottom than Karn suddenly snaps to attention and he lunges after you, throwing out a hand and slamming it to the ground right in your path, blocking the way forward. “What're you doin!?” he barks, frantic, “You tryin' to get yerself killed!?”

“We have to help him, Karn!” You attempt to sidestep his hand, but the maker is persistent, moving to stop you wherever you go. Grabbing his leather-bound thumb, you pull yourself up onto your toes and peer over the appendage, catching sight of Death just as he deflects a particularly savage blow that sends him skidding backwards for several yards until he's able to regain his balance. 

Now borderline hysterical, you cry, “He can't do this alone!” 

“He's Death! He's always done things by himself!” 

Even as Karn speaks, a foul curse is spat from the Horseman's mouth as he tries and fails to sever the beast's hand as it makes a clumsy grab at him. You twist your neck around and peer up at the maker behind you, causing his heart to thunk down into his stomach when he sees tears welling up in your eyes. 

“He shouldn't have to, though,” you utter, your fingers curling tightly into his glove, “Please, Karn?” 

The youngling stares back at you. There's not a force in the universe that could move him to action quite like the sight of your tears. Hesitating for all of a second, he sets his mouth into a determined line and his eyes grow as hard and unyielding as the stone underfoot. 

“I'll help 'im. You stay here,” he growls, nudging you back and standing to his full height. 

You get the impression that he's not asking. 

Death's scythes are battered by the custodian's fist yet again, though they still hold strong, even as their wielder's patience is quickly wearing thin. Unleashing a furious growl, the Horseman holds his ground, his back to the staircase as his assailant rolls like an unstoppable steam train towards him, its arm raising high into the air. 

Unfortunately for the corrupted construct, due in part to its one-track mind, it's so focused on Death that it doesn't even see the new and far larger threat barrelling in its direction.

There's a gut-wrenching instance in which you're convinced that Karn has entered the fray too late, and the Horseman will surely be unable to counter the coming strike. As the custodian's fist begins to descend, Death braces himself, crossing his scythes in front of him and wondering why he's been unable to call upon his Reaper form during this fight. 

All of a sudden, something enormous whooshes past his mask, and from the corner of an eye, he sees a hammer, swinging up through the air to meet the construct's downward swing in a head-on collision that throws the enormous beast off balance and, more pressingly, away from Death. Momentarily stunned, the Nephilim risks a quick glance up to see Karn standing beside him, rolling his shoulders. 

“What do you think you're doing?” Death hisses venomously, “I told you to get-”

“Suck it up, Horseman! She's right - You can't do this one alone.”

Curling his lip at the maker's snappish interruption and your insinuation, Death discovers that he has no time to retort because the custodian is suddenly upon them once more. 

Karn, although slower, is at least equipped to totter the construct on its axis with every swing of his hammer, and his addition to the battle allows Death more opportunities to get in close and tear a chunk of stone off its arms, back, anywhere that he can reach. 

Following only a few minutes of combat, it becomes clear that the speed and unrivalled agility of the eldest Nephilim, coupled with the sheer, brute strength of a maker is too much of a challenge, and the sinister force driving the custodian pauses, rolling its host back a few yards and assessing the threats ahead of it in search of a weakness, an opportunity, a chance. 

Karn and Death have planted themselves directly between you and the construct, the maker quivering with adrenaline and the Horseman just as calculating and cold as you expect him to be. 

Suddenly, the custodian's head stops swinging back and forth between the two and comes to rest with its yellow gaze pointed straight through the middle of them.

“Why's it just standin' there?” Karn rumbles, an uneasy feeling blooming in the pit of his stomach at the custodian's decidedly thoughtful pause. Next to him, Death's eyes are narrowed to thin slits as he considers the stone behemoth warily whilst it simply peers back, unmoving.

A sensation that he's still unaccustomed to hits him in the chest at full force when he finally realises what – or rather, who – the construct has turned its sights onto.

He's too late to shout a warning, or to try and stop it as the custodian suddenly explodes into motion and lurches forwards, hurtling straight for them and keeping its shoulders low like a battering ram, forcing both maker and Horseman to dive instinctively out of its way rather than risk being mowed down, just as it had planned.

Within a fraction of a second, Death is wheeling about, a cry of outrage lingering in his throat. Karn is quick to follow suit and the maker's entire face drains of all colour once he sees the disaster about to occur right in front of them. 

Corruption – fuelled by hate and spite – had spotted the group's vulnerability, and they had just stepped aside to let it pass. 

Fear is not something that Karn ever likes to admit to feeling, but in that moment, watching you trip backwards up the steps and land painfully on your backside when the custodian careens towards you with hellish intent, the maker is certain he's never felt so afraid in his life. 

Deep below the crashing waves of fear however, there's something far more reactive bubbling to the surface. He's never been an especially aggressive maker, not in temperament at least. 

That all changes in a split second at the realisation that you're in imminent danger. 

Without even taking the time to think, the maker discards his hammer, leaving it forgotten in his wake in favour of charging after the custodian as though a fire has been lit underneath his boots. But even though he's running at a speed he's never reached before, down in a dark, frightened corner of his heart, Karn knows he's too slow to get there in time. That doesn't stop him from willing himself forwards though, a bellowed shout of 'NO!' blasting from his mouth and a hand reaching out to you.

Behind him, the Horseman's own arm shadows his movements, lifting towards you as well. 

Death is aware of only two things. 

The first, his Reaper Form is suddenly trying to return with a vengeance, bucking against the magics that keep it shackled. And secondly, even if it manages to emerge, neither it nor the youngling will make it to you in time. 

He doesn't even register that he's sent out the mental command to his gauntlet, hardly notices the flash of purple light or the phantom hand that lunges forth and flies across the room towards you, long, disjointed fingers splaying out wide, reaching, stretching to their limits in a desperate attempt to win the terrible race. 

Scrambling futilely backwards and blind to everything but the construct bearing down on top of you, your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, throat too tight with terror to even scream. There are fists as big as cars lifting high above you and all you can think about is how much the next few seconds are going to hurt. 

They do hurt. Just not in the way you'd expected. 

Pressure suddenly cinches around your torso and you don't even have a second to take a breath before the air is knocked from your lungs as you're ripped forwards violently, your head snapping back from the abruptness of the motion. You collide with something hard and cold that immediately curls itself around you, and when your head stops spinning and you can open your eyes again, you look up to see the underside of Death's chin. 

Confused as to how you've come to be in his grasp, you turn your gaze outwards and find yourself staring in horrified awe at the brutal scene playing out in front of you.

The custodian's fists had all but demolished the steps where you'd been sprawled mere moments ago and the beast appears just as confused as you are to find that you're not a blood-stain beneath its hands.

Without slowing for even an instant, Karn rams into the construct's back and digs his fingers into the grooves around its neck, wrenching it back and hurling it sideways into a cluster of crystals that shatter upon impact. You hardly recognise the youngling with the way his teeth are bared, revealing the real extent of his formidable tusks as he bellows resoundingly and unintelligibly, casting aside all decorum to bend down and engulf the custodian's head in his fists. 

With you pinned protectively against his heaving chest, Death tries to block the view with his arm, but you still manage to peer over the top of his limb, watching raptly whilst Karn squares his shoulders and gives the head a nauseating and vicious twist, wresting it clean off the custodian's shoulders and effectively severing the corruption from its host.

An awful screech turns your blood to ice, yet you still stare agape at the oily rivers that slide down the custodian's body and sink into the floor, followed moments after by crumbling remnants of limbs and stone plates that are no longer held together by tendrils of corruption. 

At last, the chamber falls still and quiet once more, save for Karn's guttural grunts and your tentative sigh of relief. 

Flexing his hands, the maker glares hatefully down at the mess and gives it a dismissive snort before he whips his head around to face you, his chest convulsing with every breath. Suddenly, the body curled over you begins to unfurl as Death straightens up again and lowers his arms, letting you take a shaky step out of them before you turn around to face him. 

The Horseman doesn't even bother to stop his eyes from darting over you from head to foot in search of any fresh injuries.

“So...” you croak, rubbing at the back of your neck where an ache has already begun, “That was-”

“-Close?” he guesses. 

“I was going to say terrifying, but yeah, it was pretty close.” 

Booming footfalls alert you to Karn's approach and you turn to meet him, only to be startled by a pair of gigantic hands that curl around you, hovering just close enough to keep you trapped amongst trembling fingers. 

“Are you all right!?” Karn blares, beads of sweat trickling down his forrid, “Did 'e hurt you!? Tell me you're okay!” 

He's still shaking as the last threads of rage seep out of his bones and you're quick to place a calming hand on his thumb, raising your voice to be heard over the maker's babbling. “Karn, I'm okay! Chill! Death pulled me out of the way in time.”

The youngling's ears remain plastered to his skull and he doesn't look even remotely reassured, his eyes roving up and down your body as though he expects to discover a hidden injury. 

After yet another near-death experience, you aren't quite sure where you find the capacity to crack a joke, but somehow, your lips manage to quirk up into a faltering grin and you say, “I-It's a good thing Death found that gauntlet, huh? It.. uh, it came in really handy back there.” 

You may have tripped over your words, it may have been awkward and clumsy and you may be subjected to a very unimpressed glare from the Horseman, but for the time being, your focus is on the crumbling maker in front of you. 

Karn's heavy breaths pause for a few seconds whilst he takes in your words, blinking at you with a perplexed frown. Then, he draws in a long, shuddering breath and expels it roughly again, his chest deflating as the warm air washes over your face until his exhale turns into a rough, throaty chuckle. “Ha... 'handy,” he grins. 

Not even Death's deadpan stare prevents your shaky, wheezing giggle, if anything, one glance at the Horseman and you dissolve even further, breathlessly leaning against one of Karn's hands. 

It's clear that the thrill of surviving another potentially fatal encounter has left you feeling giddy, something that Death can't fault you for, and in fact, he even lets a flicker of an indulgent smile bend the curve of his lips. Glancing up at him, you suddenly fall silent, peering at him as though he's sprouted a halo. “Death?” you say, incredulous, “Are you smiling?” 

Quick as a flash, his face drops into its usual scowl and he crosses his arms, cocking a hip and drawling, “And why on earth would I be doing something like that?”

Undeterred, you lift a finger and point to one corner of your mouth. “You smile with this side. Your left eye sort of half-closes and gets all wrinkly whenever you do it.”

To that, the Nephilim can't come up with a response, more-so because he's taken aback by the knowledge that you've obviously been watching him far more closely than he'd assumed. Fortunately for his pride, you don't press the matter and rather than wait too long for a response, you let out a hum and push yourself away from the maker's glove as he gets back onto his feet, giving you a clearer view of the now destroyed custodian. 

“Talk about putting the 'Karn' in 'carnage,” you say, appraising the pile of rubble before raising a brow at the youngling, who returns the look with a sheepish smile. 

“Aye, sorry 'bout that. Hope I didn't scare you none.”

“Don't worry, you didn't. It was weird to see you angry though.”

Pressing his lips together, Karn makes a sound at the back of his throat, something between a hum and a grumble. “Doesn't happen often,” he admits quietly. 

As the pair of you absently start to make your way back towards the entrance together, walking side by side, Death goes entirely unnoticed. He considers you both in silence, catching everything from the way Karn lazes into each step which gives you the chance to keep pace, to the lack of distance between you both, always staying within reach of one another... 

You make... rather good friends, he realises, stubbornly ignoring the pit that opens up in his stomach at the very thought, reminding him that he wouldn't know friendship if it came up and slapped him around the face. He might not be any kind of expert, but he does recognise it when he sees it. 

Earlier, when he had been searching for a way to open the fall gate, he had heard you through its thick stone, his keen ears picking up on the muffled conversation held between you and the maker when you thought yours' were the only ears listening.

You planned to stay with the makers. 

Well.... Fine.

Good, even.

The Forge Lands... will make an adequate home for you, Death can't help but privately admit. And the makers will be perfect guardians. Of course, he shall have to have a word with Eideard before leaving, to ensure that the Old one keeps you and Karn out of trouble, as much as he can. 

Yes... It's the perfect solution. You'll remain here with the giants, and Death can carry on, alone.

Karn will be happy to have you all to himself. Perhaps in time, you’ll actually even notice the way he looks at you.

“Death?” 

The Horseman blinks and looks up, tugged back to the room by the sound of your voice. You've stopped on the staircase and twisted around to face him even as Karn continues on to cautiously retrieve the heart stone. 

“Are you coming? Or are you just gonna stand there until the end of time?” 

With an air of nonchalance that only Death could summon, he shakes his thoughts away and saunters over to you, using his knuckles to prod you up the stairs once he reaches your side. 

“Get moving,” he grumbles, though the command has no real heat behind it, “I'd like to get this stone back to the Guardian before we run into any more surprises.” 

You're walking ahead of him, so he doesn't see your smile wither and die as you make it to Karn's side, the youngling already having reclaimed possession of the corrupted heart stone.

----------------------------

The heavens had once again split open during your short walk back to the courtyard and the rain drums mercilessly down on your heads as you all emerge from the tunnel and step out into the courtyard. Aside from nature’s downpour splashing noisily against the ground, your journey has passed in relative silence, although Death gets the sense that there are several, burning questions you're dying to vocalise, and he doesn't miss the surreptitious glances that Karn keeps sending your way, the maker's lip trapped between his teeth all the way back to the Guardian. 

Much, much too soon for your liking, you soon find yourself standing before the monstrous construct once again, your neck craned painfully in order to look up towards its head where, right in the space above its stony brows, there sits a hole, framed by a bronze surround which is obviously meant to house the heart stone laying across Karn's shoulders. 

The skin on your thumb is subjected to a vicious torment by your other hand as you absently pick at it until cold fingers suddenly wrap around your wrist and tug your hands apart. Sheepishly, you peer up at Death and tuck your thumb into the hem of your skirt, hiding it from view. After a few more seconds spent underneath the Horseman's chiding frown, you let out a sigh when he finally releases you and turns to Karn, who's teeth haven't stopped worrying at his lip. 

“Pup,” Death calls, causing the maker to give a start and whip his head down, releasing his welted lip in the process, “It's time.” 

The small puddle of dread that has been sloshing around in your gut ever since you arrived at the Foundry promptly turns into a flood that rises into your lungs and squeezes at your heart. 

As if he's fine-tuned to the same wavelength as you, Karn hesitates, furrowing his brow before twisting back to regard the heart stone and pressing his palm gently to its surface. You could almost swear the yellow light pulses in response, which makes you wonder how deep the connection really runs between these giants and the stones that supposedly hold the souls of their fallen brethren. 

“We've seen its work, Horseman,” the youngling says, his ears drooping as he speaks, “Corruption fair weeps from it. Maybe....” He falters, and when he looks down at you, you notice that his forehead is etched by worried lines. “Maybe Y/n's right. Maybe this ain't such a good idea.”

Death's head swivels from the maker on his right to the human standing to his left. Just like that, it dawns on him that he's amongst not one, but two younglings. 

“I have a theory,” he begins, impressed that the patience in his tone could match Eideard's, “The other two heart stones were pure. I'm wagering that their radiance will cleanse the third.”

After a pause, the youngling tips his head back to stare apprehensively at the Guardian. “Mayhaps.” 

“Not, uh.. Not that I'm any kind of authority on corruption and magical stones and whatnot,” you offer in the ensuing silence, “But have you ever seen what happens when you put a drop of ink in a glass of water?”

The Horseman lifts a brow, retorting, “I hardly think this is the time for -” 

“-The water doesn't turn the ink clear, Death,” you press, pleading. When he glances down, he notes that your hands are wringing together. “It's so often the other way around.” 

Surprised, he can't help but admit that your analogy raises a rather compelling argument, and a troublesome point. Yet even so, the plain and simple fact of the matter is that by choosing not to act, then the valley and perhaps even the whole realm will be condemned to a slow, but inevitable death. 

At least, if things change, there is a chance that they may change for the better. But first, the have to change at all. 

Death steels himself against the strangely affecting look you're giving him and he clears his throat, gently putting, “You both know that the greater risk is to do nothing.”

A somber moment passes between the three of you and you finally lower your eyes to the ground, conceding without uttering a word. 

Seeing your silent, if not reluctant acceptance, Karn too gives the Horseman a solemn nod and sighs, “Aye.” 

Without further ceremony, he steps forward and heaves the mighty stone from his shoulder, offering it up to the Guardian. 

Seconds later, your head snaps up when the stone is promptly ripped from his hands and shoots like a bullet up towards the enormous construct's head, propelled by whatever magic resonates underneath its surface. 

Teeth grit, you wince as the projectile crashes right through the wooden scaffolding and into its destined slot with enough force to jolt the Guardian in its struts, shaking the gigantic chains that keep its wrists secured to the Foundry walls. 

Immediately, golden light explodes from the stone, though it's soon drowned underneath a blinding, brilliant blue.

And then, your heart is thunking down into your shoes as the Guardian's colossal neck plates begin to rattle and at long last, the great beast raises its head, twin flickers of pale light bursting to life in the carved eye sockets. Its heart stone pulses in response with the same blue light and there is, for a moment, the brief hope that perhaps Corruption isn't strong enough to breath this construct's will. 

Suddenly, the entire world around you begins to shudder and shift and the air fills with the deafening sound of a mountain trying to move. 

Death's hand appears from nowhere and grabs your shoulder, holding you steady when you almost teeter sideways as the Guardian wrenches at the chains, straining against them until a thunderous CRACK rings out across the courtyard. 

To your horror, the rusted metal gives way completely, falling from the Guardian's wrists and crashing to the ground with one, final heave.

Over the din, you can hear Karn shouting excitedly. “The corruption has burned off like rain on a hot forge!” Beaming at Death, he exclaims, “You were right!”

However, one glance at the Horseman, and you can tell that the enthusiasm is far from shared. 

Death's fiery eyes narrow to slits as he looks up at the Guardian. 

Before you can ask what the matter is, he rasps a phrase that turns your blood to ice and sends panic sweeping through your veins. 

“I was wrong.”

You turn to meet Karn’s horrified gaze over Death’s head, the youngling’s expression perfectly conveying your own thoughts - at least those that consist predominantly of nonsensical screaming. 

Seconds later, you're clapping both hands over your ears to protect them. 

From somewhere deep in the Guardian's cavernous chest, there booms forth a roar so powerful, it feels as though a thunderclap has gone off right beside you.

Turning your focus up once again, you can't help but to gasp at the sight. No longer is the final heart stone shimmering with the blue radiance that the others share. Now, the unmistakable, yellow glow of corruption is prominent, drowning out any trace of blue, whilst thick tendrils sprout from within it. At an alarming speed, they grow larger and longer, so much so that in no time, they start to wrap themselves around the Guardian's neck and dig their pointed tips underneath its plating. 

One of the colossal arms gives an almighty shake, as though the beast is attempting to rid itself of the tendrils that are now snaking their way down to its elbow, coiling and spreading in every direction until a thick webbing of the stuff has engulfed its solitary hand. 

But tragically, whatever fight the construct might have put up was already over the moment the heart stone entered its head. 

Helpless, you can do nothing but stare and cover your ears against another, ear-splitting and haunting wail as the lights inside its eye sockets lose their pale hue and turn the colour of pus, flashing and flaring like a pair of suns on the brink of going supernova. 

You're so distracted by the somewhat mesmerising display of such an effective, parasitic takeover that you hardly notice the titanic leg moving towards you until it smashes through the stone and wood scaffolding built around it and hurtles straight for you, Death and Karn.

Dragging your eyes down to what can only be described as an entire tower speeding in your direction, you try to choke out a gasp and your brain chooses that moment to freeze up, failing to provide you with a direction in which to dive. 

Lucky then, that Death's brain is still functioning perfectly. 

Whilst you and Karn stare agog at your impending doom, the Horseman, driven by sheer instinct, throws his scythe out towards the youngling and a hand towards you. 

The weapon's edge curls around one of the straps on Karn's backpack, and at the same time, Death's fingers wrap around the neck of your top. 

Without a split second to spare, the Nephilim leaps backwards out of the Guardian's path and subsequently drags you and Karn right along with him. 

The maker lets out a grunt as he lands on his rucksack, whereas you find your spine hitting Death's chest when he falls to the ground beneath you, and not a moment too soon, as the construct's leg goes sailing over your heads before it pounds into the dirt again just a few, scant feet from where you all lay.

To you, the world had almost come crashing down on top of you. 

To the Guardian, it had done little more than taken its first step into the world for which it was created.

All around, pieces of debris continue to crumble and fall as it approaches the cliff walls that hem the Foundry in, walls that bear no obstacle for a creature that stands twice their height.  

Trembling against Death's chest even when he pushes himself into a sitting position, you stare after the Guardian, your teeth chattering to witness it step over the cliff wall like you'd step over a stick in your path.

The thunderous foot falls recede into the distance, and only then do you scramble to escape Death's hold and shoot up onto your unsteady legs, a sudden, awful realisation hitting you harder than a slap to the face. 

“I-It's – it's heading for Tri Stone!” you struggle out, your exclamation followed by Karn's accompanying cry of, “The others!”

The youngling doesn't hesitate. He breaks into a lumbering run, bee-lining for the courtyard's primary entrance without even glancing back to see if either you or Death are following. 

“Karn!” the Horseman barks.

“I have to go back!” the maker bellows in return, never slowing his gait, “I have to make sure they're alright!” 

Fatigue is blessedly exchanged for adrenaline and you're able to forget all about your aching body as you break into a run and start after your friend in stubborn spite of the instinct to sprint in the opposite direction. The Guardian is an impossible obstacle that you have no way of hurdling.

And still, you run. 

With a snarl of frustration, Death spits an old Nephilim curse and follows suit. For a human, you manage to kick up a bit of speed as you chase after Karn through the Foundry, a Horseman hot on your own heels.

Hitting the enormous, circular chamber, you almost think you’ve somehow gone the wrong way, but the chains hanging down from the walls and the lava spitting and bubbling below you are so, unmistakably familiar, you have to do a double take, roving your gaze across the room as you hurtle along the curved catwalk. When you notice the rather worrying change, you nearly stop dead in your tracks. 

“The hammer's gone,” you breathe, following Karn at a sprint through the doors, your voice raising in pitch until it's an alarmed shout, “Are you shitting me? The hammer! It – It took the hammer!”

Karn’s feet pound like thunderclaps against the stone ground whilst Death’s are hardly heard at all. However, the cold that chases the back of your neck is reassurance that he is there, always behind you, even when you burst through the Foundry’s main entrance and spill out onto the bridge.

Smoke plumes rise ominously from beyond Tri Stone’s outer walls and all you can do is keep running until the wind stings at your eyes and the icy rain hits your skin like tiny sparks of fire.

The sky suddenly lights up and just moments later, from somewhere further down the valley, there’s a boom of thunder, indicating a swiftly approaching storm. 

[olivinesea]

Play it Right

a/n: I’m back! We’re in the single digit countdown to the end of this godforsaken school year aghhhh. So excited I can’t even tell you. Here’s some Hotch being sad but trying to be a good dad. ~3.3k

Hotch & Sean take Jack out for his birthday.

Memories of childhood were hard to come by, often only wisps of faded colors that he couldn’t completely resolve into images. There were light drenched afternoons with disembodied fingers pulling up blades of grass. Other partial scenes where dirt stained knees crawled into dark spaces where the world was cool and damp, following a trail of ants as they slowly dismantled some lifeless form. There was the sickened twist of fascination that accompanied the discovery, watching the way it was transformed from something into nothing with only the help of a few thousand tiny insects. Individually inconsequential in size, collectively a force of nature unstoppable as they reduced the abandoned shell into a small drift of feathers. The pale structure stirred and blown away easily by the air displaced when he reached down to take a single one. He dreamed about the ants coming to him, taking him away piece by piece until there was nothing left but traces of bone dust, dispersed by a midnight breeze. For any other child this would have been a nightmare but to him it was a promise. A promise of order and structure, an indication that time did in fact move forward and wasn’t trapped within stagnated pools hiding in the dim recesses of closets. That it wasn’t a continuous loop of threats and tears, of lies worn so smooth they slipped out of mouths unaware. It won’t happen again. He loves you. I love you.

It was far better to let his memories of childhood be lost. Easy enough to do with no one else who had been present at the time around to reinforce them with retelling. No one else to share with over a drink, bouncing stories back and forth, refreshing the dilapidated structures with a new coat of detail. As he let them dissolve they became defanged, passive enough to believe they were not even about him but possibly a story he’d once read and allowed to mingle with his reality. He had always been told he had a vivid imagination, maybe he could allow that to be true retroactively. It didn’t matter anymore anyway. He was still here and none of them were.

Except Sean.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose impatiently. They’d been waiting for Sean for at least half an hour. His brother, never punctual, was cutting it close once again. They were supposed to be taking Jack to the Mets game. Originally conceived by Sean, the idea was floated as a birthday gift for Jack’s tenth birthday—double digits, a big deal for any kid. Somehow this “gift” had become something Hotch had organized entirely, buying the tickets, getting Jack and himself to New York, filling in the rest of the weekend with kid-friendly activities. He’d made it so easy for Sean, all he had to do was show up and he wasn’t even getting that part right. He glanced at his watch again, resisting the urge to double check the time printed on the tickets. It was a baseball game, it wouldn’t be the end of the world if they missed the beginning.

He looked at Jack, sitting on the bench, fiddling with the laces of his glove. The glove was a hand-me-down of sorts. He had found it while helping clean out their parents’ house after their mother passed away. Sean swore it wasn’t his but it couldn’t be Hotch’s either, it was for someone right-handed. Plus, he couldn’t pull up any memories connected to it. He’d never been a team sport kind of kid. Too silent, too reserved to fit in with the loud boys who jostled each other playfully and banded together with unnecessary vitriol for the opposing teams. Hotch never understood team rivalries. Of all the many sources of hatred he’d learned, going to a different school didn’t make the list. It didn’t make any sense to create tension, to whip up emotions that had no basis. He knew enough of hate not to go looking for it where it didn’t need to exist.

Rather than argue with Sean about it, he’d taken the glove home and held on to it until Jack was big enough to use it. He wasn’t exactly sure why but he made up a story for it, weaving a collection of happy moments to accompany the time-softened leather. He told Jack the stories he felt he should have had, the kinds of stories fathers should tell their sons. He hadn’t bothered to do this when Jack was younger, hadn’t worried about his son’s perception of the past. But as Jack got older, as life took more and more away from him before he’d even had a chance to be aware of what he had, Hotch felt the need to give him pieces of a family history. He felt they should be stories that would make him feel normal, if that were at all possible with a life like this. Like he was any other kid with parents who were once kids themselves, chasing the same simple joys. He thought it might be comforting, I’ve known happiness and so can you.

Hotch would do anything to make Jack happy and even though it often made him crazy, this meant including Sean in their lives. His relationship with Sean had always been tense. There were several years after Haley’s death, after his absence in the aftermath, when things were beyond strained. Hotch, once he had surfaced enough to feel things, had burned with a white hot anger, tempting him to sever their tie permanently. It was an anger he didn’t trust himself with, strong enough to break through his control without a second’s notice. So he didn’t call, didn’t make the effort he knew was required to pull his brother back into his orbit. He never spoke of it of course but Jessica noticed. She heard Jack asking about his uncle, saw the muscle in Hotch’s jaw jump as he ground his teeth together to keep from saying something he shouldn’t. When she felt enough time had passed, she started to push him in little ways to reach out, to reconnect.

So he’d ended up here, once again, waiting for Sean, unsure if he’d even manage to remember his nephew’s birthday. Hotch was internally cursing his younger brother and considering leaving on the next train with or without him when the younger man appeared. He looked a little disheveled, hair sticking up in odd places, the shirt under his leather jacket not altogether clean. But he was smiling and calling their names, sweeping first Jack and then Hotch into a hug, almost certainly intending to irritate his brother with the uninvited contact. Hotch could smell the beer on his breath and gave him a sharp look. Sean shrugged it off and turned his attention to Jack.

“Alright kid, are you ready for this?” he ruffled the boy’s sandy blond hair as he asked. Jack grinned up at him, nodding his head a little too vigorously. Sean never failed to charm.

Hotch frowned at them. “Come on, let’s get going. We’re cutting it a little close.”

Sean scoffed and made a face at Jack, mimicking Hotch’s serious features, only to stick his tongue out and make Jack giggle. “Relax, it’ll be fine.” He punched Hotch’s shoulder, earning another glare, but they all started walking toward the platform. Hotch followed just half a step behind, keeping a close eye on Jack in the thickening crowd. He watched Sean weave confidently through people, happily becoming the lead adventurer. Hotch, who had regretted this from the moment he’d agreed, felt his stomach twisting on itself, anticipating what kind of unnecessary chaos Sean would lead them into today.

They made it to the ballpark without too much difficulty. With some shuffling, they arranged themselves in the hard stadium seats, Jack between the two men. This checked two boxes for Hotch—in the middle Jack was both protected and protecting him from being too close to his brother. If Sean had been a little tipsy when he’d shown up he could now be considered fully inebriated. He hadn’t stopped drinking beer since they got there. Hotch, already on edge, was exasperated by this behavior. However, his pointed glares got him nothing but a grin and a lifted glass waved in his direction.

Jack didn’t notice, just happy to see his Uncle Sean who was always so fun and wild. He was the only family of his dad’s that he had ever met so there was something extra special about this man, so different from his dad but somehow his nearest relative. Jack was chattering to him about kid things, filling Sean in on all the art projects and field trips and other critical moments of his life. He proudly showed off the glove, talking about how his dad told him of Sean’s skill as a baseball player and how he said he used to go watch his games and cheer him on.

Sean almost spit out beer he laughed so hard at this information. “You’re kidding. Is that the kind of BS your dad is feeding you?” He looked over at Hotch, who might have been trying to literally kill him with the look he was directing his way. “That damn glove was never mine and you know it Aaron.”

Unrelenting in his disapproval, Hotch shrugged slightly, “Maybe I have some of the details mixed up.”

“Details?” He looked back at Jack, “That glove was your dad’s and for some stupid reason he tried to throw it away one day and your grandpa kicked the shit out of him for it.”

“Sean!”

“What?” Sean was an expert at faking innocence. Jack was wide eyed, looking between the two adults, not understanding what was happening.

“Can I speak with you?” Hotch’s words were clipped, gritting them out between clenched teeth.

“Oooh Agent Hotchner, yessir,” Sean sat up straight, faking a snap to attention but the effect was lost as he swayed slightly. Hotch pressed lips together and grabbed Sean by the jacket shoulder, pulling him to his feet and pushing him out into the aisle.

“What are you thinking? Why would you say something like that?” Hotch tried not to raise his voice but he was barely succeeding.

“You think it’s better for him to believe in some bullshit you made up?” Sean spat back at him.

“Why not? I’m protecting him. He’s lived through enough, he deserves to have some happy stories.”

“So you lie to him,” Sean said, voice flat.

“It’s not lying.”

Sean wasn’t playing anymore, he was angry, every bit as angry as Hotch. His face was flushed from alcohol and emotion. He looked directly at Hotch, making sure his words sank in. “It is lying, just like you lied to me.”

“I never lied to you,” Hotch protested but the words barely made it out of his mouth.

Sean laughed meanly. “You lied to me every fucking day in that house Aaron. I saw everything, heard everything only for you to turn around and tell me it was all fine, that our dad was a good man.” He paused for a moment, looking down at his clenched fists. “I thought I was fucking crazy.”

“I just wanted to protect you.”

“Bullshit. You were being selfish, just like you are now. You think you can just change the facts and no one will know, that it won’t affect anyone else. I have bad news for you: we don’t all just exist in this world you made up in your head. Jack is a real person, I am a real person. Refusing to admit what was happening didn’t make it any less real, it just meant that I was alone with it. Just a little kid alone trying to understand why someone who was supposed to take care of me would hurt my brother and why, why my brother would lie about it. Did you think I was stupid?”

Hotch didn’t know how to respond, stunned by the bitterness of Sean’s words.

“I’m not going to sit around while you lie to someone else about our shitty father. What’s even the point of protecting him anymore?”

Hotch frowned, “I wanted you to have a normal life, a normal relationship with him. He liked you. I thought if I could keep that side of him away, you could have the kind of father I saw other kids have. I thought I could give you that.”

“You’re an arrogant bastard. Always have been.”

“Please, Sean,” he tried to find more words, some way to make Sean understand. He’d only ever wanted to keep him safe.  

“I won’t lie about this Aaron and you shouldn’t either, Jack’s going to learn everything someday, whether you like it or not. Do you want him to be able to come to you? Or do you want him to be afraid, afraid he can’t trust you to tell him the truth?”

Hotch hung his head. “I’m sorry Sean. I didn’t realize—”

Sean cut him off, “I’m done with this.” Clumsily he pulled something out of his pocket. “Here, give this to Jack, tell him I said happy birthday.”

Hotch wanted to ask him to stay but he’d already turned, walking up the stairs, grabbing the railing every once in a while to correct his balance. Hotch looked at the coin in his hand, a Kennedy half-dollar, remembered giving it to Sean on his tenth birthday. It was the same coin his father had given him when he turned 10, just before Sean was born. He remembered the time of his mother’s pregnancy as being particularly bad. His father had been careful with her, solicitous even, trying to ensure that this baby, this wanted baby, would make it safely into the world. But his temper hadn’t gone anywhere, he simply focused it all on Aaron. He'd had to miss a lot of school that fall.

But then, for no reason discernible to him, his father’s mood had shifted a couple months before the baby was due. He started coming home early, bringing gifts for both of them. Some were even wrapped (by the shop clerk no doubt, but wrapped). The glove had been one of these gifts. It hadn’t fit him right but he had said thank you and hoped he could keep this version of his dad around as long as possible. It lasted until Sean was about six months old. The first night his dad came home drunk and angry, yelling at his mom who just stood there holding Sean, too petrified to move away. Seeing that, the frailty and futility in his mother’s stance, he knew that he had to get in between them. He knew then he would do anything he could to protect his baby brother. Sean was the most perfect thing he had ever seen and he intended to keep it that way. He’d done what he could but all he really knew how to do was lie. It was all he’d ever been taught.

The glove became a nightmare that repeatedly came back to haunt him. His dad would go through fits of wanting to be a “normal family.” He would drag them out to the lake for picnics, would insist Aaron play catch with him in the yard. But he was never coordinated enough and it would always end with his dad frustrated and cursing him. When he was thirteen he started to experience overwhelming fits of anger. They came on suddenly, could be set off by anything. His vision would blur and he would feel a desperate need to lash out against the brutally indifferent world around him. During one of these fits, he threw the glove in the garbage, sick of being humiliated by it. Then, the emotion gone as quickly as it appeared, he promptly forgot about it.

Unfortunately, being an angry adolescent did not lead to the smartest decisions. His father found it in the trash and immediately went looking for his ungrateful son. He’d found him with Sean building tiny forts out of sticks in the back yard. Aaron hadn’t even had a chance to remember that he’d thrown the thing away before it was being used to leave marks on his exposed skin. Hotch wondered that Sean could even remember it, he had been so young. He wondered, too, how he could have forgotten, the sting of his failure to protect his brother from that knowledge making itself clearly felt now.

The coin, however, had been a treasured gift, inspiring him to begin a collection that he hid carefully in the back of a drawer. Something he could pull out and remind himself that there had been good moments. That he hadn’t just imagined them. Looking at his coins offered rare moments of peace in the continuous turbulence of the Hotchner household. When he was twenty and Sean only ten, Aaron had felt guilty for not being around as much. The kid had recently lost his father and was living with a quickly deteriorating mother. So he gave Sean the original half-dollar, hoping that his little brother would be able to find the same comfort in it, maybe even develop his own interest in the hobby. Unsurprisingly, coin collecting never caught on with Sean. He was too loud, too rough to spend hours inside, inspecting tiny characters and noticing slight variations in markings. Hotch had assumed Sean had lost the coin years ago, had even felt a little sad thinking about it being lost. Sean was many things but he never failed to surprise Hotch. He shook his head, clearing the lingering thoughts, needing to focus on what he was going to say to Jack. He turned to walk back to their seats.

Jack watched his approach over his shoulder, “Where’s Uncle Sean?”

“He wasn’t feeling well, he said to wish you happy birthday.”

“You made him leave,” Jack’s small face was contorted into an accusing scowl.

Hotch shook his head, ready to commit to this stretching of the truth but he stopped himself. “He was upset,” he started then paused. He really didn’t want to explain this story.

“Why?”

Hotch rubbed the coin with his thumb, “Well, he didn’t like the story I told you about the glove.”

“Why not?”

“It isn’t the truth and he thought that it was wrong of me to lie.”

Jack was quiet, thinking about this. Hotch waited patiently for him to process. “What’s the true story?”

He hesitated, “It’s not a very nice story Jack.”

“But it’s the truth?”

Hotch nodded, the muscles around his lungs constricting too tightly to speak. Jack looked too serious for a ten year old. “Then that’s the story I want to hear.”

A mix of emotion spread through him, partly anger at Sean for forcing his hand, but also pride in his son’s strength. He sighed, “And I’ll tell you, but not today ok buddy? Today is about you and about good memories.”

“Ok Dad but you have to promise.”

Hotch smiled, “I promise. Here, Uncle Sean wanted me to give you this, it’s your birthday gift.”

Jack took the offered object and looked closely, trying to figure out what it was. The metal was aged making the words hard to read through the patina. “It’s…old?”

Hotch laughed. “It is very old, you’re right.”

“What is it?”

“Well, do you want to hear the story of where it came from?”

“Only if it’s true,” Jack replied, a little smile revealing that he was teasing his dad. When had he gotten so mature?

“Of course, nothing but from now on,” Hotch held up his hand in mock solemnity. Without warning, Jack leaned over and wrapped his small arms as far as they would go around Hotch, pressing his face into his chest. Hotch hugged him back, thankful that despite everything, every stupid mistake and unforgivable failure, he had managed to get this one thing right.

[theemptyskies]

Ok I'm posting this first chapter a little late haha. It was for @azulaweek for Day 2 Rare Pairs and Day 4 AU.

It's going to be a Buffy the Vampire Slayer and AtLA crossover.

Hope y'all enjoy! Shout out to @juniperhillpatient for motivating me to give this a shot. You're awesome 🙂

Any feedback is appreciated ❤

Displacement - A New Beginning

Content Warning: Major Character Death, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Blood and Gore

Summary

The rise of Vaatu leads to unprecedented darkness falling upon the world. Unexpected events lead to Azula learning to live in an unknown world, preparing for an uncertain future.

-------------------------------------------------------

A spell to close the Hellmouth in "The Zeppo" has unexpected consequences. With no way of sending the newcomer home, Buffy, Faith and the Scoobies do their best to help the young girl adapt to her new home.

Or

While facing the possible end of the world, Azula finds herself transported through the newly created hellmouth, ending up in Sunnydale. Watch as she grows and adapts in this new world, learning to overcome the pain of losing loved ones, finding a family, and starting to see this as a new opportunity at life.

Anyone who thought the Fire Nation was evil was a fool. At least they should feel they are, given the darkness that has enveloped the world in the four years since the war has ended. It all began last year when Avatar Roku warned Avatar Aang that there was a risk of a dark spirit breaking free. He called it Vatu. It was the spirit of chaos and darkness, the antithesis to the Avatar spirit. 

The spirit had a sort of cult worshipping it. Avatar Aang tried to stop them himself, not wanting to involve their friends and risk our safety. That was his first mistake. It left Katara and myself woefully unprepared for the cult's ambush. We fought them off as best as we could, but there were far too many. In the end, our cottage was left in ruins, dead waterless foliage caked in our enemy's blood, I was nearly beaten unconscious, and Katara was taken. 

They times the kidnapping perfectly, just a day before their planned ritual to free Vaatu from his imprisonment. Avatar Aang, the foolish child that he is, refused to leave Katara's rescue to Sokka, Toph, and myself. His inability to let go of the infatuation he holds for Katara gave the cult enough time to break Vaatu's bindings. It was then the darkest days came.

Upon its release, Vaatu, with the help of its cult, performed a ritual. Black tendrils erupted from its body, tearing across the skies and burrowing into the earth, its physical dorm dissolving in the process. Agni's light was blocked by shadows stripping bending from Firebenders across the glow. From the five largest points, great beasts emerged. Enormous, otherworldly, monstrosities that the worst of nightmares couldn't compare to. Following their emergence, a diverse horde of smaller, equally horrid, creatures poured from the openings. 

There was no time to prepare. Within hours the largest cities were reduced to unrecognizable ruins. Formerly bustling streets were transformed into rivers of red. Body parts left strewn across the rubble. Images of beast feasting on children still haunt my mind. Even our own friends weren't able to escape the carnage. We managed to find Ty Lee the last of the living Kyoshi Warriors, just as she was impaled on the claws of a bald, gaunt humanoid-looking monster. It managed to rip an arm from her body by the time we closed the distance enough for Katara to decapitate it with a disk of ice. Her last words will forever be seared in my mind.

"I'm happy you're ok 'Zula."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Over the two weeks, since The Emergence began, Aang was almost non-stop searching for and rescuing survivors. We established a temporary refugee camp at the unoccupied Southern Air Temple. Like an endlessly erupting volcano, the creature continued rising from the pits Vatu created. Isolated locations like the Air Temples and Water Tribes were the only places still safe, for now at least.

Knowing that allowing events to continue unimpeded, Aang turned to the spirits for guidance. The Air Temple's sacred grounds made the transition from the mortal world to the spiritual plane much easier. Sitting in the temple powerless as Katara held me, waiting for Aang to return from the spirit world, listening to the distant roars of monsters below the clouds, I don't think I ever felt so terrified. 

Almost like she could sense my fear, Katara held me tighter, softly kissed the top of my head while gently running her fingers through my now unkempt hair. It's strange how the moment I felt the most fear was followed by one where I felt incredibly safe. As her gentle caresses lulled me to sleep, I heard a whisper from my lover. A hope a clung to until the very end.

"Everything will be ok Zula. We'll make it through this."

Two days later, Aang returned from the spirit world. With the help of Avatar Roku, he had managed to make contact with Rava, the spirit of light and the source of the Avatar's power. With the information she gave us, we were able to come up with a plan. Vaatu's ritual tore open portals that were connected to another dimension. They were directly connected to the five largest beasts that first erupted from them. While the portals themselves couldn't be closed, the pits that housed them would be sealed, finally stopping the endless stream of monsters from pouring into our world. All they had to do was kill the five great beasts.

Admittedly, it wasn't much of a plan. As Sokka had put it "So all we have to do is take out monsters the size of small palaces? Great! You know, for once, why couldn't the world-saving plan be easy." I rolled my eyes at his remark at the time but didn't make a retort. The small smiles that our friends held were worth dealing with his rather poor sense of humor. Besides, he was family after all, and if he said something too stupid I'm sure Katara would've happily frozen him to the ceiling.

Rava's power, being the opposite of Vaatu's, would lure the massive beasts to Aang, acting as a sort of beacon. The general plan was that Aang would activate the Avatar State, he would kill the beasts near the pits, we would keep the army of smaller monsters away from Aang while he fights the bigger ones, don't die. Said like that, the plan sounded risky but simple. Unfortunately, it was anything but simple.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There were a few Earthbenders among the rescued survivors that volunteered to help. We knew we couldn't hold back a never-ending army. After talking with Sokka, rapidly formulating and dismissing plans, the best we came up with was having the Earthbenders create a dome over the pit. This would grab the attention of the surrounding creatures. While they focused on not letting the army break through the barrier, the rest of us would protect the Earthbenders until the beast was slain. 

Naturally, it wasn't that simple. Rava failed to mention that as each beast died, only some of Vaatu's energy returned to the pit, sealing it. The rest dispersed to the remaining beasts, making them stronger. The first there battles went relatively smoothly, the growing strength of the beasts was more and more apparent with each successive fight. We experienced a handful of losses but nothing unexpected. Merely some inexperienced volunteers. It was the fourth battle that hit our group the hardest. 

The battle started just like every other, sealing the pit and fighting the surrounding beasts. However, due to the strength of this beast, this fight lasted far longer than the last. With our growing exhaustion, it was only a matter of time before someone made a mistake. As Sokka slew one of them, another managed to catch him off guard from behind. Faster than anyone could react, the hairless humanoid snatched his wolf-tail, yanking him back, and sunk its fangs into the side of his neck. Within seconds his skin lost all color and he was left hanging limp in the thing's arms, his sword slipping from his hands and his vacant eyes forever left wide in horror.

That fight ended soon after, with the Avatar finally defeating the creature. I had to nearly rip Katara away from her fallen brother, the last of her biological family. I held her as she cried during the entire flight back to the Southern Air Temple. Upon our arrival, Aang approached us after climbing off of Appa.

"I'm sorry for what happened to Sokka, Katara." He began. At the sound of his voice, I felt Katara stiffen in my arms. 

"You're sorry..." It was a whisper I barely heard as she pulled away, her face displaying a hatred I didn't know she was capable of. He began to speak again but she cut him off.

"How dare you come to me and say that!" She growled at him. "Like I'm sorry will make it all better! You could've stopped all of this! You could have prevented Vaatu from breaking free and none of this would've happened! Now SOKKA IS DEAD!" A loud slap echoed across the now silent temple as she struck Aang across the face. 

Her voice lowered to a whisper as she continued, tears freely falling from her eyes. "S-s-sokka is d-dead and it's all your fault... Just stay away from me..." Finishing her quiet statement, Katara ran inside the temple, away from the sympathetic stares of the gathered survivors. 

Aang watched her go, holding his own tears back before turning to me. He unfastened the strap holding Sokka's blade across his back. With both hands, he held it out to me. "Will you please give this to her. He would want her to have it."

I accepted the blade and he turned, beginning to walk away. "She didn't mean that you know. Katara's hurt and angry."

I don't know why I felt the need to offer him that small comfort. Maybe it was because Aang had taken the time, despite his exhaustion, to do this for her fiance. Regardless of the reason, he paused, shaking his head.

"Doesn't matter Azula. Even if she apologizes, we both know she's right." With that statement, he walked away. Turning, I walked in the direction Katara had run. I knew I wasn't the best at providing comfort, but that's all I could do for her now. I don't remember ever seeing her so broken, and I don't think there's anything I could've said to help.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Katara squeezing my hand pulled me from my memories. "Are you ok?"

I turned to look at her, seeing the concern reflected in her eyes.  I looked over the edge of the Bison's saddle, noting that the sea was replaced by land below us, before responding "Ya, I'm fine. Was just thinking about everything that happened. What brought us here."

Katara stilled, appearing to look at something that wasn't there. She was probably lost within the same memories I was moments ago. I squeezed her hand softly, wondering for a moment how her hands remained so soft after the countless battles they've been through. She jerked slightly, her eyes regaining focus before giving me a small smile. It was a rare sight in recent months but still as beautiful as the day she proposed.

"Despite everything that's happened, I'm glad you've been here with me Zula."  Katara said softly before leaning in and giving me a soft kiss that left my heart stuttering. It's amazing that, after all this time, she still has the same effect on me. It faintly reminds me of how nervous I was when I admitted out loud to Ty Lee and Zuko that I wanted to marry her. Though the nervousness I felt that day grew to be far greater when she walked around the corner in the palace hallway, clearly having heard what I said. 

I couldn't stop the small smile from forming on my face as the memory washed over me. Leaning my forehead against hers, I recalled her walking up to me, her wide-eyed, surprised, expression shifting to one of pure happiness. 

"Ya know, I've been nervous all week about giving this to you, but suddenly I feel a lot more confident." She had said jokingly, a smirk plastered on her face as she pulled a small rectangle box from her robe. She opened the box, standing barely a foot away, revealing a blue necklace, simple in design. The pendant had the symbol of the Fire Nation in the center. Only, instead of black over a red background, it was ivory over a pale blue. It was simple but perfect. 

"In the Watertribes, we use necklaces to propose. I wasn't so sure before, but something tells me I can guess your answer. Will you marry me?" Her eyes twinkled in amusement as I nodded dumbly, too shocked over what had just happened. It certainly wasn't my most elegant moment. It had taken me a few moments to process what had happened before I launched myself at her, pulling her into a searing kiss which she smiled into. Pulling away from me, with eyes full of joy and a smile lighting up her face, Katara asked "Can I put it on you?"

I nodded again, not trusting my voice. Katara pulled the necklace from its case and walked around me as it looked over at Zuko and Ty Lee both wearing equally large smiles. As soon as it was fastened, Zuko pulled us both into a large hug, quickly followed by Ty Lee, who couldn't contain her excitement. "Oh my gosh Azula! Congratulations! You're getting married! There is so much planning we have to do! The decorations, oh you know there has to be music..."

I looked into Katara's eyes, not pulling away from her, returning the smile. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be." I said softly so only she could hear, before closing the distance for another kiss.

We were pulled from our moment by Appa beginning his descent, and Aang jumping off, unfurling his glider and flying away, creating distance for his battle. Looking back towards the rapidly approaching ground of the western Earth Kingdom, I could see the sea of black dots below us start to become more defined, revealing the mass of creatures we'll soon be fighting. Appa landed with a massive gust of wind sending monsters flying, giving us a few moments to disembark and fall into formation.

As soon as Toph landed, she quickly entombed the pit in a think earthen dome, soon backed by two other Earthbenders, preventing the swarm of monsters from continuing to grow. Katara, myself and the other volunteer survivors formed a protective perimeter around them. I quickly unsheathed Sokka's black blade instead of using my dual tanto. Katara handed me the sword before we left the temple, saying Sokka would want to be here fighting with us. Looking at the gleaming dark metal, I knew she was right. 

The luminous light of the Avatar state in the distance, shortly followed by a deafening roar and rumbling earth signified the start of the battle. The monstrosities surrounding us, the same kind that butchered Ty lee, righted themselves before charging. There was a vindictive pleasure in cutting them down, watching their bodies crumble into dust as their heads rolled. The creatures were stronger and faster than normal people, that was unquestionable. However, for a veteran of the 100-year war, their attacks were laughably easy to read and counter.

As the battle drew on, the quakes from Aang's battle with the giant, snake-like beast continued, and exhaustion slowly began to seep in. There was a yell to my left followed by a sickening snap that drew my attention. The limp body of a survivor was held by one of our enemies, head twisted to an unnatural degree. It carelessly threw the body into another ally that was attempting to flank it before running towards the earthbenders.

"Katara!" I yelled, directing her to the monster. She quickly launched a disk of ice, decapitating the beast.

"Fall in!" I yelled, causing our allies to move closer to the earthbenders, closing the gap in our defense.

I risked a glance towards Aang's fight to see the serpent falling from a newly formed mountain, who's shadow covered our battlefield. The end of its tail was coiled around the light of the Avatar State. Not a moment later, a massive quake tore across the Earth, the impact echoing in its wake. Chaotic black and red energy tore through the air, washing over us, blasting through the cover of the pit, and, for the first time in ages, I felt my Firebending return as Agni's light shined once again.

Unlike before, when the energy entered the hole it pulsed. Before I could react, some of the energy solidified, wrapping around my waist, before it began to drag me with it. 

"Azula!" I heard Katara yelled as she raced towards me, skating across her ice. Using it, Katara launched herself off the ramp, rapidly closing the distance between us. Her left hand gripped mine as she used the last of her water to freeze her feet to the ground, stopping the energy from pulling me further.

I smirked at the display. "Very impressive Master Katara." I said causing her to roll her eyes.

"Only you could brush off nearly dying so easily." She said, her light tone trying to hide the strain of fighting the pulling tendril of energy. Her expression softened before she looked me in the eyes and said "I told you we would make it through this remember. I'm not gonna let you make a list out of..." Her words abruptly stopped as warm blood splattered across my face. "Zula... Your face..." Her voice was weak, words barely audible. My mind shut down, a sinking emptiness filled me as I started at the now crimson fist sticking through my fiance's chest. I couldn't help but look into her wide, horrified, blue eyes as the first extracted itself. Her grip on my hand didn't lessen as the bloodied hand gripped her hair, pulling her head to the side.

Gaunt, bald, fanged monsters peered at me from over her shoulder, giving me a sickening, malicious, grin before sinking its teeth into the side of Katara's neck. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, the grip on my hand weakening. The slick blood coating her front caused my hand to slide out of hers within a moment, my grip causing her ring to slide off with it. I watched, unable to speak, as the tendril of energy pulled me into to pit. The last thing I saw being the light leaving Katara's beautiful eyes as it tore its fangs from her throat.

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"For untold eons, demons walked the Earth. They made it their home, their, uh... their hell. But in time, they lost their purchase on this reality, and the way was made for mortal animals, for-for man. All that remains of the old ones are vestiges, certain magicks, certain creatures." -- Rupert Giles

[kyuuppi]

Whoops, my hand slipped--

I really hope you like it, I feel like I went in the wrong direction dsjfgadjs

“Izaya with a jealous girlfriend”

Orihara Izaya is an attractive man—it is a fact you are well aware of. Whether they admit it or not, most heads turn when he walks by. He, too, is aware of the effect he has on people. In fact, he exploits it. 

Since well before you started dating, you were aware of all of his victims. Fresh-faced teenage girls and wealthy housewives alike tended to flock to Izaya, following his every command just for a brief moment of his attention. They would—and frequently do—commit crimes for the sake of his approval. 

In a way, you understand. 

You yourself have fallen victim to those vermillion irises, afterall. His dulcet tone and calculated diction has swayed you more times than you would like to admit. So, yes, you understand the feelings of those women who cling to him so shamelessly. Except, there is one significant difference between you and them:

You are his girlfriend. 

They are not. 

“I have a small, teeny-tiny favor to ask of you, Mari-chan, if you don’t mind,” Izaya lilts, as if he were actually offering room for refusal. Izaya never asks for anything so much as words demands in a way that make the other person almost feel as if they had a choice when they really don’t. 

Predictably, the busty blonde high schooler before him responds with sparkling eyes. 

“Of course, anything for you, Iza-kun.” 

The girl takes a step forward, attempting to reduce the distance between Izaya and herself as they stand in a relatively secluded area of the outdoor shopping mall. Her hand raises, pastel pink nail polish catching in the sunlight as she moves to place the hand on his shoulder.

That’s when you decide you’ve had enough. 

Your body moves before you can think, indiscreetly forcing your way between the two as you stand in front of Izaya like something of a protective guard dog. Mari-chan stumbles back immediately, clearly surprised by your presence as if she’d forgotten you’d been standing right next to Izaya the whole time. Rather, she had definitely forgotten you’d been there. 

‘Too distracted by the eye candy,’ you mentally scoff. 

In contrast, Izaya seems unphased. Without even looking back you can already imagine the arrogant smirk plastered on his face. His eyes seem to burn holes through the back of your head but you keep your own gaze locked on the gaping teen before you. 

“Ah, it seems my little Y/n-chan is feeling extra feisty today~! Nee, you shouldn’t scare our new friend off so soon,” your boyfriend teases. 

“She is not our friend,” you snap before you can stop yourself. 

The girl, who seems to have finally collected herself, eyes you up and down momentarily as if assessing the situation. The way her dark eyes flit across your body make you feel as if she is evaluating you, calculating whether or not she should push her luck and undermine you to get to Izaya—it pisses you off even more. Her gaze lingers on your folded arms and clenched fists—a clear threat that you aren’t afraid to get physical if necessary—before she finally seems to wisely deem the situation “not worth it” and takes a step back.

You fight back a smirk. 

“On second thought, don’t think I’ll be of much use. Good luck finding someone else, Iz—uh, Orihara-san!”

With that, the girl makes a hasty retreat out of your sights.

As much as you would like to celebrate your unconventional victory, you can’t ignore the small tug in your gut at knowing you’ve just dashed one of Izaya’s plans. You know Izaya had no interest in her—she was just another pawn in his eccentric games—but sometimes you just can’t control your own jealousy. Watching women flirt with your boyfriend right in front of you as if you don’t exist grates on your nerves like nothing else. 

You turn around to face Izaya, apology already forming on your lips when you’re suddenly grabbed by the shoulders and tugged forwards. Your cheek ends up smushed against Izaya’s iconic jacket while one arm firmly holds you in place by the shoulders, nearly cutting off your oxygen supply. 

“Ahh, my jealous little kitten is so cute~!”

He sings the praise loudly, earning a few strange looks from passersby that make your cheeks pink with more than just oxygen deprivation. “S-stop it, ‘zaya!” 

“I can’t, my princess is just too adorable~”

“I swear to god—!”

When you finally manage to pull yourself free from captivity, you shoot Izaya a heated glare. Unfortunately, the flush of your cheeks makes the action significantly less threatening. 

“You are literally the worst,” you accuse. 

Izaya merely hums in response, casually stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets as he turns to walk away, you cue to follow. The two of you walk in silence for a while but its not uncomfortable. You two were familiar enough with each other to not need to fill every passing moment with conversation. In fact, you two rather enjoyed the quiet as a reprieve from the chaos that usually surrounded the information broker. You lose yourself in thought to the extent that you nearly jump when the man beside you suddenly speaks. “You know,” he starts, voice unusually serious and lacking its usual lilt, “you have nothing to be jealous over. I only see you.”

Your heart squeezes in your chest and you have to look down at your feet to hide the smile stretching across your face. 

“Yeah...I know.” 

[lesbian-deadpool]

New Surroundings

Part Two Of Two: “Glad To Be Home.”

Part One

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Words: 1,975

Warnings: Lil bit of sadness + grief, talks of brainwashing, flashbacks. It’s pretty much just fluff.

Request: Yes! For anon for donating to BLM!! Thank you so much!

Summary: Maybe you can restart.

A/N: Idk. I thought this was p good.

Ko-Fi

(Not My GIF)

***

Booming laughter surrounded the space around you.

Peter had run up to where you "fell", asking worryingly, if you were okay. Along with Natasha. As you slowly sat up.

The spider's panic soon turned into relived chuckles, joining you in laughing at the situation.

With a few deep breaths, your laughter died down, allowing you to gaze up at the joyous red-head above you.

***

Natasha hovered over you, her cheeks visibly hurting, thanks to the smile you had put on her face. Her eyes closed with how hard she was laughing.

She had to be the most beautiful person you had ever seen.

She was.

She was swaying side to side, arms struggling to hold her weight, while those beautiful sounds flowed from her mouth.

Unable to handle it anymore, Natasha flopped down beside you on the cushiony bed. Covering her face with her hands, as the giggles still poured out of her.

"Are you-?"

"We were supposed to be having sex!" she managed to get out, making you laugh yourself. "But you had to go and say that!"

Chuckling harder still, you reached over and grabbed Natasha's hand. The Russian taking initiative and threading your fingers together.

You turned your head to the side, watching your girlfriend pant away.

The only things going through your mind at that moment being:

You were gonna marry that woman one day.

You couldn't wait to laugh with her for the rest of your lives.

***

The sun shone in her bright auburn hair, green eyes twinkling in happiness.

She had your entire attention.

Natasha saw the way you were looking at her, with a smile on her face, she cocked her head and softly asked, "What?"

You shrugged.

"You're stunning."

And she only got mere beautiful, if that was even possible, with the light blush dusting her cheeks.

"Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."

"Really? Well-"

"Uh, guys?" Peter waved. "I'm still here."

You chuckled at the teenage boy's words, turning to face him, as you pushed yourself up from the ground.

"Yeah, yeah, we know," you said, ruffling his hair, "Don't worry. You're pretty, too."

"Really?" Peter asked hopeful, while you and Natasha laughed softly.

"Yes, Peter," She nodded, patting his shoulder in assurance. "You're very pretty."

The smile that took over the boys face was full of joy and stayed that way as you lead the way back into the compound.

***

It was a few months later when the next memory like that rocketed into your mind.

You were busy cooking in the compound kitchen. Just some simple burgers for you and Peter.

The others could feed themselves.

You would have made Natasha one if she hadn't been out on a mission for the past month.

Peter was drolling on about his homework, it boring him beyond belief. Nodding along to his words, hoping to find something that could help him.

Then it hit you.

***

The streets of New York were relatively calm, considering the time of day. And you were enjoying your quiet stroll, with Natasha by your side.

The red-head was talking animatedly about a story of Clint accidentally rolling off of the roof of his farmhouse, and almost giving Laura a heart attack.

You couldn't take your eyes off of her lips.

The way she smiled as she spoke about her best friend.

You swooned at every little giggle she made. You couldn't believe how much you were acting like a schoolchild, with a silly crush.

But you just couldn't help it.

Natasha had some sort of spell over you.

And here you thought that Wanda was the witch of the team.

"Y/N?"

"Yeah?" you asked, shaking yourself out of the daze she had you in. "What's up?"

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Uhh... yeah! Clint thought Laura had gone into labour, with how much she was screaming."

"Y/N," she said blankly, "I said that five minutes ago."

"Oh..."

"What were you thinking about?" Natasha asked with a smile.

"Um. Nothing."

"What were you thinking about?" she repeated, pushing your shoulder gently, still making you momentarily step to the side though.

"Nothing," you insisted.

"That's bullshit, and you know it. C'mon! Just tell me! I won't say anything to anyone, you have my word."

You said nothing, only shaking your head with a smile, and moving your eyes to look up at the sky. To avoid looking at the persistent Russian, now walking backwards in front of you. As she held onto your arms.

"Y/N, please!"

"Oh my, God. Are you begging? Do you really hate being out of the loop that much?"

"There's a loop? Who else knows?"

"No one, Natasha!" you laughed.

"Then what is it?!" she exclaimed happily, "Just tell me. I'll get it out of you, and you know I will. So, you might as well just tell me now."

Natasha stopped you in your place, right in the middle of the sidewalk.

You sighed, knowing what she said to be true.

So, you told her.

"I was thinking about you."

"Me?" she wondered, "What about me?"

Shrugging, you continued, "I was thinking about how cute you were, and how much I loved seeing you smile. I was thinking about how you have reduced me into a school kid with this overwhelming crush I have on you. Literally, everything you do or say makes me swoon, and think "how can someone be so perfect?", Natasha."

Natasha gasped as you spoke, looking into your eyes with this soft wondrous look, that you hoped you were reading right.

"I was thinking how much I wanted to kiss you. And maybe one day be lucky enough to love yo-"

You were cut off by Natasha grabbing onto your shirt with one hand, and bulling you down into a bruising kiss. Her other hand finding its way in between the strands of your hair. As yours flew down to her waist, pulling her in closer.

Yeah...

That was a pretty amazing first kiss.

***

"Why is Spanish so hard?"

You were brought back into the present by Peter's words. Looking down, no longer cooking the burgers, now in the middle of assembling the burgers.

Well, at least you were still productive as you had a flashback.

You just hoped you hadn't missed much that the kid had said.

"I don't know, kid," you said, glancing over your shoulder, "Maybe it's because you're trying to learn a whole other language."

"Yeah..." he said, almost bashfully.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Placing his meal in front of him, you placed your hand on his shoulder reassuringly. Pushing him gently. "These things take time. I just wish I could be more help."

"It's not your fault," he said through a mouth full of food. "I'm glad you're here to help me. I just wish that Miss Romanoff was here, she's really good at languages."

And it was then that you were harshly reminded.

Natasha wouldn't be back for another five months.

"Yeah. So do I."

***

Raindrops splatted down upon your leather-clad shoulders. The weather wasn't so bad, just gloomy and drizzling, the perfect setting for your current situation.

Staring at your old friend's gravestone.

Daniel Petersburg.

"I'm so sorry, Dan. I'm sorry that I wasn't there. I'm sorry I wasn't at your funeral."

I'm sorry that I can't remember you since the army.

You knew that it wasn't your fault. Not really. It wasn't your choice to get captured and tortured so much that you couldn't remember the last eleven years. Your mind was a dark cavern when you thought about those years.

"And I'm so fucking sorry that I haven't come to see you sooner."

"He forgives you." You looked over your shoulder, to see the person who spoke softly to you. Smiling easily at the red-head. "He was like your brother, of course, he forgives you. He wouldn't even want your apology."

"I know," you said, taking one last glance at his grave. Before you turned to face Natasha, "So, you're finally back then."

"Why? You miss me Y/L/N?" she asked, with a teasing smirk.

"Of course I did," you said sincerely, "I... I've remembered some things since you've been gone."

"Really? Like what?"

"Many things." You took a step closer to her. Gazing into her emerald green eyes, feeling like your soul was pouring into those iris'. And you couldn't find it in you to care. If, that be the case. She could have your soul. It was hers. It always has been, always will be. Just like your heart. "I remembered the team, how I did basically adopt Peter."

Natasha laughed shortly at that.

"But mostly. Mostly I remembered you."

"Me?" she asked, hopefully.

"Of course you. I remember our first kiss. The time we almost froze our asses off, when Tony accidentally locked us out of the tower. Almost all of our anniversaries. Our first Christmas, together. The dreaded fight of '15 that made us break up, for a few months. I remember how much I missed you during them... but none of that compares to how much I missed you when I was on that mission," you list off, enjoying Natasha's reactions as you did.

"You remember the mission?"

"Yes- Well, some of it. There's still so much of my life that I need to remember." You looked up into the dull sky, watching as the gloomy clouds slowly made their way from above you, revealing the calm blue sky in its wake. "There were maybe two years, where I remembered everything. Or almost everything."

You took a deep, calming breath, before continuing, "During those two years, they tried to brainwash me, but it didn't stick. They're persistent bastards I'll give you that. Throughout those two years, I remembered every day. The pain. The way that my mind felt like it was slowly melting. Like fucking ice cream. But the thing that made me hold on as long as I did- That made my mind hold on," you corrected, "Was you."

Natasha's eyes were swimming with tears as you spoke. A few threatening to spill overboard, with your last statement.

"Every day- Every fucking second, I thought of you. You were like my lifeline. I lived through every moment of our lives together. The good. The bad. All of it. Over and over again."

The grass underfoot squelched lightly as you took another step towards her. Now close enough that you could reach out slightly and take her hand in yours.

Which is exactly what you did.

"You kept me alive."

Your heart broke when Natasha sobbed out softly. Squeezing her hand in yours, as she wiped away her falling tears.

But still, she let you carry on. Sensing that you weren't finished yet.

"Now, as I said before, I don't remember everything. Hell, most of it's still dark. But, I do remember how you made me feel. How much I loved you." You took her other hand, and pulled her even closer to your body, barely a few inches between the two of you now. "I can't promise you that I'll remember everything any time soon. I can't promise that I'll ever remember everything. But if you'll have me. I'd like to be in love with you again. Like basically hitting the restart button, while I watch the memories of my life play along with it."

You both got a little chuckle out of your analogy.

"So, what do you say?"

"I think you're delusional if you thought I would ever say no," Natasha replied, wrapping her arms around your neck, and pulling you into your first kiss, for almost seven years.

Love flowed through your heart and soul, spreading into every crevice of your being.

With that kiss, you thought only one thing.

You were gonna marry that woman one day.

***

Permanent Tag List:

@imnotasuperhero, @veteranwerewolf95, @natasha-danvers, @marvelfansince08love, @higherfurther-romanova, @lesbian-x-blackwidow, @sestra-inestro

[anxiouslyfred]

The Day Started in a Cell

Summary: Virgil knew he might be swapping with his soulmate soon. The day had been coming up. He still didn’t expect to wake up in the cell of a police station and only hoped Patton would be okay meeting his soulmate when he went around to check on them.

Warning: spider mention, breaking in

/\/\

Virgil had woken up from sleepwalking in all manner of places, but usually that was confined to his own home and during times when he was stressed. The only thing Virgil had to be stressing about currently was the chance he'd swap places with his soulmate today.

Hopefully the swap taking place was the true reason for where Virgil found himself, because the room he woke up in could only be described as a cell. There was too much noise outside the room for it to be an actual prison though so he was fairly confident this was a police station holding cell, with only the lack of any others being kept in there with him casting doubt on that.

It wasn't sensible to ask though. Everyone knew if the soulmate swap occurred while someone was arrested the force would not treat them kindly and could use everything to arrest both soulmates under the charge of assisting with an escape. Even if Virgil had no context for who he now had the body of, he wasn't going to mention it.

The morning passed smoothly, Virgil managing to learn that his soulmate was called Remus Dolally and he'd been apprehended on suspicion of vandalism. Since the station hadn't got enough evidence to charge him that day they were just waiting for a relative to pick him up. How the police already knew the number for one of Remus's relatives Virgil decided not to ask, but hoped he'd be able to once they arrived.

“Remus, your brother's here. Get out and actually stop getting arrested this time, or I'll make sure you go to jail for your next offence.” One of the sergeants ordered opening the cell door and waving down the hallway.

Nodding, Virgil hurried through, immediately looking at the person near the desk in concern.

“Remus, one of these days I'll decide being your brother is more trouble than it's worth.” The man sighed, shaking his head for a moment and leaning down to sign a form before turning to leave. “Let's get you home.”

Staying quiet and following what was said had kept Virgil safe so far so he just carried on following, getting into the car, Remus's brother unlocked.

Only once they were both in, with seatbelts done up did Roman look at him again. “Remus would never be this quiet. Are you his soulmate?”

“Yes? I'm Virgil. Does he do this often?” Virgil squeaked out, sure he could get in trouble for admitting it.

“More often than I'd like, but usually his chaos is harmless. I'm Roman, by the way.” With the introduction said Roman started the car and pulled away. “If I was in your position I'd have been asking a million questions the second someone got me out of the cell.”

Virgil nodded after a second. He'd been frowning out the window, trying to confirm where he was since some of the landmarks were recognisable. “Sorry, just trying to remember where this is. It's definitely a town close to mine but I'm not sure which.”

“It's Anstey. Does that mean my brother is likely to turn up here a-” Roman's question broke off as they turned a corner. Virgil could see Patton's car parked outside a house not far along the road, and given his morning, could only assume that it was his bum sticking out of a window on top of the porch.

“Well I did ask Patton to pop over in case I did swap with my soulmate on my birthday.” Virgil muttered, beginning to wonder just what his soulmate would be doing next.

He didn't have long to think though since Roman was storming out of the car the instant he'd put it into park. “Remus Dolally get the hell down from the roof and if you've broken that window then you are either paying for it, or paint purely to sell until it's paid for! Do you know what you've put me through this morning? What you've put your soulmate through?” He screamed up at Virgil's body, getting Patton to come shuffling over.

“Hey Pat, I'm guessing you've had as interesting a morning as I have.” Virgil muttered, still watching the brothers and just hoping he wouldn't be injured when their bodies swapped back.

“Kiddo thought I rescued him from police cells and then locked himself in your bathroom for ages before even thinking to ask where we were.” Patton nodded. He looked a bit shaken and very stunned just thinking through how the morning had gone. “Far be it from me to criticise your soulmate, but he's either a pervert or just completely lacking any impulse control at all.”

Virgil snorted. “Wow, must have made a really bad impression. That's the closest I've heard you get to criticism in a while. How long were you here before he decided to break in?”

“As soon as he opened the door of the car he was climbing onto the roof. Did you really wake up in cells?” Patton asked but when Virgil went to reply his name was called by his own voice.

Roman hadn't gotten Remus off the roof yet, but had got him to the edge, which if he'd remained upright would have been good. Instead Virgil was now looking at himself, hanging upside down off a roof and feeling the chances that he'd be uninjured by midnight reducing every minute. “If you're so upset with me being your soulmate your going to risk my life with stupid stunts I'll go do something you'll definitely get a life sentence for.” He snapped, hurrying over and glaring up at Remus.

“Beautiful, I'm just doing what I do, and it ain't going to kill you. I need to hear some of the noises this body makes from the outside before I'd allow that. Trust me, I already know the best ways I can pleasure you.” The leer was almost enough to make Virgil ignore it would only hurt him in the end to throw something at him.

“So far I've woken up in a cell, had to have your brother get me out and then found you trying to break into your own home. What is there meant to convince me to let there be any kind of relationship between us, never mind whatever depraved acts you're thinking of?” Virgil hissed up, not caring if the words would be heard or not.

The question and glare must have been enough to convince Remus to at least back off for a while since he was flipping to be upright and actually climb down off the roof finally. “I'm guessing the soulmates thing isn't as much of a motivation for you as it would be for Roman? You've got a good spark though, telling me off just gets me all shimmery. You know I'm Remus already then?”

“Der. I wasn't going to say anything when I woke up in that cell and given it was empty except for me, pretty obvious who the officers meant, Dolally.” Virgil snapped, rolling his eyes when all the reaction he got was a shimmer bringing Remus that bit closer to him.

The move did make Virgil smirk though. Now he could be certain that he actually was taller than his soulmate. That would be very useful once they swapped back, especially if he had to prevent Remus from climbing onto roofs at some point. “I'm Virgil and as soon as that body is mine again, your days of breaking into places are numbered.” He pointed out.

“Meh, it's the least interesting mischief I can get into. Come on in and I'll share my plans for world domination with you.” Remus reached forward and grabbed his wrist before he could move it back.

“Why does this feel like I'm being recruited to make sure you don't get killed or incarcerated? I already have anxiety, how is having you for a soulmate meant to help that?” Virgil protested but didn't actually fight being pulled in. He was mostly being dramatic because a glance backwards showed Patton still looking uncomfortable and concerned.

Roman had headed over to talk to him now though, so hopefully he'd be able to comfort him a little. He'd even unlocked the door already so Remus didn't have an excuse to try breaking in again either.

Remus was cackling as he pulled them through the house. “I was born with the intent to cause problems on purpose and that includes for you. Hope you don't mind spiders. They're the octopuses of the land and we can't in good conscious keep an octopus as a pet!”

The declaration turned yell at least had Virgil expecting it when he saw a tarantula roaming freely in a fenced off corner of the room. “Spiders are brilliant. Just don't let Patton up here. He's got a phobia. What's this guy called?” He asked, crouching down to look a little closer at the enclosure.

“Tarantuknife. I'm still working on getting him to attack or shove knives at people though. He will hiss as police badges. Down with the police state, y'know.” Remus shrugged, throwing himself on his bed while Virgil looked around.

“Fine, you've got me interested enough to see where knowing you leads.” Virgil decided after a while of looking around again, seeing some delightfully dark artwork and even more things to look after Tarantuknife than he'd originally spotted.

Remus bounced up at that, beaming. “Good cause I think some of my plans to keep you from leaving would have your friend trying to call the police on me again.”

“Nah, he wouldn't do that unless I asked. We hate the police too, wouldn't call them on my worst enemy unless they really did something extremely bad.” Virgil waved off the words, sitting on the edge of the bed and trying to ignore the fact it was still bouncing with Remus's movements.

“So what actually increases your anxiety to really bad amounts, and what are others able to do to help?” Remus asked, diverting the conversation from where Virgil had thought it would go.

At the genuinely interested and hopeful look he began to explain anyway, mentally wondering if it was because he wasn't currently in his own body that so far today he hadn't panicked at all, despite everything that had happened.

[readyplayerhobi]

Flower | 26

; Hoseok x Reader

; Genre: Fluff

; Word Count: 3.7k

; Synopsis:  You finally decide to take a dip into the world of online dating and find the Flower dating app. One of the top matches for you proves to be a guy who looks to be your complete opposite; tattooed, pierced, a metalhead and oh…incredibly handsome. What happens when you throw caution to the wind and reach out to him?

; A/N: Thank you for reading this :) I hope you’re all enjoying it still. Please reblog so others can read and let me know your thoughts in some feedback! :D I’m always happy to hear them and I’m a little worried that you might all be getting bored or something :( <3

; Flower Masterpost

-

You’d be more surprised about the fact that it was just after eleven in the morning and Hoseok still wasn’t awake; if you didn’t have the memory of how drunk he’d been in the early hours. It had been amusing to wake up and see him still completely fast asleep next to you. 

He hadn’t even shifted position throughout the night, still laid exactly as he had been when he’d passed out. Before leaving him alone, you’d had to push him onto his other side to try to reduce the chances of him waking up with an unfortunate strain somewhere. Because that’s what happened when you were an adult. Sleeping gave you injuries sometimes, and you’d rather he didn’t wake up with more pain than he was already going to have.

Being an adult is fun.

Your concern for his health hadn’t stopped you from cooing softly at how cute he looked sleeping though. His face looked almost innocent when completely relaxed, a sight you didn’t often get to see given he got up and went to bed before you. The stomach-clenching sweetness wasn’t helped by the fact your heavily tattooed and pierced boyfriend was juxtaposed against the white bedding with tiny, cartoon ice-creams in multiple colours all over it. 

Honestly, it’s no surprise you’d had to snap a picture to show him when he woke up.

The sound of shifting and a slight creak from your bed through the open door of your bedroom distracts you away from your book. Looking up and at the doorway, your gaze narrows as you wonder if he’s just finally moving around or if he’s waking. But then you hear the quiet groan of someone who’s suffering and have to stifle a laugh. Placing a bookmark between the pages and putting it onto the coffee table, you go and fill a glass up of fresh, cold water for him and pop some painkillers.

Walking in, you’re greeted with the sight of Hoseok on his back. He doesn’t particularly look grateful to be awake, with one tattooed arm covering his eyes and the other rubbing at his head while he lets out the tiniest groan. Smiling to yourself, you place the glass onto the bedside table and nudge his arm softly.

“Hey, sleeping beauty. How’re you feeling?” There might be just the smallest hint of teasing in your voice and you’re thankful Hoseok has never really shown much of a temper before. Because given how rough he must be feeling, he could easily snap at you.

“Like I got run over by Satan’s truck and then he reversed back just for good measure. With an added dose of Jason Voorhees stabbing my brain through my eyeballs.” He grumbles, voice hoarse with sleep and you can’t stop the laugh that slips from your lips without meaning it. 

Sitting next to him on the bed, you gently tug his arm down until you get to see his face properly. The usual puffiness of sleep is there, only this time it’s combined with red eyes that are slightly bloodshot and what looks to be an unhealthy pallor to his skin. No surprise, given how much alcohol he’d ingested last night. His liver would not be thanking him today. Nor was his head probably.

“Those are some very specific descriptions.” Hoseok sits up slowly and takes a huge gulp of the water that you hand him before taking the painkillers with a soft thanks. They go down equally quickly and he’s finished the whole glass before you can even blink.

“Yeah, well. It’s true. Also, I need to pee so fucking bad. Holy shit.” He mumbles, scrambling out of bed once you take the glass from him. Snorting at how quickly he exits the bedroom, you go out to refill the glass and grab a dark chocolate and orange breakfast bar. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, you wait for him to finish his business and come back.

Which he does after five minutes. The tired kiss he presses to your lips tells you he’s taken the time to brush his teeth too so he’s probably feeling slightly more human at the moment. Handing him your hangover goodies, he drinks half the glass before chewing half-heartedly on the bar, pulling a face as the flavour clashes with the mint of his toothpaste before his gaze goes vacant while he looks down at the bedspread.

“Did you clean me or something before bed? I smell really good to say I’m this hungover. I don’t even feel gross. I mean...physically at least. Mentally, I feel like every sewer level in a horror game. Gross, annoying and entirely unnecessary but inevitable,” He’s rambling a little now and you frown, tilting your head at him. “God, I can’t remember the last time I was this hungover. Or maybe I’m still drunk, I’m not quite sure.” 

Rolling your eyes, you plump your pillows up and lean back as you watch him eat methodically. Hoseok isn’t exactly doing it fast but you get the impression that he’s got a severe headache going on and is trying to reduce aggravating it. You want to coo at him but feel it’s not the time to be doing that.

“No, that was you. You were adamant you wanted a shower and your teeth cleaned when we got back. I had to make sure you didn’t drown yourself because you got it into your head to drink the shower water and then had to brush your teeth for you because you have a bad gag reflex and kept stabbing yourself in the throat.” Hoseok winces at that, his hand coming to the said throat as he rubs it.

“That explains that then,” He mutters before looking at you a little bashful, his cheeks a tiny bit pink. “Sorry. I completely forgot that I became some weird clean freak when wrecked. There are worse things I could be though.” 

Nodding with a wry smile, you acknowledge his statement while he finishes eating before handing you the glass and empty wrapper. Placing them both on the bedside table, you go to move away when he suddenly lays back down. On his side of the bed this time.

You’re prevented from moving when he cuddles up to you, his arm wrapping around your waist tightly to pull you down while he rests his head on your chest with a heavy sigh. Hoseok doesn’t weigh too much, but he’s not exactly light either. No complaint leaves you though, not when you enjoy the feel of him pressed against you so much.

“I like your boobs. They’re soft.” He mutters and you can’t help but laugh, accidentally jerking his head as your chest moves violently but he doesn’t complain except for a soft noise that leaves him. Carding your fingers through his hair, you twist your lips in amusement as you wonder if he is a tiny bit drunk still.

“Thanks, I grew them myself.” Now he’s the one chuckling, leaving a kiss on your collarbone before sighing deeply. His weight seems to double as he relaxes against you but again, you don’t complain at him. Not yet anyway. You probably would in five minutes when he gets hot enough to feel like you’ve stepped into Mt. Doom.

“There’s some pictures of last night if you wanna see.” You tell him quietly, enjoying just cuddling with him as you play with the soft strands of his hair. He doesn’t respond for a moment and you wonder if he’s fallen asleep before he hums, shifting until his head is on your shoulder so he can see your phone. You’d brought it in with you and it had been on the bedside table until now, so you grab it and unlock it.

Clicking through Facebook, you show him some of the statuses that both his and your friends had made throughout the night along with the photos that had accompanied them. There was a particularly delightful photo that must have been taken after you’d left, of Jimin vomiting outside the bar while Yoongi and Jungkook pointed and laughed.

The two of you chuckle as you go through the photos, getting to see the night live out once more in visual form and Hoseok makes a few comments here and there. Chungha’s pictures went from relatively sweet selfies of her to selfies with Soyeon, Dahyun and you to what can only be described as drunken blurs. You’re pretty sure one of them is her making out with her girlfriend but you can’t quite tell.

What you can tell is Soyeon kissing Jungkook in the booth in the background of one of Taehyung’s photos. You point at it excitedly to Hoseok as you tell him that they must have got drunk enough to let their inhibitions go after you’d both left. Neither of them had responded to your excited texts yet though, causing him to laugh when you pout at not being able to find out if your matchmaking was truly successful.

“It seems like it was a good night. Not that I can remember anything.” Hoseok mumbles, his lips pursing in a cute pout and you gently tap them. You’ve migrated from looking at Facebook to Instagram, where the pictures are a little bit classier and more put together. No one wants to look bad on Instagram after all.

“I took some photos of us too, and Soyeon sent over some she’d taken.” There had been plenty of Hoseok on Facebook, all in various stages of him getting drunk until you could practically smell the alcohol on him through the screen. Not so many of you though, given that you’d purposefully avoided the camera throughout the night.

Though Soyeon had managed to capture one or two pictures of the two of you together from earlier in the night. Flicking through to your gallery, you let him see the photos as you scroll through them.

“I haven’t put them anywhere yet. Wanted to see what you thought.” Hoseok takes your phone from you, shifting slightly in bed to be more comfortable and scrolls back to one Soyeon had taken. Neither of you has drinks in your hands, nor are you even looking at the camera. 

Your arms are around his waist, front pressed to his side while his arm is wrapped around your shoulders. It’s almost sickening how much love and affection is painted onto your face as you smile up at him, your eyes softer than you’ve ever seen before. Anyone looking at this would easily be able to see how grossly in love you were with him.

But what made you love this photo was the fact that Hoseok was looking back at you with an equally disgusting amount of emotion. His smile was broad and genuine while his eyes were firmly focused on you. It was perhaps one of your favourite photos ever already and you weren’t surprised that Hoseok had focused on that.

“This one. We’re putting this one up.” He mutters quietly, already going to your Instagram before looking up at you with a questioning glance. Nodding your approval to him, he plays around with the custom filter settings until he has it looking exactly like he wants before posting it and sharing it to Facebook as well.

Before he gives your phone back, he scrolls through to another photo that you’d taken. It was a bit later in the night with Hoseok a little more drunk than he had been, but you kind of liked it too. A selfie this time, with your faces taking up the screen but your smile is so big as you laugh, eyes scrunched closed while Hoseok squishes a kiss against your cheek.

“I want this one,” With that, he sends it to himself before giving your phone back to you with a smile.  “Looks like I had a very good night. Wish I could remember it but...whatever. Did you enjoy it?”

Pausing, you place your phone back onto the table before wriggling down the bed to get more comfortable. You think hard on his question, contemplating whether you’d truly enjoyed yourself last night. Going to bars and parties were your least favourite thing to do and he was well aware of that. Combined with drinking, it was perhaps your worst-case scenario.

“I didn’t exactly enjoy it but...it was kind of fun. Nice to see everyone and talk to them. Funny to watch them getting drunk. Most of all, I liked watching you enjoy yourself. I’m glad that you got to have fun and do what you love with your friends for your birthday. I know that I don’t like drinking or going out but I never want to be like...an anchor holding you back, you know? So yeah, I enjoyed it more than I’d expected to.” Perhaps that was a little more honest than other people would be, but you didn’t see any point in lying to him.

He knew what you liked and didn’t like by now, you’d been dating almost a year after all. On top of that, Hoseok had been concerned that you wouldn’t enjoy yourself and would make yourself unhappy just to satisfy his want to get drunk with his friends. So you hoped him hearing that you’d enjoyed yourself more than either of you had anticipated would relieve his worries.

“Good. I mean, not good that you didn’t fully enjoy it but I think we both knew you were never going to really. I’m glad you came with me though. Means a lot to me.” He smiles at you, his expression bright despite the tiredness etched into his face.

“That’s why I did it. It was your day and I wanted to make you happy.” Your words are soft and gentle, more than a hint of shyness threaded through them. Would you ever truly get used to telling him emotional things like this?

You hoped so because he was always so comfortable showing his love and affection for you. But at the same time, that was just his love language. Yours was different, and you knew he appreciated that too.

“Well, you did. So thank you. And thank you for my presents, I love them. Do you mind if I set up the vinyl player here? Given I spend the most time here?” His question is innocent and you can sense there’s no expectation on you. You’d have to give up something to let him have space for it, but you know that if you told him no that he’d accept it without complaint.

But that led you to something you’d been contemplating for a while now. Perhaps much quicker than anyone would have thought you’d have started to think about this topic given how long it took you to admit your love to him or even just have sex. This was a much bigger life change, something that would affect both of you drastically and have the potential to truly make or break your relationship.

And yet you’d been unable to not think about it. Perhaps most surprisingly, you actively wanted what you were going to suggest.

“I mean...well, yes. I’m okay with it but, well I was thinking… M-m-maybe, I mean...do you want to...what do you think a-a-about-” You’ve devolved into the kind of nervous and awkward mess you’d been when you first met him and you know he’s both confused and worried. His head tilts up to look at you, brows furrowed together in confusion as to why you’re suddenly getting like this over a vinyl player.

“Baby? What’s wrong? Just say it. Whatever you’re thinking, just say it. I’m not gonna laugh or tease you. I mean...unless it’s funny and then I can’t be responsible for my actions.” Hoseok laments, his face scrunching as he realises he can’t be completely honest. It makes you smile though as he’s being truthful and you push at him till he’s moving off you.

Sitting up, you play with your hands as you stare at them, licking your lips nervously.

“Do you want to move in? I mean...or at least, move in together? T-t-this place probably isn’t big enough f-f-for us both to live here with y-y-your stuff but yeah. I’d like it, I think. I mean, I would. And you basically live here anyway. T-then you don’t have to pay full rent and stuff and we can share bills so i-i-it’d be better for us both, yeah? Unless...unless you don’t want to live with me. Then it’s okay. W-we can-” He cuts you off with his hand against your mouth, his eyes dancing in amusement despite how tired they look.

“Sweetheart, please let me respond before you talk yourself out of it, okay? You want us to move in together, correct?” Nodding slowly, you take a moment to glance over at him and see what his expression looks like. Whether he looks agreeable or not.

Hoseok has a carefully blank face at the moment and you swallow thickly, wondering if he’s going to reject you. It’s fine if he does, honestly. Some people don’t like living together properly. Having his own place means that he can escape from you if he’s had enough or something. You knew that you were a lot to deal with sometimes.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it or anything. I’m fine as it is now if you want to keep it like this. I know you like your own space after a while and I don’t want to intrude into it. Plus, this apartment is your home and it’s your safe space. I don’t want you to uproot yourself just because you think you should be doing it or anything.” He makes perfectly logical points and your heart expands with love for him at his acknowledgement of something that had been a concern for you.

You didn’t handle change well and while you were excited at the prospect of moving in with Hoseok, the knowledge that it would completely upend your life for a short while was terrifying. This apartment had taken a long time to get feeling like a home, to somewhere that you love and feel like you can recharge in.

It would take time to make whatever new place you get with him to feel like home too. And you wouldn’t be able to escape him by just going home or anything. He would be there all the time. You knew it also came with the added complication of entangling you both even more, making your lives and your hearts even harder to separate.

But you couldn’t stay coddled forever.

“I might struggle with it a bit at first but...I want to. I love being with you and you make me happy. I hate when you go home and I’m alone again, it’s harder to sleep without you here. You might not want it though but...I just thought I’d bring it up. We can talk about it more in-depth to make sure we’re on the same wavelength but...yeah. I don’t know if this is too early or too late in a relationship or anything, I just want to be with you.” You’re mumbling the words now, firmly looking away from his gaze which has softened progressively as you’d talked. They probably didn’t even make sense.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. There’s no such thing as the right time, just when we feel it’s right. But...I’d like it. I’ve been thinking about it too, I won’t lie. I always feel bad that I don’t pay anything here even though I spend so much time here but then my rent is more than yours anyway. I agree about finding somewhere new, a little bigger to cope with both of us. And give us somewhere to escape to when we’re annoying each other or something.” Now he’s the one looking away from you, rubbing at his jaw thoughtfully as he thinks.

The smile that begins on your face soon expands rapidly into a giant grin, excitement flooding through your veins along with a mixture of nerves, making it hard for you to stay still. He wanted to move in together! Live together, you were going to live together. Like have your names on a rental agreement and have mail addressed to both of you. 

“Oh, and we need to make sure it’s pet friendly for Kasumi.” Hoseok is still talking and you realise he’s been listing what you both should look for in a place. It seems that Hoseok wants to try and find an apartment if possible but he’d prefer a small house given the two of you both have a car. Understandable, given parking in the city was a pain.

There were many occasions when Hoseok had to park a few streets away as the apartment building parking lot was full. 

The thought of having a small home with him was even more exciting and you let out a small squeal of happiness. It’s only when Hoseok looks at you with wide eyes, shocked but also amused, that you realise what you’ve done and you look away from him, trying to ignore how you’ve gone hot with embarrassment.

“Oh, that was cute. Definitely cute. Yes, let’s do it. Let’s move in together.” Now he’s the one grinning and you can’t stop yourself from wrapping your arms around him, swaying him as much as you can while sitting on the bed. He lets you with a laugh before groaning as the movement makes his hangover worse.

“Just as long as you don’t decide to show me your helicopter dick every time you get drunk.” You say cheerfully, climbing out of bed to go make some lunch for you both. Already you’re decorating the new place in your mind, planning the perfect combination between you both and deciding what you want to keep from your place and his.

“I’m sorry, my what?”

[transitverse]

(UN)SPOKEN

WORDS: 1511 CHARACTERS: Zenith, Dak CONTENT WARNINGS: Very minor drug use, discussion of death

Soundtrack: driftwood - jackson scovel

You've been standing outside for at least fifteen minutes. You've been awake longer, and you keep telling yourself it was just because you needed to take a piss (the grody truck stop bathrooms make Xanadu feel close to godliness), but you're still standing here, and you're not peacefully enjoying the summer air and crickets, either. Being alone with the same thoughts that woke you from a restless sleep isn't helping.

Thing is, you risk waking up Pox or Tech on your way back in. Coupled with the fact that you feel like you might come apart at the seams at the slightest provocation, you don't trust yourself to be able to utter even a few words to them without completely unraveling.

Aaaand that’s when you hear it:

"You okay, there, Z?"

Fuck.

You look up, and, of course, who else but Dak Rambo comes sauntering out of the darkness, cat eyes glinting in the neon light from the store signage. In one hand, a joint you can smell from all the way over here sits between his fingers; the other is tucked loosely into his pocket.

"Yeah! Yeah. Hi." Everything is normal and you are not plagued by disturbingly realistic visions of merciless homicide. "Just, you know, wanted some fresh air. We should get the cabin cleaned properly at some point. No offense, but it stinks in there."

"Hey, that's just part of her character. Trust me, there's some smells in there that no amount of cleanin' is ever gonna get out."

"Gross." You laugh, but you're painfully aware of how hollow it sounds. Dak says nothing more. It's like he knows. Like he's waiting.

Well. If anyone would have an answer to something like this, it's him.

Doesn't make it an easy question to ask. The tension is palpable for the full minute you spend trying to swallow the lump in your throat before you can finally form a calm, coherent sentence.

"Dak?"

"Mm?"

"What do you do when you feel like you might hurt people you love?"

Dak stares pensively; first at you, then off into the distance. The smoke from the cigarette resting between his fingers curls upwards and around his jaw. For a split second, you can feel him teetering on the edge of vulnerability.

"I ain't done nothing but hurt people I love, Z. You're asking the wrong guy."

"C'mon, man."

"Where's this comin' from, anyway? What's got you so worried all of a sudden?"

He looks back at you, and you look away, noting the distinct dryness in your mouth as you stare down at the ground instead.

"I dunno. I was just. Thinking about it."

"About hurting us? You're not about to flip and start putting bullets in us, are you?"

"Don't. Dak. Don't." He nailed it in one and he doesn't even know it. The tears you're only barely managing to keep at bay might not be an immediate giveaway, but the tremor in your voice certainly is. You're trying, hard, so hard not to let your cool-headed veneer slip, but for all the effort, it's a battle you're losing fast.

"Hey, hey, I'm kidding, I'm kidding--"

"But what if I do?" It's supposed to be a bark, angry, aggressive, but your voice breaks mid-sentence, reducing it to a muted whine. "I keep getting these--seeing these things in my mind, where I'm doing that exact shit, and I keep asking, like: what if it actually happens? What if I lose control and someone ends up dead?"

The words just keep coming. You wish they wouldn't. An uncomfortable, anxious heat rises under your skin despite the relatively cool night, bringing with it a wave of nausea that makes you glad you haven't eaten. When you face Dak again, you deliberately blur your vision so that you don't have to see the expression on his face. He's looking at you, you think. He brings his joint to his mouth, takes a pull, exhales a billowing cloud of heady smoke.

"I don't think you're gonna kill any of us, Z."

"It's not that simple, Dak--"

"Zenith. Zenith." Dak claps a heavy hand on your shoulder, and the weight of it knocks the rest of your sentence out of your mouth. "Listen. I don't know what the hell’s going on in your head, all this 'losing control' stuff, but I know you. Just 'cause you're thinking it, doesn't mean it's gonna happen, alright? You wouldn't let anyone else hurt us, and I don't think you'd let yourself hurt us, either. And if you did, well--whatever put you into that state, we'll be right there tryin' to pull you back out."

You tentatively let your vision swim back into focus, but the moment you see the rock-solid conviction on Dak's face, tears start to blur it again. (He has faith in you, so much faith in you, not knowing what you've done, what you can do, what you might do again.) He gently pulls you forward, towards him, and you barely need the invitation; you fall face-first into his chest and sob weakly into his shirt. He smells like weed and sweat and oil and there's maybe nothing else in the world more comforting right now, save perhaps for the hand gently rubbing your back.

"Easy, now, buddy, easy," Dak murmurs softly. The depth of his voice resonates into you through his chest. You coiled your arms around him, it seems, snaked them under his jacket to cling loosely to his vest. He's probably getting ash in your hair. You don't care.

"I just don't want to lose this," you manage to croak. "Don't want to lose you. Any of you. And I don't want it to be my fault."

"Yeah. Yeah." Dak lifts his hand slightly to stroke the back of your neck. Underneath you, his chest heaves a weary sigh. "Welcome to the club."

You stay like that for a while. You don't know how long. You aren't keeping track. Dak's hand remains on your back and you're grateful for its presence, for his presence. For him. For Pox and Tech, too, hopefully both still sleeping and not silent witnesses to your little episode. You've had friends before, but not like this. Not ones you've felt so personally responsible for and not ones who you'd tell your deepest fears to in the dead of night.

Not ones you love.

"Hey." Dak nudges you gently; you open your eyes to see the stub of his cigarette smouldering on the ground by your feet. "You good there?"

"...Yeah." You don't know that that's true, but you do feel a little bit better. Just a little bit. You lift your head and straighten up, sniff, wipe the tear residue off your face. "I. Um."

"S'all good, Z." Is it? You have more you want to say to him, after the admissions he let slip. But Dak pats your cheek, almost playful, and it’s disarming enough in the moment to make you forget. "Go on back inside, now. Get some sleep."

"Uh huh." It takes several seconds for you to recollect yourself, but as you're prying the cabin door open (as quietly as possible; you'd still rather not wake the others), you pause, one foot on the step.

"Dak?"

"Yeah?"

"Love you, man."

He chuckles under his breath, and you wonder if he knows how much you mean it.

"I love you too, Z."

You crawl between the seats once you're back inside and carefully slot yourself back in place, tucked between Pox and Tech in the nest of mismatched blankets you found in the trailer. If they're awake, if they noticed you were gone, they barely show it; the only clue they give is the way they both burrow back into you, pressed close against you on either side. Sometimes it feels oppressive, but not tonight. Tonight, you're glad for the reminder that they're here, real, alive. Safe. You with them, and them with you.

Maybe Dak is right. Intrusive thoughts, as unwanted as they are, are not clairvoyance. You're not predicting the future. You're seeing glimpses of the past entangling themselves with your current state of mind. Yeah. That's it.

...That's not actually comforting.

But Tech's leg kicks against yours, and you think about holding him, bloody and unconscious in the back of the truck. Pox drapes one arm over your chest, and you feel the prickling, defensive anger rippling under your skin when you think about her dad, and how gut-wrenchingly evil he is, and how you'd love to get your hands on him and--well, this train of thought isn't exactly assuaging your fears. But there's a point to it.

If there's one thing you know for certain, beyond all else, it's that you'd fight tooth and nail to keep these people safe.

You fall asleep with Pox's hair in your face, in a cabin that smells like drugs and blood and dirt and worse, knowing you'll ache in the morning from your shitty bed setup.

You wouldn’t let anyone take this from you.

Especially not yourself.

[rosy-cheekx]

Dragged from the Deep

I will update with an AO3 link, two chapters, but I really wanted to get this out!

This is from @voiceless-terror‘s prompt:  “ Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?” with jmart in the safehouse...Not what they expected but I am VERY VERY proud of this!

--

Martin awoke to the sound of Jon mumbling in his sleep. “I took my hand, and I reached down into the darkness.” Jon’s voice is quiet, reverent. Its barely his own; his voice of the Archive.

Really should have heard from Basira by now, Martin thought, trying to tamp down the frustration rising in his chest.

“Down and down,” Jon continued. “Until my whole arm was inside, up to the shoulder. It was damp and cold, with the rough stone sides scraping my skin, but my hand was stretched as far as I could, and it still gripped nothing but empty air. Then the hole began to close, and all at once the spell was broken.”

“Jon, m’dear?” he half-whispered, stroking Jon’s cheek softly. Jon was a light sleeper, but these times were...tricky. “Hey, Jonathan,” he added, voice at a speaking-volume now. “Wake up, it’s not real.”

“I tried to pull my arm out, to get free, but it held me tight. Not quite crushing me but holding me in place. I screamed and cried for help, looking around for anyone who might be able to hear me, but the only people walking by seemed utterly oblivious to what was happening. Then I felt it, something brushing against my hand from below it in the hole. Teeth. Wet, blunt teeth, which quickly gave way to a rough, slender tongue-”[97]

Martin couldn’t bear to hear any more. He hated witnessing Jon like this, possessed by the statements, by his need to feed. Jon’s voice was like marble, smooth and cold and mesmerizing, but it was heavy and would consume Jon if he allowed it.

Martin would not allow it.

“Jon!” He gave him a shake, firm on his shoulders. “Wake up!”

A drowning man suddenly reunited with his lungs; Jonathan Sims gasped for air. His eyes flashed open (there it was, the cursed glint of green that seemed to glow from within) and he clutched a hand to his chest as he began to cough. Martin pulled him into a sitting position, kneeling next to him and resting a hand on Jon’s lower back as he felt the convulsions double his frame. When his hacking had settled, Martin felt safe enough to breathe again himself, lest he had stolen air from the man beside him.

“H-hi,” Jon murmured, voice shaky, drawing his knees to his chest beneath the comforter. “How-how bad was it this time?”

Martin knew about Jon’s hunger, knew that statements were his fuel more than anything organic. The arrangement with Basira had been working relatively well up until now. Every three to four weeks, Basira would call the mobile they kept stashed in the safehouse for that purpose, only her number programmed in and let them know when she was coming, typically within a day or two. She should have called almost ten days ago. Had she let them go, at last, to fend for themselves? Had something happened to her, to the Institute? Things were getting dire.

At first, a little less than a week ago, Martin thought it was the nightmares; that the mumbling had been Jon apologizing to those so unfortunate enough to have him as a feature player in their nightmares. His words were unintelligible, so Martin had hugged him tightly in the night, in the way they had held each other those first days weeks, whispering affirmations of safety and love.

When he asked the poorly-rested Jon about it the next morning, he had frowned. “Ah, no. I mean, I haven’t slept with anyone—ah, more to say, no one has been in the room while I’ve been asleep to confirm for sure besides you, but I don’t think I usually talk in my sleep.” Martin chalked it up as “Weird, But No Too Weird,” and they agreed to keep an eye on it. Every night since, Martin had repeated that ritual, the words too unintelligible to understand, Martin clutching Jon like a life vest, carrying him safe through the morning.

Jon’s flu-like symptoms had cropped up three days ago. He woke weak, hardly able to move, and couldn’t keep any food down. The tea and water Martin literally spooned him were staying down, at least, which helped combat the dehydration Jon was surely suffering from the 40-degree fever he was running. The fever reducers weren’t helping, and Martin had nearly dragged Jon to A&E before he’d been able to explain to him what was happening. He was breaking down, needed the statements or things would get worse. “And, no, Martin-” cut off by a coughing fit. “I don’t know how much worse. Bad.” Whatever role Martin usually played in Jon’s life: roommate, friend, boyfriend maybe?, it didn’t matter. Or, at least, it came to second to Martin’s new role as nurse. Nurse was a role Martin was good at it. Practically a professional home-care assistant. But caring for a starving eldritch demigod was marginally different than caring for his human mum. At least the vomit cleaned the same way.

The statements had become more distinct the first night of the fevers. Words that had typically barely passed his lips were now being told to the night air with an intensity Martin had sorely wished he would never hear again. If Martin strained his ears, he could typically hear the tired hiss of a tape recorder. He tried to smash it that first night, out of anger and exhausted desperation, but Jon had screamed when he had bashed it with a vase, weeping as if it had been his head smashed and not the spinning dials of that cursed thing. Jon’s migraine had lasted through the night and into the afternoon, with Martin unable to do anything but apologize and stroke his hair, reading to him a novel that just wouldn’t be enough.

“Not too bad,” Martin answered, plastering a soft smile over his tired face. “Just scared me was all, I don’t know if it’s better to wake you or not, but it felt weird not to.” Jon was scratching at old worm scars, skin shiny and taut, and Martin took his hands gently, pressing a kiss to his pulse points in turn. God, he felt so hot against his lips.

“M-I’m sorry,” Jon sighs, eyes already fluttering closed again. His face was pale and his muscles slack; Martin hated how hollow his eyes and cheeks seemed, skeletal in the light of the moon.

“Shh, nothing to apologize for,” Martin assured him, reaching across Jon’s side of the bed to click on the lamp, wincing at the sudden light and the clock. 4:15. Too early, even for a morning person like Martin. “Do-do you want me to read to you some more? I can make some tea, chamomile? Milk and honey? Or we can listen to some music, or a podcast?” He knew it was fruitless. It would all be for naught until he got the damn statements from Basira.

Jon had the comforter drawn to his neck, shivering slightly, eyes closed. He nodded vaguely. “The book,” he managed, voice a broken whisper, so unlike the strong and powerful intonation Martin had just heard. Martin nodded, kissing his forehead, clammy and plastered with baby hairs, and stood, passing the book into Jon’s lap, page marked with a flat-barreled pen, something that had been tucked into a journal in the bedside table. (Jon and Martin had agreed that some things are better left unread.) Martin could see Jon’s hands shaking slightly under the blanket.

The walk to the kitchen was cold and dark, and Martin took a moment to himself, while the electric kettle hummed to life, to press his forehead against the cool plastic of the refrigerator, fingers interlaced behind his neck. God, he was so tired. He loved Jon more than anything, that was true, but he was at such a loss. It hurt to know there was nothing he could do to help, short of kidnapping a random neighbor from the town and begging them to tell Jon their story. He would call Basira this afternoon. He had tried the day the fever started and hasn’t received an answer. She was probably chasing down a lead about Daisy; she was known to go off the grid when hunting after her.

The click of the kettle, and Martin is on task again, portioning out tea and honey, chamomile for Jon, English breakfast for himself; he needs the caffeine. Two travel mugs later, Martin was heading back into the dark hallway, up the stairs, and to the dimly let bedroom.

The task had taken no more than five minutes, eight max. This was apparently, long enough for Jon to rifle in the nightstand drawer, retrieve that little notebook they had found, and to begin scribbling in it furiously. Martin could already see a good quarter of the notebook had been filled already, though what measure of that had been used prior to their arrival was unclear.

“Jon? Writing anything interesting?” Jon’s eyes jerked open and he let his gaze fall on the notebook.

“Oh-ah, no. Just doodling,” the words still weak, but the half-smile on his face lifts Martin’s spirits. See? He told himself. He’s still Jon. Jon closed the notebook and tucked it into his lap, reaching for the spill-proof mug with the hand not holding the pen that had been marking the page number. Martin noticed Jon twiddling the pen between his fingers and elected not to say anything. Whatever helped. And it had seemed to help; Jon seemed a little less gaunt than he had, but maybe that was the consequence of sitting up, letting himself focus on other things than his gnawing hunger. “Page 74,” Jon sighed as Martin resumed his position next to him in bed, tucking his head on Martin’s shoulder. “Second paragraph.”

“Creep,” Martin muttered good-naturedly, before settling into the pages and resuming the book, some sort of cop thriller-mystery (because of course that had been Daisy’s preferred reading material).

Martin had been reading for nearly an hour when, while pausing to sip his tea, the scratching of pen on paper had distracted him from the story. They had been at a rather thrilling part of the chase; the detective had just discovered that his wife, who he thought to be dead, was not actually dead and maybe even a part of the mystery. Martin had felt rather invested in giving Jon a good show, throwing himself into the narration maybe a little more than was necessary for the audience of one (1) ill partner (Boyfriend? Love? Patient? Whatever). Jon had remained quiet, save for a periodic coughing fit, but didn’t seem to be asleep from the way Martin could feel The Eye in the room with him, an inescapable feeling now, consequences of his proximity to The Archivist. With the sound of the pen, however, Martin closed the book, flipping it upside down and open. (Usually, Jon would chastise him for such a horrendous act to a book. Martin wished he would.)

Jon’s eyes were cast on the book, but his mind was clearly elsewhere. He was scribbling furiously, writing continuously in the notebook that had once belonged to Daisy. Jon’s handwriting, difficult in the best of circumstances, was positively chicken scratch as Martin tried to parse out the strings of words on the paper, some he could swear weren’t even English.

“Jon?” Martin asked, placing a hand on the journal gently. “Is everything alright?”

“I-ah, yeah,” Jon capitulated, sighing softly, even as it resulted in a series of weak hacks. “I was trying to remember the dream, the statement I was reading in my sleep. I thought maybe writing it down would help.”

“And? Did it help?”

“I…I don’t know.” Jon frowned and scrubbed his hands over his eyes, blinking wearily. “I need to keep trying.”

Martin frowned internally but tried to keep his face neutral. “D’you think it’s…good? To try?”

“I don’t know, Martin.” Martin is suddenly reminded of a paranoid, frantic Jonathan Sims, angry and scared and not knowing who to trust. “But I have to try something! I can’t just sit here, waiting to wither away and die.”

“O-okay then,” Martin took a deep breath. “It was just a question.”

“A stupid one.” He’s sick, Martin reminds himself. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.

“Well,” Martin closed the book properly this time, surreptitiously dog-earing a page. What Jon doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “I’m out of tea. Need any more?”

Jon shook his head, quiet now as he continued to write, eyes glued to his page. “A-alright then,” Martin slid off the bed and frowned, catching a whiff of himself. Yikes. He had lost track of the last time he bathed, so worried had he been about missing a call from Basira. “Would you be okay if I have a shower?”

More silence, the scratching of the cheap pen the only sound in the room. At least there wasn’t a tape running. “Shout if you need me.”

-

It felt good to breathe in the steam and smell of lather, to luxuriate in the hot water rolling over him. Martin has always been a bit generous with his showers, especially as a teen. They had been his designated times to be off the hook from his mother, chores, his jobs, anything that was causing him stress. Martin felt a bit guilty remembering these things. His shower wasn’t long because he wants to avoid Jon, not at all. It’s just. Jon is clearly in a bit of a mood, so it would be good to give him some space without making it seem like he’s upset. Which, he’s not upset! Just. a break is good. Yeah. A break is healthy.

Martin turned off the water when he started to feel a bit dizzy from the heat, wrapped himself in a towel and splashed cold water on his face. There. He was feeling better already.

“Jon!” He called, cracking the door and letting steam roll out around him. “I know it’s a bit early, but I thought maybe I could start on breakfast. Maybe you can stomach down some crackers today?”

After a few beats of silence, Martin called out again. The loo, while not an en suite, was pretty close to the master. “Jon?”

Must be asleep. Martin smiled softly to himself and shook his head, ruffling his curls, more white than auburn anymore, and pulled on a fresh pair of sweatpants. Not like they were going anywhere today.

Tinged pink from the hot shower, Martin rounded the corner into the master bedroom and stopped, momentarily confused. “Oh, did you not hear me?”

Jon was awake. He was still writing, bent over the notebook and scribbling furiously, murmuring to himself, too quiet to hear. He didn’t look up. Martin frowned, shivering as a wave of static rolled over his body like a cool wind. “Jon. Jon, a-are you in there? Are you okay?”

The muttering continued, unceasing. Martin edged forward carefully, hands in front of him like he was buffeting back a storm or trying not to scare a wounded animal. Honestly, Martin wasn’t sure which sentiment was more accurate. He crept his way to Jon’s side of the bed, still apparently unnoticed by the Archivist. There was a bloody tape recorder on the bedside table. Martin knew better than to touch it.  

He bent down, kneeling on the floor and craning his neck to look up into Jon’s face. His shoulders slumped as he gazed up into an emerald glow as Jon’s own eyes, usually a deep brown, lit the page in front of him like a torch, bathing it in harsh light. Jon’s own form was crackling slightly, seemingly more solid than a usual body should, silhouette a little too crisp against the wall behind him.

Martin could hear him now, too, and his voice was the same low, consistent monologue that Martin had first loved, but had grown to hate in his years working in the Archives.

“As I said, it was one of the last boxes I opened on the second day. It was late, and I had already made my way through most of a bottle of wine. The more I think about it, the more I think that opening that box felt no different to any of the others. No hard feelings, no smells, nothing. It was just a box empty of everything except a single typewritten note and an old hand mirror.

It lay inside, utterly innocuous. If it was a trap, there was no way to tell.” [60]

That one sounded familiar. An old statement, it must be. Something about a mirror and seeing things in a reflection? Punching a camera? he wondered. Martin felt another shiver roll through his body; he turned his attention towards the notebook, towards what he knew would be there. Now that he knew what to look for, he could read the handwriting with little trouble. As the Archivist spoke, he wrote the words in Jon’s handwriting, transcribing the statement.

“Jon,” Martin’s voice was soft. “If you can hear me, I’m going to take away your pen now. I think…I think that will let you rest. I’m going to count to three, okay? One. Two. Three.”

As soon as Martin reached for the pen, he felt himself being thrown backwards, as if by a tidal wave. He felt his body hit the wall, heard his skull hit the wall with a sickening thud.

                                        ------Chapter 2------

When Martin woke, he was confused. Last he knew, he had gone to sleep in bed, right? Not on the couch watching telly or drunk in a bathtub. So why was he so stiff—ow. He rolled his neck. And sore. He was on the floor, for one thing, head against the wall and legs splayed in front of him. God his head hurt. Was he hungover? No, he hadn’t drunk anything. Just eaten dinner in bed with Jon, done dishes, read, and fallen asleep.

Oh shit. Jon. It rushed back to Martin in a dizzying spiral; Helen would be proud. The mumbling, the writing, the pen, the eyes. Had Jon pushed him? Not physically, maybe. But hadn’t he heard through the grapevine something about Jon and the delivery man—Breekon? Or maybe Hope? Whichever one hadn’t died in the Unknowing. Something about him shoving him backwards with sheer force of a word? Jon had thought they were exaggerating. But maybe…maybe not.

Martin’s eyes were still closed, he realized. He was afraid to, he realized. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see: maybe a big, unblinking Eye where the body of Jon had been? A torrent of books and pages spinning around Jonathan Sims in a dramatic flourish as he commands them? Hundreds, if not thousands, of tape recorders piling around their bed, drowning them both in magnetic tape and words? Slowly, painfully, Martin opened his eyes.

None of those were there of course. There was just Jon. Sitting in bed, gaunt and frail. Writing and reciting as if nothing happened. That was almost worse, in a way, that he had flung Martin against a wall and continued as if it hadn’t hurt him to do so. The Archivist’s movements were stiff and mechanical as he turned the page and continued to write, voice now in a language Martin couldn’t understand but was probably Chinese.

Stopping the writing was no longer an option, he supposed. But what else could he do? Maybe it could recharge Jon a little, like sucking the marrow from a bone. Only Martin wasn’t sure if the statements or Jon was the bone in that scenario. God, he wished he could Eldritch Google “Eye statement starvation: stages of bad?” Unfortunately, his Eldritch Google was out of service and there was no one else he could ask who wasn’t also trying to actively kill him.

What were his options then? Wait and hope Jon doesn’t die. Call Basira again. Kidnap a stranger and have them read a statement. Well, he wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Martin sighed, running a hand through his hair and feeling a lump throbbing gently on the back of his head. He checked the rest of his body for injuries and was grateful to find nothing too bad. Probably just a concussion.

Hauling himself to his feet (using the floor and doorknob to a closet as his supports), Martin teetered his way to the kitchen. He threw open the cupboard beneath the sink and grabbed the small black phone with Basira’s number saved.

Dialing, he slid himself into a chair at the kitchen table, resting his forehead against his free palm and closed his eyes again.

“Hello?” The faint voice Basira Hussain rang out into the air.

“Basira? It’s Martin. Any word on the statements? It’s getting a little dire here.” He could hear the exhaustion in his own voice.

“Dire? How do you mean?” Basira was always a little too direct for Martin’s taste; couldn’t she hear how drained he was?

“He won’t stop repeating and writing old statements. I tried to stop him and he—well. It wasn’t on purpose…But he threw me into a wall.”

“Shit.” Basira was quiet for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he bit back. “I would be better if we had the statements.” There wasn’t time for him to feel guilty about his delivery.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I caught wind of Daisy being in Italy, so I’m there now. If I take the first flight out of Rome, I can be at my flat tomorrow and yours the next. Two days, max. Less if I can. Can he make it that long?”

“Better bloody hope so.” The fight drained from him. “Please, Basira,” he added, sighing. “I don’t know what to do. He was sick and feverish and I could handle that but now he’s just…empty.”

“Maybe it’s like a diet.” He could practically hear her mind spinning through the phone. “You know, how when you starve yourself for too long? You start losing weight and all’s dandy. But the longer you wait, your body starts taking nutrients from your own organs?” Martin hummed an affirmation. “Maybe he’s sucking out every bit he can from himself to survive.”

“So…how do I fix that?”

“I mean, when I get you the statements, we can force-feed him. But until then? I dunno. I’m at a loss too. Keep him safe, I think? But don’t let yourself get hurt either.”

Martin nodded, momentarily forgetting he was on the phone. “Oh, yeah. Um, thank you Basira. I’ll do my best. Call me when you’re at the flat?”

“Of course. Call me if you get lo-bored.”

“Please hurry.”

Martin hung up and dropped his head to the table unceremoniously, wincing as the impact rattled the back of his skull. Now what? He didn’t want to sit in the room while the Archivist worked, but he was afraid to leave him alone. He hated how it felt to be in the room, the low wave static and the feeling of being known permeating every pore. He was afraid what staying in there would do, if Jon would Know him too well after he came back. Looking around, Martin grabbed the egg timer Jon used when he cooked and spun it to an hour. If he checked in every hour, that would be fine, right? He could let the Archivist have the bedroom; he’d stay downstairs, and check in every hour.

The first few hours crept by, but each ding of the egg timer was much too soon for Martin’s liking. He iced his head, wincing again when he realized it was the late morning and he had been unconscious for quite a while. He made himself an unassuming brunch, cheese toasty and curry left over from dinner a few days ago. Made some more tea, obviously, and took some acetaminophen to reduce the swollen goose-egg on his head. Read, watched an old DVD of some American TV show Daisy must have liked. Tried to keep his mind off whatever had taken over his boyfriend in the upstairs bedroom.

Each time the timer went off, Martin would repeat the same process. He would ascend the stairs, knock on the doorframe of the bedroom, tell Jon he was coming over to check on him, and would watch and listen to him for almost a minute. Some of the statements he recognized, some he didn’t. His eyes were always that throbbing, blinding green, staring into nothing, his face hollow and gaunt. Around two in the afternoon, Martin went in to see that Jon had moved from the bed. The notebook lay abandoned, filled to the last page. The Archivist was standing, in baggy sleep boxers, facing the wall, still intoning the fears and terrors of those who had contributed their stories to the Institute. Their stories were stark when written against the robin blue pant. Martin left the room before he could Know he was crying.

Afternoon turned to evening, and Martin continued his ministrations. The egg timer ran his day and he got little done, managing maybe half of a book from the meager shelf downstairs. He wasn’t even sure what it was about; he had to keep rereading the same pages over and over. The writing had grown to cover half the wall in Jon’s slanted script. Martin wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what would happen if he tried to smudge it. Between checking up on The Archivist, he half-heartedly ate scrambled eggs and chugged some wine; he figured he’d earned it. It was weird to feel strangely like an Archival Assistant again; knowing things were bad for the man he desperately wanted to be there but not knowing how to help.

KRRRRRRRRRRG!

Time to check on him again. Martin trudged up the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time that day. The Archivist was in a different position this time. He was kneeling, head bowed. Martin could have sworn he was praying; the monotony of words slipping from his lips as easily as the nuns Martin had seen growing up. Martin paused. It was…almost beautiful, in a way. The slight form of a man paying his service to a god to whom he was so completely indebted. The green light reflecting off the wall, covered in his scripture, casting a glow on his skin and through his curls, mussed from fever.

Would’ve been, anyways, if Martin hadn’t seen the drop of blood snaking its way down Jon’s thigh, creasing where his leg was folded along the calf. All at once, the beauty he had been caught up in was gone and all he saw was a helpless, broken man, compelled to write the words of the desperate, the lost, the broken. Martin shook a pillowcase from the bed, letting the pillow fall unceremoniously, and cautiously moved to the Archivist. As worried as he was, he needed to know what was going on before he could help.

The sight made him slightly sick. Jon was bent over his thigh, holding the pen as if it were a dagger, and was using the ballpoint tip to carve words into the meat of his leg. He hadn’t gotten far, apparently the effort took more out than the body of a weakened Jon could take.

“a fac-” [54]

Confused, Martin looked up to the wall where he had been writing and figured out the problem. The pen had run out of ink. The words got paler and less distinct until they were barely readable. Judging from the smears, the Archivist had tried to use Jon’s blood to write, using the pen as a quill. It clearly hadn’t worked, judging by the thin, weak curves of red and brown. Jon was still mumbling the statement, eyes blank and voice even, but the lines of his face seemed frustrated and dark.

The letters on his skin were weeping dark red now and Martin could see his hands weren’t the only ones shaking. He was afraid to touch him, afraid that trying to press a cloth to his wounds could quite literally be both of their deaths.

The more he stared, trapped in indecision, he watched as the decision was made for him. Jon had been ill, dehydrated and fever-laden, and the assault to his body was more than he could handle. His face, an ashen brown-grey-green from the glow of his eyes, went slack and as the emerald lights went out, Jon slumped, falling into Martin’s lap and shoulder as his body gave up. As soon as their skin touched, Martin’s mind snapped into focus. Fix this. You have to fix this.

Martin was immediately comforted by the fact that Jon was breathing. He hadn’t run out of fuel, not yet. Martin pressed a kiss to his hair (still hot) as he gently laid Jon flat, tearing open the sealed end of the pillowcase clutched in his fist so he could slip it up Jon’s leg and press it down, trying to stem the blood flow. You need something better, he thought, mind racing. It was oozing, not squirting, so Jon hadn’t hit an artery. That was good. Thank god Mum’s hospital soaps were worth something in the end. He needed a thicker fabric; the sheet wasn’t doing any good. Martin scoured the room, looking for any sort of thick fabric.

His towel from his shower. Thank fuck for his laziness. In less than ten steps, he had retrieved the towel from where it was haphazardly abandoned by the dresser and brought it back, folding and pressing it to his thigh, exchanging it for the thin white pillowcase. Sorry, Daisy.

Kneeled beside Jon, Martin lent most of his upper body weight to pressing down on the towel, keeping a cautious eye on Jon’s face and his chest, each shallow breath another blessing. He’s not sure how long he sits there in, that position, whispering platitudes to the pallid-faced man laid in front of him. Maybe an hour? Maybe three? Maybe twenty minutes? Time is blurry, intangible to him.

It’s dark when Martin felt okay to cautiously lift the towel and examine the letters carved in his leg. They’re starting to clot, he nodded to himself, feeling safe enough to leave Jon there on the floor to get the first aid kit from the lav. Carefully, lovingly, Martin pulled the ace bandage tight around the cotton pads on his leg, freshly doused and swabbed with cleansing alcohol. Daisy was nothing if not prepared for injuries.

Satisfied with his care, he gently pulls Jon into his arms and takes him downstairs. He didn’t want Jon to wake up and see the room like this—bloody and covered in the writings of the Archivist. Between the carpet and walls, it would take a while to clean anyways. The couch was certainly big enough to hold the man he held in his arms (and god he was way too light).

One Jon was laid on the couch, Martin made a fresh cup of tea, black tea with as much caffeine as he could stomach and pulled a cold compress from the freezer. Lifting his shoulders carefully, Martin situated himself to act as a headrest for the unconscious Jon, a cold compress acting as a barrier between them to hopefully aid the fever. One hand in Jon’s curls, the other holding a book open (still, no idea what it was about), Martin settled into the evening, saying a prayer to anything that was out there that Basira would hurry the hell up.

Martin read aloud to Jon all night, trying in vain to keep himself awake. Apparently, the book was a romance novel, some trashy erotica about a woman and a werewolf. Martin was just graceful it wasn’t sci-fi and horror. He annotated it as he read, giving Jon his stream of consciousness thoughts. “You know, I haven’t done that,” he chuckled to himself, brushing Jon’s hair from his face. “Especially not with a woman, but I don’t really think it’s anatomically possible.”

His eyes were starting to droop around three or four in the morning, the adrenaline draining out of him. Resting a hand on Jon’s neck, he felt for his pulse point and, after finding it, light and shallow as it was after the coma, let his eyes close, comforted in feeling the life fluttering beneath his fingers.

-

Martin woke up to a pounding on the door and he snapped awake like the knock had been a gunshot. The care he took to lay Jon’s head back down was deeply contrasted by the way he bolted to the door, unlocking it with haste and resisting the urge to throw his arms around Basira, wincing at the bright daylight that streamed inside.

“Woah—Martin,” Basira took a step back involuntarily. “Is there a reason your hands are covered in blood?”

“What? Oh-yeah, I’ll tell you about it. Things were bad. It’s fine now. It’s-It’s not my blood.” Martin swung the door open, letting Basira in. “What time is it? How did you get here so fast?”

“It’s quarter-three; I may or may not have found a plane that wasn’t on the official flight plans. And there’s more than one way to get in the Institute besides a key.” Martin shook his head and decided it wasn’t worth asking about. He beckoned her to the couch, where Jon lay, limbs limp.

Basira handed him the first statement on the pile and opened one for herself. “Ready?”

“Statements begin.”

-

Jon’s first thought was how wet his neck felt. His second was why he heard so many words. His brain floated between living dolls and a message in a bottle, washed up on the beaches of Greece. His teeth were chattering and he felt so cold. He grasped his hands out, reaching desperately for the comforter. Martin must have stolen it, he smiled to himself. Oh, that’s Martin. Martin’s voice.

“Hmm…Mm’tin,” he murmured, shifting towards the sound of his voice. Martin’s voice continued, telling him a story about a doll with painted lips and angry eyes. A hand reached out and cupped his face. Jon leant into the touch hungrily, grateful for the heat on his skin. He let Martin’s words carry him away again.

-

When Jon woke again, he felt more alive than he had in days. If his illness recently had been him submerged, he finally felt like he was breaking through the surface. The Choke released him, and he felt oxygen return to his lungs. But he was not in the Buried, he was on the couch. He was not drowning, he was breathing sweet air and felt it wafting over him in the drafty house that felt like a home when he was with Martin. Martin. God, he could hear his voice and he didn’t think he had heard anything so sweet than Martin speaking and reading to him. He was reading, yes, and Jon knew immediately what it was: the statement of Herbert Conklin, an Irishman who watched his son turn to plastic before his eyes, piece by piece. Jon’s eyes flew open and he craned his neck to find Martin’s face. His eyes were cast down on the statement in his lap, but his hand was folded in Jon’s, running his fingertips over the smaller man’s knuckles gently.

Jon felt paralyzed, unable to move as he let the statement wash over him, hating how good it made him feel to hear the statement, lavishing in the words. He felt a sharp pain in his leg throb to dull ache as the healing words flowed through him. As Martin uttered those forsaken words: “Statement Ends,” he brought his eyes to meet Jon’s, a pale smile ghosting his face before it solidified into something more real, more Martin.

“Hi love. Been a tough few days. How are you holding up?”

Jon was lost for words for a moment, gaping like a fish before he brought Martin’s clasped hand to his lips. Kissing it, he pressed the words into his skin, begging them to impress themselves there forever.

“Better that you’re here.” His memory was a blank, sure, but he knew it must be true and didn’t need to ask the Eye to confirm. Martin was here. All would be well.

[chalkrevelations]

Well. Episode 34 of Word of Honor, and, oh.

(Spoilers. Scroll on by and come back later if you want to watch it unspoiled.)

Oh. No. NO, show. Only A-Xiang is supposed to make me cry, so fuck you, Zhou Zishu, with your SAD LITTLE FACE, oh my god, why don’t you just pull my heart out of my chest, throw it down in the dirt and stomp on it? It would be kinder than having to watch you deal with the implications of whatever it is, precisely, you’ve done to yourself that means you’re expecting to drop dead any day and lose your chance at lifetime happiness with your soulmate but are hiding from everyone. (Well, I guess it’s your turn to be hiding something, because it looks like everyone in the jianghu except you was in on at least some part of Wen Kexing’s plan.)

So, the first thing that struck me in this ep is the way ZZS sits at the table at the post-Hero’s Conference meal drinking session, hunched over, like his bones are made of shattered glass, and here’s the thing: He’s absolutely just had a serious emotional blow. But also, this is a guy who’s terminally ill and in chronic pain, and we saw that repeatedly for about the first two-thirds of the show, and then the emphasis on it kind of slacked off. And I’m thinking now that maybe it wasn’t just slack writing or WKX playing his xiao in the rain through the nights at Four Seasons Manor like the worst emo kid ever that helped, that maybe some of the progression of the deadening of ZZS’s senses might have offered him some relief, but whatever it was, I’m wondering if whatever he’s done now – I presume pulled out those gd Nails - has exacerbated everything all over again. I cannot believe that at least Wu Xi can’t look at the way he’s moving and holding himself at the table and see that he’s not just stone-cold angry and emotionally hurt about being left out of the loop, he’s in physical pain. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s a little like being stabbed in the chest when he gets confirmation that Chengling and WKX were in on WKX’s “death” together while he was in the dark and believed this asshole actually died on him. But I also think we’re getting physical pain ramped up again from him; there’s a hesitation and delicacy of movement that speaks of someone who’s judging their movements and maintaining a high level of control, because if they do make a wrong move, everything could just explode into agony. I also noticed the way he clutches his cup when A-Xiang starts explaining how WKX made a deal with Xie Wang in order to rescue ZZS from Tian Chuang, and I can’t for the life of me figure out if it’s having to hear about WKX finding himself in that position in order to save him, or if it’s A-Xiang calling him “Sick Dude” at a moment when that’s going to press right on one of the tenderest, most vulnerable places. Because, god, everyone else at this table who even knows about his terminal illness still thinks that Wu Xi is going to be able to fix him. And here’s where ZZS apparently is a better person than me, because I don’t know that I wouldn’t have an absolute breakdown and end up throwing it in WKX’s face that if he had just told me what was going on, maybe I wouldn’t be about to drop dead tomorrow and leave him alone for the rest of his life, asshole. But no! His zhiji’s happiness is so important to ZZS, that he’s not going to say a word about it! It’s more important than his own life, that his shidi has been able to avenge his parents while keeping his own hands (relatively) clean of any more sins. He’s going to continue to be there, to be whatever WKX needs him to be, for however few days he has left. I won’t fail you. (Even when you fail me). Here’s the thing though – at some point, you’re going to drop dead, Zhou Zishu. And apparently you’re going to leave WKX completely unprepared for it, so I don’t know that you’re doing him any favors being the one who’s hiding something, this time around. And oh my god, I just realized something – you made him drink three pots of liquor as a punishment – was that to get him so blind drunk he wouldn’t notice the Nails were gone? You realize you have to tell him at some point, right?

ANYWAY, WKX gets sloppy drunk and stumbles into their(? has everyone just given up any pretense at this point?) bedroom, and first of all, can I take a minute to flail over the way ZZS pushes drunk WKX’s hair back off of his shoulder? Can I? Because I rewound and re-watched that 2 seconds of the show three times. But then, then, WKX starts drunken rambling about how happy he is, and how scared he’d been that he wasn’t worthy of ZZS, and tears start welling up in ZZS’s stupid eyes, and WKX starts talking about how finding ZZS made him a whole new person, and ZZS’s stupid precious face gets SO SAD, and I start fucking welling up too, and then WKX talks about his parents and their shifu, and ZZS presses WKX’s head to his chest and gives us his stupid sad little smile, and I’m literally clutching my shirt hem in inarticulate pain and distress by this point, and then ZZS starts to break down as he holds WKX’s hand as WKX finally falls asleep, and he gives that stupid shaky sobbing little gasp, and just UGH. I’m DYING here, show. Also, how did you manage to do this to me with just your face, Zhang Zhehan? I’m not sure I can take the next couple of episodes, when the whole Nails dilemma is sure to come out.

Second big takeaway of this ep is that I just … oh my god. I cannot with you, Xie’er, holy shit. And I say this in a completely loving yet utterly aghast way. Was it absolutely necessary to literally sit on Awful Yifu’s lap? I’m reduced to a state of horrified laughter over the envelope pushing. The absolute fuckery of the power dynamic fluctuations of the Zhao Jing/Xie Wang relationship at this point … it’s something. It’s finally reached a point where it’s so fucky and complex that I may have to go looking for some fic, despite my general desire to punt Awful Yifu into the sun. I do have to say that the whole (one-sided) conversation when Xie’er finally let everything out was super-cathartic. Go off with your unfilial self, Xie’er. Li Daikun has been amazing all through this, and he’s continuing to maintain a perfect balance as we move toward the finish line. I’ve heard he was offered Wen Kexing and supposedly didn’t want to take the role because he didn’t think he was ready for it? And while I absolutely appreciate Gong Jun and the chemistry between ZZS and WKX that he built with Zhang Zhehan, I’m flabbergasted that Li Daikun was able to pull off Xie’er like this, yet thought he couldn’t manage WKX ... and I have to admit, I kind of would like to see what WKX would have been in his hands. I’ve also heard a rumor that they’re talking about maybe filming an origin story for Xie Wang? I … am torn, because on the one hand, more Xie’er, but on the other, more Awful Yifu. Anyway, I think we’re continuing to see a whole tangle of resonances between Xie’er, Wen Kexing, and Zhou Zishu, and the awful men in their lives who helped make them who they are today; there’s something of a contrast between Zhou Zishu, who, maybe significantly, was older and had some grounding from his Four Seasons shifu when he got tangled up with Prince Jin and Tian Chuang and who was willing to gnaw off his own leg to get out of the trap (and only finally struck back because he was forcibly taken back) and the other two, one of whom killed and … dismembered? flayed? his abuser before taking his literal throne, and the other of whom turned his abuser into a muted … piece of furniture? sex toy? before taking his figurative throne. Xie’er is about five steps behind Wen Kexing on a parallel path, and maybe there’s still time for him to untangle some of the fuckery in his head about his awful yifu. But meanwhile, there it is: You failed me. Xie’er, you’re breaking my heart, but I feel like I have to point out, again, this is the guy who is literally responsible for the existence of the Department of the Unfaithful. I did have a brief moment when I was convinced Xie’er was poisoning himself and Awful Yifu in a murder-suicide move, but then we got lap-sitting instead? Which could have made me think we were getting some kind of reversion to wanting to feel safe, like a kid able to (finally) sit in his father’s lap and play at comfort, but then he went and made it – let’s be honest – a little weird.

Last really big takeaway for me from this ep is that A-Xiang and I continue to be simpatico, because lady, I also have a very very bad feeling about Fan Shishu’s absence in this wedding “party” from the Gentle Wind Sword Sect, and watching your dawning realization at the end of the episode when he doesn’t show up and doesn’t show up and doesn’t show up as the group enters only confirmed my suspicions that something is UP. Am I supposed to expect a fakeout to Mo Huaiyang’s haranguing speech to Cao Weining, with a wrap-up of “But since you clearly love her so much and want to be a good influence …” Because I won’t believe it. And I’m not going to be happy or comfortable until we see the back of this asshole, because speaking of somebody who says everything with his face, Mo Huaiyang was NOT happy when Ye Baiyi called off the rest of the Heroes Conference, after his horse in the race had already been completely repudiated and he lost whatever chance he had at gaining power and influence on Zhao Jing’s back. Even if he did come all this way – bearing gifts – just to tell Cao Weining he’s an ungrateful brat and to never darken the door of Gentle Wind Sword Sect, it would still be a jerkass thing to do. But I don’t trust him as far as I could spit, and my only question at this point is whether all of Cao Weining’s shidi who came with him to the wedding are in on whatever bs Mo Huaiyang’s planning to pull.

A couple other random things:

Oh, so A-Xiang’s two moms are going to stay together for the rest of their lives, are they? And Liu Qianqiao is even like, “Loser Boyfriend? I don’t know him.” Followed by a cut to Luo Fumeng and her vaguely smug reaction. I’m dying.

No one’s going to say anything about this random body that Wen Kexing used for his plan? Just, you know, went to the store or something and picked out a random body? I realize it’s very late in the game to be getting moralistic about the adorable merciless killers, but come on, man. I also think we have once again overused the infodump. I realize we only have 35 episodes, but some of this explanation of WKX’s very complex plan should have been shown, not told. Anyway, cue series of flashbacks to finally explain how the whole Rube Goldberg plan was put in place, and ah-hah! WKX, himself, talked to Chengling ahead of time. I notice that in that flashback scene and the one when he talks to Ye Baiyi, he’s prominently still wearing That Hairpin, so we’ll realize this all got set into motion before ZZS was rescued and brought home.

Finally, why has everyone seem to have forgotten (still) about that KEY that WKX was waving around? No one’s going to mention it? Really?

And now, I think I’m going to fortify myself with some bourbon for the next ep.

[hold-me-sickfics]

Day 2: Jin’s Prompt💙

Good morning everybody 😊

TW: Scat mentioned, heavy emeto, I don’t think food is mentioned, but if I missed anything please let me know and I’ll fix it!😁

—————

“That is it! I’m done!” Jungkook stood up and partially threw the game controller halfway across the room.

“Jungkook!” The leader scolded. Namjoon was not one to put up with Jungkook’s occasional spoiled attitude towards games.

“He’s cheating! He couldn’t beat me normally! There is literally no way.” The youngest pouted and huffed as he pleaded his case.

Taehyung decided to fan the flames.

“Or maybe you’ve just lost your touch Goldie.” Taehyung snickered at his reference to Jungkook’s “golden maknae” title.

“Shut up Taehyung!” Jungkook shouted, falling back on the couch.

“Make me!”

The two continued to bicker. Namjoon decided to intervene (meaning lecture both of them for at least a very long, long half-hour, and had delegated another important task to Jimin. Jin was late waking up, so Namjoon told Jimin to go check on him. They had a huge conference today, and Jin never liked being out of routine on these kinds of days.

Jimin’s house shoes tapped the floor as he walked quickly down the hallway. When he reached Jin’s door, he was shocked to find it locked. Jimin tapped lightly, and then heard no movement so he knocked a bit harder.

“Hyung? Are you awake?”

“Mh- yeah, what time is it?”

“Nearly 10:15… we have to leave for the conference in forty-five minutes. Are you feeling alright?”

“I’m good. Just tired. I’ll be out there before time to go.”

Jimin gave an affirmative “okay” and then went back up the hallway to watch his two younger members get scolded. It was always so funny to watch.

On the other side of the door…

Jin bent down to set his bucket in the floor. The simple motion made his stomach feel like revolting. He’d been awake since nearly 3:00 that morning, but hadn’t left his room. He knew the other members needed sleep if they were going to do that conference today, so waking them up would have been counterproductive.

His feet touched the cold floor, sending shivers up his back. He had a fever, he’d already checked. At 5:00, it was almost 100.8, but he was sure it was higher now. He’d attempted to take fever reducer, but it wouldn’t stay down no matter what he tried. He had just hoped that it would go away eventually.

He took out the thermometer once again, and closed his puffy eyes hoping that just maybe his fever went down and the house was just cold. After a couple seconds, the familiar beep sounded, and he took it out of his mouth.

“101.3”

He leaned on the side of the countertop, feeling more lightheaded than he ever had before. His eyes welled up with tears, but he wiped them away quickly with his sleeve. He felt vulnerable, like a little boy. His lips quivered, and he sniffled as he tried to regain composure.

He hated the fact that he had to be sick today. This conference was big, and they really needed to do well. He had to suck it up and do well… if he just didn’t let any of the others know he was sick, he’d be fine.

Taking his pajamas off was one of the most painful experiences he’d ever had. Each time the fabric brushed his skin, he felt like thousands of needles were just jabbing him over and over. Somehow, he managed to make it through that, and went on to brushing his teeth. This would be a difficult task.

He usually used a charcoal toothpaste to whiten his teeth (those maknaes made you need wine sometimes. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.) However, today he used a mint flavored paste since his gag reflex was already beyond triggered. As he slowly brushed his teeth, he stood crouched around his stomach, attempting to ignore the cramps which meant he’d need another “bathroom break” and soon.

He was able to put clean clothes on and brush his hair, but he still looked like he was sick. He couldn’t let the others know, or they’d worry. Not to mention, he loved taking care of them, but the thought of them taking care of him? That was just weird. He felt like he should be independent since he was the oldest… although, he’d kill for some tea to calm his stomach and maybe a heating pad? And a hug? Please?

He put his shoes on, and then went over to his vanity mirror. The dark circles under his eyes didn’t do anything to help his pale, sickly complexion. He applied a bit of foundation and powder to his face just to hide the lack of color. He was desperate to keep the secret about him being sick, which is probably why that was the best makeup he’d ever put on himself. He hoped to remember how to do it again when he felt more like a living person.

He stood up slowly, and felt his stomach drop. He shuffled quickly to the toilet, and let out everything he could. He felt bloated and crampy, so he wrapped his arms around his taut stomach as he tried to empty himself.

Though he tried, his efforts were less than successful. He cleaned up, and flushed, still feeling beyond full.

He walked up the hallway, and out into the living room. Namjoon had finished playing “father figure” to the maknaes, and they were already hugging and making up.

“Morning Jin- woah, are you feeling okay?” Namjoon got a good look at Jin’s sweaty, pale, and weak appearance. Adding the “sleeping in” part, things were starting to look suspicious.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just ate something that didn’t agree with me. But I think I’m about done so I’m good.” Jin lied pretty convincingly. His story would allow him some bathroom breaks, and the other members wouldn’t question a story that embarrassing.

“Okay,” Namjoon raised an eyebrow. “But if anything starts bothering you and you don’t feel well enough to go, just tell me alright?” Namjoon was always so caring. He placed a strong hand on Jin’s back. The gesture itself nearly made Jin bust out crying. He needed someone to be his strength right now, and Namjoon, though he didn’t know it, had just reassured him that everything would be okay.

A few minutes passed and it was time to load the van. Jin made sure to get the back seat, and put his bag in the seat beside him. He wished he could have Namjoon there, but he didn’t want to risk extra exposure for the leader, or risk Namjoon actually finding out his temperature. Earlier had been a close call anyway. Luckily, he’d been wearing a jacket so Namjoon couldn’t really tell.

The car ride passed relatively smoothly. For one, the tight, confined sections in the van helped Jin to feel warmer and more protected. For two, it was rainy and that made the guys keep slower, more calm songs on the radio. Jin wasn’t sure he could handle “IDOL” or “Cypher 4” at the moment. Although, they had thrown on Namjoon’s “Expensive Girl” for kicks and giggles and Jin had to admit: even with how bad he felt, hearing all that come out of Namjoon’s mouth made him laugh a bit. (Side note: there had been a night in the studio where Namjoon and Jin were alone reviewing tracks. They’d gotten a little drunk, and Namjoon might have performed “Expensive Girl” whilst dancing on a table. It always brought back good memories.)

The minute they got onto the premises of the conference building, Jin felt bile rush up his throat.

“Not in the bus” he thought, “Anywhere but here.”

He swallowed thickly, bringing the bile back down. He gagged again, but was able to jump up and get some fresh air before it came back up.

“Alright guys, we don’t have much time. Our scheduling manager made a small mistake and brought us in an hour late. We won’t have time to get hair and makeup done, but we do all have time to run to the restroom real quick if any of us need to.” Namjoon subconsciously turned to glance at Jin. Thankfully, Jin didn’t catch him.

Jin was just trying to focus on the cool rain that was dripping from the roof of the awning to his palm. Somehow it helped his nausea to calm down.

The others went ahead into the conference room, but Namjoon stayed back with Jin.

“Jin?”

Namjoon saying his name broke his trance.

“Oh, sorry. I got distracted.”

Namjoon took Jin’s hand and pulled him inside. He then took off his jacket, and wrapped the older boy in it.

“I know you’re sick Jin. You need to rest. Honestly, you need to be at home asleep. Why did you try to hide the fact that you feel bad?” the leader then helped Jin to sit down on a small bench.

“I’m…” he paused. “I’m sorry Joonie…” Jin started to tear up. Namjoon wiped his tears, and started to whisper to him sweetly.

“Hey, it’s all okay. Everything is okay. I just don’t like that you feel bad and you aren’t able to rest. Was it because of this conference?”

Jin felt dazed, but was able to say yes.

Namjoon’s eyes softened. He was about to brush Jin’s hair out of the way, but one of the staff members came to get them both. Namjoon would have stopped them from taking Jin, but Jin had gone back stone-faced too quickly. He was back to pretending he was fine.

They were into the room and in their seats quickly. Namjoon was furious when he learned that Jin’s seat was on the other side of the table. He wanted to help him… and he couldn’t even touch him.

The cameras started rolling quickly, and Namjoon put on his “stage face,” pretending he wasn’t about to hyperventilate over Jin.

Namjoon answered question after question, translating for the rest of the boys. Jin could feel his stomach becoming more and more active as time went on.

Eventually, a question came for Jin.

“Kim Seokjin, how did you decide to dye your hair purple?”

It was a fun question that Jin would have normally enjoyed answering. However, his stomach decided to answer first.

Jin cried out in pain as his stomach was overtaken with a sharp cramp. He doubled over, and immediately felt bile come up his throat again. This time, he couldn’t stop it. In no time, both the medical team and Namjoon were at his side.

“S-s-sorry.” Jin sobbed.

Namjoon was speechless. His heart was broken into hundreds, maybe thousands of pieces. Jin was in front of him, doubled over in pain with vomit on his pant legs and shoes.

“Okay, let’s check him out.” The medical team went straight to work examining him. Jin squirmed against them, partially becoming afraid of all the people around.

“It’s alright bud, look at me.” Jin nodded, but still squirmed quite a bit as numerous people came close to him.

His fever was found to be back at 100.4, but that didn’t stop the team from giving him a pill version of fever reducer. The hope was, even if it didn’t all get digested, at least some would.

The other members stepped up quickly to help out with whatever they could. Hoseok called the driver, Yoongi talked to the interviewer, and Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin waited for incoming orders from their hyungs.

The medical team deduced that Jin was suffering from a stomach virus, one that was contagious at that. They said that there was really nothing they could do to cure him. It just had to run its course and leave his system. The conference was scheduled for another day, and the boys headed home.

Since Jin had to stay behind and change clothes, Namjoon and Jin rode separate from the others. Jin was sick practically the whole way home. Luckily, he had a bucket to throw up in, so all he had to do was just hold it.

Jin retched painfully, and having thrown up all of his stomach contents already, this time he didn’t have anything left to bring up.

All Namjoon could do was stroke his back and encourage him.

“You’re doing great Jin. Just close your eyes. It makes it easier.”

Jin couldn’t protest. Any advice was relevant when you were puking your guts out.

That continued until they got home. The others had gotten home first, and when Namjoon and Jin got to the door, they realized just how sweet the other guys were.

At the time, they were all in their rooms, but they were being quiet as mice. They had turned the lights down just in case Jin would have been sensitive to them. They’d made the bed in Namjoon’s room, and had even left a couple cold bottles of water on the countertop. Namjoon smiled at the boys’ efforts, but quickly focused his attention back to Jin, who was using his shoulder for support.

They walked to Namjoon’s room, and the leader leaned Jin down on the bed.

“So I’m gonna let you borrow some of my pajamas since your room is down the hall.” Namjoon might have just used that as an excuse to see Jin in one of his own hoodies. He picked out a pair of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and a yellow hoodie that he’d worn to a fan sign.

Jin looked pretty weak, so Namjoon decided to offer his help in changing clothes.

“Want me to help you change?”

“Yeah... I don’t think I can sit up without my stomach hurting.”

Namjoon nodded, and then gently got Jin dressed. He looked much more comfortable by the time he got done.

“Joon-“

Namjoon turned around just in time to see Jin gag over the blanket. He quickly grabbed the waste bin and put it in his Hyung’s lap.

“That’s it Jin. Just let it up okay?” Jin leaned into Namjoon’s side, but kept his head over the bin. Namjoon rubbed Jin’s back a bit, and that helped to relax him. He ended up not throwing up again, but retching so harshly had caused him to feel even weaker. He was so tired.

“I feel so bad...” Jin’s eyes were red and puffy. He was going to cry.

“I know Jin. I know.” He wrapped the older boy in his arms and held him close. His heart hurt as Jin’s chest started to bounce with sobs. He couldn’t catch his breath once he started to cry.

“Breathe Jin, you’re okay, it’s all okay. I know you feel bad. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” Namjoon gently guided Jin’s face to his own neck, hoping that Jin would feel safer there.

Thankfully it worked and in a couple of minutes, Jin was calmed down again.

Even then, Namjoon could tell his Hyung was exhausted, and decided to help.

“Wait here alright?” Namjoon went over to the television and turned on one of Jin’s favorite KDramas. He looked back, and was relieved to see Jin smile a bit.

Namjoon got into bed with Jin and pulled the covers over them both. Within five minutes, Jin was asleep, but he had subconsciously curled himself around Namjoon. Jin would never admit it, but it made him feel safe and protected when he was close to him. Namjoon didn’t mind at all, and had even readjusted the way he was lying to accommodate more room for Jin’s head on his chest.

Namjoon looked up at the television and since Jin was asleep, he decided to change the channel. Unfortunately for him, the remote was out of reach, and he wouldn’t dare move, so he was stuck watching whatever this was. Less than ten minutes after that, he was pretty well invested in the show.

“I love you Suk. Don’t leave me.” The girl had whispered those words to the leading male before drifting off to sleep in his arms. “I’ve got you Lee-hyun. You’re safe with me.” He had kissed his hand, and pressed it against her cheek. Namjoon looked down at Jin. “I’ve got you Jin-ah. You’re safe with me. I promise.” He kissed his hand and pressed it to Jin’s feverish cheek. Namjoon didn’t see it, but Jin smiled in his sleep.

[electricbluebutterflies]

Garden work + soft babes (bonus points for domesticity + “you don’t have to do that”)

Things I will never be over - Chris and Melissa being awkward cats who absolutely do not know how to relationship. Post-series as per usual, PG-ish, also on ao3.

The unexpected plus side of finally having some quiet – Melissa can live her best plant-lady life without worrying about all of it getting trampled.

Honestly, it is weird with most of the kids off at different colleges. She had gotten so used to her role as accidental pack mom for a whole herd of god-knows-what – and she still isn’t sure what some of the younger ones actually are, never did get an explanation for the boy who can apparently turn invisible and still turns up on her porch from time to time – and now just as suddenly it is reduced if not over. Which is to say, there are still non-human beings that automatically become her problem at work and occasionally call her at weird hours because she’s a reliable source of comfort and normality, but the remaining local faction does not need her the same way right now and she is fine with that.

So, with only so much long-distance worrying she can do before she either gets bored or goes crazy (she’s not sure which is more likely), and the relative state of quiet having lasted a couple months now, Melissa has time to plant flowers and figure out her own relationship issues. And apparently today she gets to do both at once.

This was not the plan, she would like to point out. She is perfectly capable of doing relatively light yard work on her own, and how hard could it realistically be to dig a few holes for rosebushes anyways. But in that way that these things apparently happen now, Chris is around today and attempting to make himself useful, and while this was not how Melissa intended for her afternoon to play out, she has never said no to a genuine offer of help.

Besides, it’s a good excuse to stare at him while she figures out what conversation they’re currently avoiding.

She’s not sure if they’re going slow or if they’re both too traumatized from past relationships to do much of anything or… there are a lot of possible explanations for the past year, all of them neither comforting nor problematic. At this stage in her life, she can’t afford to be too impulsive, and she’d been convinced for two years that she was going to die alone because other obligations came first and then-

“Where did you want this one?”

The man she may or may not be falling in love with is holding a pink rosebush like he is not sure what it even is and it’s the cutest thing she’s seen in years.

It’s easier to show than tell. Melissa walks over and taps her foot at a spot by the corner of the house – best to keep pointy things away from anywhere they might get trampled or driven over. Late March might be a little early for this sort of project, but she’d like to enjoy the pretty for a while before something has the opportunity to get it, and given how chaotic summer is likely to be…

“You don’t have to do this,” she says for the sake of formalities, and because she’d like to get any potential fights over with. Not that she expects that, not with him, but her instincts are still too defensive and-

“You need help,” he replies, not at all a question. This is why she likes him, she thinks. Trying to get him to talk about or even admit feelings is a losing battle unless something else has gone very wrong, which is to say that in this current quiet post-everything phase of their lives it is probably never going to happen, but what he does not say he still shows. Protectiveness is an expression of love, figuring out why her dishwasher was making weird noises is an expression of love, attempting to help with her projects is an expression of love.

She knows on some level this is still a very bad idea. He’s a good man, yes, but he’s reckless and unreliable and-

No. Not so much anymore. Not since whatever the hell happened six months ago that she did not ask about because all she needed to know was she was the person he needed in the middle of the night for once not wounded, she was the person who just needed to be calm and yet not because she had also been through her own personal hell and no one makes great choices at three in the morning and-

“Something wrong?”

Damn him. Damn him and his pretty eyes and his constant fear of being the cause of her distress.

“No,” she says too quickly. She blinks, realizing that in the time she spaced out he managed to dig a decent enough hole for the rosebush and is now waiting for further instructions. And to think that for once she wasn’t distracted by the pretty even though it was right there and-

“Whatever you need…”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re too cautious?” This would be a better scenario if she didn’t look like hell, she thinks. Hair up in a messy bun, dirt on her face, she’s not actually sure where this tshirt came from or who it originally belonged to… this is the sort of conversation a woman who actually planned for this shit would try to do in a dress, but she is more reactionary than that and-

He looks at her all deer-in-the-headlights like that is not at all where he expected she was about to go. “No?”

There are so, so many things she wants to say right now. Moving slow is one thing but they don’t have to, not anymore, not with no normal-person obstacles in the way. She has run this hesitant relationship situation by everyone else in her life who might have opinions on it – a decade of her various loved ones sabotaging her predictably awful taste in people has taught her a few damage-control techniques – and all have given their approval for a situation that, at this current moment, Melissa is unsure will actually happen in the form she wants.

And maybe that’s the problem. She’s been too content with the glacial pace, too content with avoided conversations and little kindnesses and hesitant kisses and never talking about that one exception the same way they didn’t talk about her other impulsiveness, and at least this time they have stayed in each other’s lives, at least this time she didn’t try to run, at least-

“At some point we need to figure this out. The me and you part. Where this is going, if it’s going anywhere, if you’re ever going to-“

“I don’t want to weigh you down. You know that.”

Melissa rolls her eyes. She is not in the mood for whatever the hell self-loathing spiral he’s currently in, she is not debugging that, she is tired of all these defenses and-

“Every other man I’ve been with has had no problem taking what he wants. How the hell are you the first one who’s thought I’m breakable?”

It comes out too quickly, the only way she’s capable of doing anything here apparently. So she’s dated a few assholes, and at one point wasted ten years of her life being married to one. Show her any woman her age who doesn’t have skeletons like that, she’d love to see it. And she is well aware that the current version of this man opposite her right now has changed so much from when they first crossed paths, had everything brutally taken away before he could be fully human, and there may still be that darkness and…

And she does not care, she thinks as she waits for whatever conflict-avoidant response she’s about to have to deflect. Even if he wasn’t ridiculously her type, he’s one of two people in her world who can exist alongside all her other complications and she ruled out the other one as an option ages ago. It’s either this or dying alone, and she suspects he views her similarly.

“You are breakable,” he says slowly, and now is a bad time for her to be thinking about how hot his voice is but here they are. “You deserve better.”

She laughs. “You’ve seen my past. What I deserve has never been a factor.”

“I don’t know how to do this like normal people.”

Ah yes, there it is, the elephant they always try to avoid. Melissa knows better than to ask questions about the whole lowkey-cult-adjacent past, but she knows that’s where the baggage comes from. Whereas she has always been what he would define as normal, and she’s still occasionally a trainwreck.

“Does it matter? I’m not asking you to move in or marry me or any of the shit that I’ll probably have to do if I want it because you are so determined not to overstep and… I just want something. More affection. Play with my hair and tell me I’m pretty. Stuff like that.”

“I don’t read signals very well.”

“I have noticed.”

“I can try. If that’s what you want.”

“We’ve been avoiding defining the relationship for a year. I’m not sure it is a relationship. Yeah. I want.”

She expects another defensive comment – and that’s what they are, she knows, his various fears manifesting in ways that she is not the right person to fix – but instead Chris turns back to the task at hand. There are still a few more flower bushes in the back of her car and apparently that’s a good enough reason for him to let it go and-

“It’s okay,” she murmurs as she points out where he should put the rosebush’s mate. “I’m not good at normal either.”