#but i think starting with fear and loathing and then just progressing through whatever catches your eye is a great approach too

[rpfisfine]

what hunter s thompson book would u recommend for a chubby white boy with a blog

obsessed with this ask ok fear and loathing is a must read obviously.... then hell's angels, the curse of lono, the great shark hunt and if you want like a shorter essay as an introduction then definitely the kentucky derby is decadent and depraved

[inkedtae]

starfruit ⇾ jhs. [M]

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾ camboy!hoseok x curvy!reader

𝑔𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 ⇾  s2l, livecam au, smut, pwp, filth, 18+

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 ⇾  one video is all it takes to realize you’re all he wants.

𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉 ⇾ 20.2k

𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 ⇾ camboy!hoseok, dom!hoseok, big dicc!hoseok, ass enthusiast!hoseok, nose piercing!hoseok, curvy!reader, sub!reader, shy!reader, nipple piercing!reader, vague mention of alcohol, unprotected sex (wrap it to tap it), rough sex, tongue kink, lowkey corruption kink, dirty talk, creampie, double penetration, reverse cowgirl position, sixty-nine position, oral (m. and f. receiving), degradation, overstimulation, mutual masturbation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, use of star shaped vibrator, multiple orgasms, body worshipping, cum-eating, face licking, choking, dry-humping, a lil hair-pulling, spanking, swearing, begging, biting, clit biting, motorboating, fingering, rimming, ass job, ass play, spit play, breast play, a tad bit of jealousy/possessiveness for the win, star sparkling filth

𝒶𝓊𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓇'𝓈 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒 ⇾ hobi thirst hours:open

✩ banner by ⇾ @dee-ehn​ (thank you again dear~)

✩ beta’d by ⇾ @kitsutaes​ (darling luff~) and @moonmintrails​ (my luffly soulmate~)

✩ le playlist

Blinds shut, doors locked. The routine is second nature at this point. Hoseok dims his lights before checking his hair in the mirror. He sighs at his reflection, hoping this lazy look of his is good enough for tonight’s live. Already shirtless, Hoseok sports baggy, grey sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips, while his semi-hard cock is just barely visible. 

A good enough tease, he thinks after one last glance. Or at least let’s hope it is. 

He can’t bring himself to care too much about what is or isn’t “properly shown.” Maybe a year ago, or even six months ago, he would’ve made sure he was completely hard, his bulge unmistakingly visible through his sweatpants, and not have dimmed the lights. Now, however, it seems as though all he wants to do is the bare minimum. He’ll show as much as he needs to, get off as well as he has to, put on a good enough show to keep his viewers satisfied… for now. 

Still, even the bare minimum requires a certain degree of effort. Making his way to his desk, Hoseok scrolls through his phone and turns on his playlist for tonight. The first suggestive song tickles out of the speakers and softly fills the room. Getting off on camera is only half the job of being a camstreamer. Setting the tone, giving the audience an experience to crave, is the other half. 

As The Weeknd’s melody continues to hop between the walls of his bedroom, Hoseok makes sure his camera is properly set. Usually, he’d be making himself comfortable on his bed, preparing a variety of toys by his side to play with. Tonight is different. Tonight, Hoseok lacks the motivation to play around for an audience. In fact, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s been lacking that motivation for a while. Tonight, he wants nothing more than to sit at his desk and use his hand to get himself off. Back to the basics, the bare minimum.

He looks forward to reading comments while he searches for the courage to share his news. He’s been thinking about this for a while, thinking about retiring from this kind of work. After three years of being on this site, he has cultivated a good following of viewers, but now the entire ordeal just seems… tiring. He loves sharing parts of himself to the camera, some more than others, but it feels like a chapter of his life that he has somewhat outgrown. Now, the entire job feels more like a chore. Not much pleasure, besides the one he stimulates himself, can be found before a camera anymore. 

There’s something about the distance between him and others that he somewhat loathes now. Before, Hoseok found the disconnect, the stringless affair of live after live to be a comfort. He believed he could come and go as he pleased. He’d have fun with others at a safe enough proximity to fool around without the fear of catching serious feelings. It was a solid plan, until it wasn’t. All Hoseok craves now is that spark between him and another. And the more time he spends live streaming, the more he realizes how lonely it is. 

His camera starts to flash, signaling it’s going to start recording in about fifteen seconds. Hoseok lets the red gleam pull him out of his thoughts as he stands up. He shoves his hands in his pockets and tenses his stomach a bit. He doesn’t have ripped abs, but he’s fit enough to give off that impression. The light stops flashing, shining a bright red to let him know the live has started. Cutting just under his nose, the camera captures his entire torso and just a bit under his hips. Views immediately pour in as do comments and some cash. 

Hoseok chuckles a bit, watching as viewers beg him to drop his pants. The attention is just enough to get him fully hard. That’s one crutch Hoseok seems to have trouble letting go of; the attention. 

Licking his lips, he starts to palm himself through his pants. He lets out a shaky sigh then pulls his chair forward and takes a seat once again. He leaves some room between him and the desk though as he slouches a bit and makes sure that they can see his hard-on through his loose sweatpants. With the camera rolling, Hoseok has no other choice but to play along, one last time at least. 

“Hey,” he forces a smile. “Everyone ready for a relaxed night?”

[agustwantsthatd] : no toys tonight?

He shakes his head. “No toys,” he replies, continuing to rub himself over his pants. “Nothing fancy tonight. I hope that’s alright.”

Hoseok laughs to himself a bit at the mixed reactions. His aim to have a relaxed evening costs him a couple thousand viewers. In the past, something like that would’ve scared him enough to make him immediately drop his pants and move the show to his bed. But, now, he really can’t bring himself to feel even the slightest bit worried.

Just a few less people to break the news to. 

Comments begging him to just take his sweats off start to stack. Hoseok runs his tongue across his teeth, puffing his bottom lip out while glaring at the comment section. He doesn’t appreciate being told what to do very often. Most of the time, he just does what he wants while talking to some to his audience like he’s fucking them instead of whatever toy he usually goes for. His patience for their attitude is wearing thin. They almost don’t treat him like a real person sometimes, talking to him like an object. It may have been what he wanted before, the distance, the ability to keep himself unattainable, but now it’s becoming something of a pet peeve.

[starfruit340] : it’s only been a day, but i’ve missed you. Hope you’ve been well.

Hoseok only just catches the kind comment before it’s casted off by another pile of demands, smiling at his screen. That Starfruit is always too nice for her own good. All her comments are gentle requests, sometimes even sweet nothings. Once he even caught her asking him how his day was and if he’s eating well. He’s not sure what a sweet soul like that is doing on a site like this. He has realized, in the last six months or so, that she’s been the only viewer to remind him of his humanity. Her ability to look passed the charade of his has been refreshing. He wonders if she knows, if she can tell he hasn’t been his best. 

“Starfruit,” he breathes as comments questioning his sudden smile flood in. “You’re too sweet for your own good, honey.”

[starfruit340] : did he just say starfruit?

Immediately, Hoseok regrets his words, realizing his mistake. Not even a rookie would call a user out by name. A few viewers have turned on the user, bashing her for the favouritism he just displayed. “No fighting or nothing comes off,” Hoseok threatens, raising a brow. A smile plays on his lips as some users scold each other to stay in line. 

[agustwantsthatd] : let’s not forget the real fruit we all want.

Hoseok has to keep himself from laughing at the comment. He doesn’t want to start anything else and that comment seems to be enough to keep everyone focused on him, so he doesn’t want to ruin it’s progress.

“Since you’ve all behaved yourselves,” he starts, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his sweats. “The pants are coming off.” 

He pushes the sweats down, lifting his hips a bit. His huge cock slaps his stomach once exposed, then stands tall. Kicking the pants off his ankles under the desk, Hoseok returns his hand around his veiny member, storking himself a couple of times. 

It seems like his remark to Starfruit has made some viewers adopt her sense of concern for him. They begin asking about his day and if he’s doing well. He bites back the sneer that wavers the smile on his face. Though he would like to believe that their concern for his well being is genuine, he knows they’re only saying that in hopes to get his attention.

Hoseok can’t play around it for much longer. He forces a smile, replying, “My day was fine, darling. How was yours?” 

Slowly pumping himself, he reads a few more comments then lays back in his chair. His usual cocky expression falters, a fact he’s not very proud of. He replies to some more users to cover it up, plastering on a fake smile long enough to avoid any questions on “what’s wrong.” 

Hoseok falls silent, squirting some lube into his hand to help get himself off. He lets a few good moans out, closing his eyes and getting lost in the pleasure rather than focusing on the broadcast. His cock’s getting needier as he just slightly tightens his grip and moves his hand faster over himself. Rolling his hips into his hand, he sucks in a sharp breath.

The void within him cannot be pleased with one lousy hand job. Hoseok tries to refocus his attention on the live stream, hoping he might rediscover that forgotten thrill of exposing himself to everyone. However, the closer he gets to his orgasm, the clearer Hoseok realizes that the only thrill lies merely in the pleasure of getting off rather than doing it for an audience. 

He huffs under his breath and rests his head back against his chair. Forget the camera and the thousands of people watching him get himself closer to his high. Hoseok realizes that if he’s going to cum right now, he’s going to have to attach his loneliness to something, someone other than himself. 

The first person in mind sparkles with kindness and Hoseok tells himself he’s only focusing his energy on her because he just wants to get all this over with already. But Hoseok can’t deny the swirl of excitement bubbling in his chest at the thought of her. He wonders if her voice is just as sweet as her words, eyes just as innocent as her soul. Pumping himself faster, he can’t help but think about her smile. Is it as bright and full of hope as her comments? Or does it delicately twinkle like her personality? 

A staggered moan tears through his throat, adam’s apple bouncing, as his brows come together. Jaw clenches, nostrils flare, and Hoseok groans his pleasure through gritted teeth. Suddenly sprouting out his release, he gasps and rolls his body into his hand. Usually, he’d make a show of this, but he can’t deny it’s truth right now. The shots of cum land over his legs, some even on the ground but for the first time in a long time, Hoseok can’t care less. Chest still heaving, he tries to dump all thoughts of her from his mind but she’s tethered deeper within now. 

Stringing a few curses, Hoseok mentally scolds himself for his inability to think tonight. Any other night, he would’ve pulled up some porn on his phone way before the camera started rolling and hid the lewd video from the viewers’ sight. He would’ve continued on his efforts to carry out the bare minimum.

But, thinking of her, attaching himself to a user he’d never even properly talked to, only further proves to him how important it is for him to leave this life behind. He’s desperate to fill a void and acts recklessly. The determination to break the news hits anew. He’s sure this is it this time. He’s going to tell them.

That determination trickles the moment he returns his attention on the screen. The comment section is going wild. His words get caught in his throat. A rush of cash floods in the tune of clattering coins. Praises follow commands and Hoseok is not sure if he can even keep his screen persona up for much longer, let alone drop the ball about leaving. 

Eyes growing heavier, exhaustion slowly overtakes him. “I’m sorry for the quiet show tonight,” he mumbles, cleaning himself up. “It’s just…”

He stares at the comments, the view count, the amount of cash he made tonight and sighs. His courage falters, so that happy, hopeful image resurfaces. He forces a wide smile and shrugs. “I had a bit of a rough day, but hopefully tomorrow makes up for it. I’ll catch you all in the next live. Sleep well.” 

Hoseok leaves them with the image of his fakest smile as he turns the camera off. His entire mask crumbles when it’s over. After cleaning himself off, Hoseok pulls on his pants and tries to convince himself that it just wasn’t the right time. He just got off to one of the users. He’s clearly not in the right state of mind to announce this kind of decision.

With a sigh, he switches his computer off then the music and crawls into bed. Face buried in his pillow, Hoseok waits for sleep to wash over him and hopes, with every fibre of his being, that the fear of telling them the truth doesn’t follow him into tomorrow. 

A loud yawn leaves Hoseok as he shuffles back into his room. He shuts the door while taking a quick sip of his morning— well, mid-morning coffee. He’s not used to sleeping in since it always happens to throw his entire day off. He would’ve been fast asleep by eleven, but a neighbour of his, a couple of doors down, seemed to have other plans for the night. With all her moaning, Hoseok was barely able to get a wink of sleep. She wasn’t up for long, but just the fact that she had interrupted him in the middle of drifting to sleep was enough to keep him wide awake. Once he’s up, he’s up. There’s not much he could do about it. 

With a tired sigh, Hoseok sets his mug on his desk and logs onto his computer. He makes it a habit to check the live website for new donors and sometimes even replies to some comments left last night. He hovers the cursor over a new post, wondering if a quick broadcast would break the news better. At the chime of a new message, Hoseok’s attention darts to his inbox.

[from starfruit134] : so sorry to bother you

Hoseok brings his brows together. Heart thumping, he immediately recognizes the username. His mind reels to last night, trying to recall if he said your name again. Did he maybe mutter it again when he was caught up in the act of getting him off? His fears intensify as he wonders if any of those viewers followed you into your inbox last night to leave some nasty comments. Maybe some were so hurtful you needed to reach out to him. 

Confusion riddles his face when you debunk all his theories with a simple string of texts.

[from starfruit134] : hope all is well.

Hoseok’s fingers hover over the keyboard for a second. Should he really be engaging in a conversation with you? After all that’s transpired last night, the idea of privately talking to you has his stomach flipping with the flutters of butterfly wings. 

He doesn’t know when he last talked to a girl like you though. And the more he stares at your username, the more he craves the sincere interaction of simply one person getting to know another. 

[to starfruit134] : could always be worse. are you alright? did anyone bother you last night?

[from starfruit134] : no, no one bothered me. i just came to thank you for getting them off my back actually

A little smile plays on his lips upon reading your message. His heart murmurs, stunting his breath a bit by how sweet you can be. 

[to starfruit134] : no need to thank me. 

Hoseok’s about to reassure you that the entire interaction was his fault when you suddenly hit him with a question he wasn’t expecting. 

[from starfruit134] : have you really been alright? you didn’t seem like you were feeling well last night.

You noticed? Hoseok furrows his brows, sitting back in his seat. His fingers brush against the letters as he tries to come up with a good enough lie, but he really can’t bring himself to type one out. He wonders how much you’ve picked up on. Can you see through his entire persona or just the fact that he’s lost the motivation to put in the same effort? 

Swallowing thickly, Hoseok hopes his reply is enough to keep your questions at bay.

[to starfruit134] : just an off day 

[from starfruit134] : ahhh i see.

[from starfruit134] : well, i have something for you. 

[from starfruit134] : has sent a video

Hoseok bites his lip, a single brow quirking at the thumbnail. The first thing he notices is ass. Curved so beautifully, your ass struggles to remain contained in your yellow panties. If he had known you were this thick, he would’ve thought of you sooner. With a tilt of his head, he stares at your plump cheeks, smirking at hints of cellulite and lining stretch marks. A light blush colours his face and he has to pull himself out of the trance of the picture to properly return his attention to your messages.

[from starfruit134] : you must get this a lot. these kinds of videos.

You aren’t wrong. He receives videos like this multiple times on a daily basis. However, not a single one of these people have ever been so… kind. Many of them demand that he watch them, which only turns him off. Yes, maybe once or twice, Hoseok appreciates a guiding hand in his sexual endeavours online. But, off camera, all he wants is to be spoken to with a bit more kindness. It’s for this reason that he usually deletes all those videos without a second thought.

[from starfruit 134] : i don’t mean to bother you with mine. but, you looked so exhausted last night and i wanted to show you how much i appreciate your dedication to still live stream.

[from starfruit134] : also i’d love it if you could tell me what you think? maybe even offer a few pointers? i’m thinking about starting one of my own lives and i just wanna make sure i’m good enough.

The first message has him smiling, but the second one fades any happiness he thought he held. Of course, you’re here for a favour. Were your previous messages about his well-being serious, or were you just buttering him up to get him to comment on your video? Do you even really appreciate his efforts to put on a show? 

His mind laps around a million doubts, but his heart intercepts the discussion with the reminder of your usual attitude and presence. You’re considerate, that fact being clear in the way you’ve always put his needs before yours. And even though he really is just some guy online, you’ve always treated him with a degree of humanity that others lacked. He doesn’t blame them, as he’s admitted to himself that he’s the one provoking their feral reactions. But the fact that you can switch between the two so seamlessly means something to him. A little sigh pushes past his lips. You’ve always seemed sincere enough, so why shouldn’t he give you the benefit of the doubt? 

Hoseok sits back in his chair and rubs his chin, staring at that thumbnail. Just from a first glance, he knows you’d do well. A lot of the cam business centres around superficial tendencies and he can’t deny your beauty. He could easily ignore your message, like he does with others, or pretend to have viewed it and reply with a single word, “good.” But, something within him can’t let you go that easily. 

Licking his lips, Hoseok reaches for the lube. He’s getting hard anyways and there’s still a whole day before his next live. After putting on his headphones, Hoseok takes a deep breath and starts the video, full screening it to make sure he gets every angle of your ass. 

Lights dimmed, you smile shyly at the camera. A string of star shaped lights twinkle behind you, illuminating your room with a sensual glow. The quiet beat of a suggestive song can only just be picked up by the camera as you run a hand through your hair and toss it to the other side of your head. You’ve created quite an ambiance for him, one he definitely finds himself craving. 

“Hi,” you giggle, biting your lip nervously. “I hope this is okay. I’ve never really done this before. You make it look so easy every night.” 

Hoseok can’t help but smile with you, setting the lube down to just admire your cuteness for now. He just knew you had a stellar smile. Someone that nice has to have a cute smile to match it.

Fuck, she’s adorable. 

He can’t keep his eyes off yours, even with your breasts squished in that tight shirt of yours. You have this endearing innocence that he’s not so used to. Dressed so slutty, looking so precious, you sit at your desk with your bed behind you. Hoseok is suddenly charged with the urge to ruin you, just laying you down on your bed and dicking you down so good, you’d never want to leave his side. He’s not really sure what you were so worried about. It’s rather obvious to him that you’d do great as a camgirl. Yet, the thought makes his heart twinge. 

“Hmm,” you hum, looking up. 

Hoseok can’t believe how cute you look even when you’re just thinking. He glances at the time of the video, cursing himself when he sees it's only been ten seconds and he’s already whipped for you. He wonders if this is an act, if you know exactly what you’re doing. One look into your nervous eyes let’s him know you’re clueless to your own charms.

“Well, I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time. You looked…” you trail off, chewing on your lip before slightly shaking your head and changing the course of your sentence. Still, Hoseok can fill in the blank you’ve left. You can tell he’s been off his game, he concludes. Now the question remains: how long have you known?

“I just wanted to know from the best if I’m cut out for this kind of…” Pausing, you search for the right word. “Fun.” 

With a deep breath, you let your shoulders fall a bit and let your gaze wander only to look back at the camera like you just remembered something. “Oh, I guess I should show you what I’m wearing first, right? Why am I asking? He can’t reply.”

Hoseok chuckles a bit at your little rant. He licks his lips to whisper, “it’s okay, honey. Show me what you’ve got.”

As you get up, Hoseok shifts in his seat. Jaw going slack, he has to remind himself to breathe. You stand up and show off that tiny, little yellow crop top you’re wearing with those matching lace panties that hug your curves all too well. Fisting his hands, Hoseok lowly growls, wanting to rip them right off while he’s thrusting into you. He knows he’s barely seen anything yet, but he’s already nudging his underwear off. Inhaling a sharp breath, he watches his screen intently as you slowly show off your body. Giving your back to the camera, you cup the underside of your ass then use your fingers to shake each cheek. Your ass jiggles even though you’ve barely touched it. 

“Oh, shit,” Hoseok sighs, melting back into his seat. How the fuck can it move like that? With each shake, your cheeks bounce up in waves. He rests a hand over his mouth, brows furrowing, as he watches you tease the fuck out of him. At least three new ways to fuck you come to mind every time you shyly look over your shoulder at the camera.

You give each cheek a good rub then stand with your legs hip length apart and lean forward enough to just stick your ass out. Hoseok’s just about to wonder what you’re up to when you start to bounce a bit on the balls of your feet. The waves return, ass clapping loudly, effortlessly with each jump. Hoseok has lost all ability to give a shit if his roommates are home or not. He groans out at the sight and tilts his head a bit, thinking it’s going to give him a better view. 

You’ve perfected that move. Catching glimpses of cellulite, Hoseok smiles to himself at your natural beauty. He almost forgot you were a natural girl. He wonders how natural you’ve left your pussy for him.

As you continue to make a show of your ass, his hand hovers over the timeline of the video. He debates on whether or not he should just skip to the parts where you’re finally naked and pleasing yourself to the thought of him. But, with every second that you clap or shake your ass, Hoseok concludes that he really doesn’t want to miss a second of you. Moving his cursor to the side, Hoseok settles on letting you tease him for a little while longer. 

You giggle as you look at the lens over your shoulder and stand up straight again, suddenly getting shy. Hoseok smiles and chuckles a bit with you, not able to resist how adorable you are. He lets out a hissing sigh, trying to figure out why the fuck this didn’t happen sooner. The thought of you last night got him off, the sight of you this morning has transported him into uncharted grounds. He’s never sure what he should be doing. Sometimes, he’s too entranced by your beauty to do anything at all, and other times his hand acts on his own. Taking a deep breath, Hoseok decides to simply stroke himself a bit for now, watching as you pick up the camera and set it up just in front of your bed.

You crawl over the sheets, oblivious to how good of an angle the camera has of your ass. “I just finished watching your live and I didn’t touch myself just so I can show you how wet you get me,” you say as you seat yourself in front of your pillows and spread your legs. 

Hoseok mutters a quiet, “oh god,” when his eyes fall on the big, dark wet patch between your legs. Even your inner thighs look slick and sticky. You pull the hem of your panties aside to show him the mess he’s made. Hoseok smiles when he sees that you’ve trimmed the hair up for the most part, leaving a little patch on the top part of your pussy. Fate is cruel to present his perfect girl yet keep her so far away. Hoseok can’t fight the frustration festering in his heart at the reality of your separate worlds. 

But as you continue your discovery of pleasures, Hoseok can’t dwell on the misfortune of your shared distant fate. You’re too cute to deny attention, not like Hoseok has much of a choice to do so when you’re offering yourself up to him on a star speckled platter. 

You tug on your folds with your other hand, fingers in the shape of a ‘V,’ to properly show him how ready you are. Swollen and sensitive, your pussy is drenched with your wetness. 

His eyes twitch, roll back at the sight. Never has he been this fucking turned on before. He huffs a breath, trying to regain his composure as you further spread your legs. Biting on your lip, you look to be lost in thought, looking up at the camera in wonderment. 

“Hmm,” you hum again, making Hoseok’s heart flutter. “I think I’ll just take this off. Might be easier to play that way,” you give him a single shoulder shrug. 

Hoseok lowly moans and nods. His strokes become a bit fast as he watches you pull your panties off and toss them somewhere in your room. Keeping your legs spread, you pull up your shirt and expose your breasts. Hoseok pauses the video, removing his hand from his already twitching cock as he leans his elbows on his desk. Taking a deep breath, he tries to calm himself down because he knows that if he doesn’t he’s going to cum just from the sight of your duality. 

Sneaking a glance at your frozen image on his screen, Hoseok quietly moans to himself. Your shirt is still on but rolled up to display your tits. He can’t believe that someone as shy and innocent as you also has a nipple piercing. He can definitely tell that you have a slutty side, but you don’t like showing it often. The fact that you’re even exposing yourself to him like this is enough to make him want to have you all for himself. He’s not usually possessive but he just can’t stand the thought of you posting videos like this for everyone else. 

Playing the video again, Hoseok sits back up in his chair and just watches you for now. He decides he’s not going to touch himself yet until he sees you finally start to play with yourself. He wants to see you enjoy yourself first before indulging in his own pleasures. He also figures it might be the best way to hold off on his impending orgasm.

You shyly smile at the camera and pinch your nipples, rolling the buds between your fingers. Hoseok smiles, groaning to himself as you quietly giggle and bite your lip. He can see that, in this moment, you’re putting up an act, and he’s loving it. It’s not as adorable as when you’re unintentionally cute and nervous, but it’s just as sexy. 

Nervously sliding a hand down to your pussy, you cup your pierced breast with your other hand and gently massage it. You land a few light slaps on your pussy, moaning louder with each hit. Hoseok’s drooling, though he doesn’t pay much mind to that. Completely enthralled by the sight of you looking so pleased, he doesn’t even realize he has leaned forward so close that his face is only a few inches away from the screen. All he can think about is burying himself between your legs and drowning in your pussy. 

A high pitched moan escapes you as you start to lazily rub your clit with your fingers. Your other hand moves from your breast to rest behind you as you lean back and get yourself comfortable. Gazing down at your own work, you moan again, sighing contently as you gather more of your wetness and further rub it against your needy bud. 

Pause. 

Hoseok leans back in his seat, rubbing his face with his hands. If you were here right now, he’d seat you on his lap and help guide your bounces on his throbbing cock. What kind of game do you think you’re playing? You have to know how fucking hot you are. Hoseok begins to wonder if you’re even really looking to get pointers or if you’re just here to show off. You’ve already set the scene, and look the part. There’s not really much left to it. Maybe his use of your name last night switched something in you. However, judging by how nervous you are, he assumes you must really be looking for pointers and not just showing off because he noticed you. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, you’re too fucking hot to not know it yourself. 

He chews on his lower lip as he debates on what he should tell you. Just a couple of minutes in and Hoseok is willing to transfer all his funds to you if you were a live streamer like he was. But the idea of sharing you with everyone else is not something he’s particularly fond of. Pushing that thought aside, Hoseok ignores the disheartening feeling swimming in his chest from the mere thought of someone else witnessing your precious figure like that. He decides to simply focus on the video and not take you out of its context so much anymore. You’re just some hot girl on a screen, he tells himself, nothing to be overtaken by.

Play. 

You slap your pussy again, squealing giggles then looking up at the camera shyly. Hoseok blushes, licking his lips at how fucking cute you are. With a gasp, you look between the camera and your pussy. Hoseok furrows his brows, wondering what’s got you all worked up now. You shift closer to the edge, grabbing the camera and bringing it down to your wet pussy.

Hoseok’s face flushes red as your entire wetness is in HD. He assumes this must be what his view would be like if you were here with him right now. However, that’s not what’s got him all choked up and breathless. You move your fingers up off your pussy and Hoseok growls loudly at the sticky string of juices that connects your pussy to your fingers. You giggle, in the process of placing the camera back in it’s spot when he pauses the video once more.

This can’t be real. No one this hot has ever even looked at him twice. Those other girls that flood his inbox are beautiful but you’re fucking enchanting. Fuck, not taking you out of context. You did that yourself when you sent him this video looking that cute and irresistible after a handful of messages worrying over his well being. You’ve made yourself more real than your video, obscured his senses with your endearing personality and beautiful body. 

Minimizing the full screen for a second, Hoseok clicks back to his inbox in a different tab and deletes all the other videos from the other girls, even resorting to blocking them, leaving your messages behind. He clicks back to your video, full screening it again. He’s decided: you’re all he wants.

After playing the video again, Hoseok leans forward and watches as you reset the camera on your bed and lay back into your pillows. 

“I’m wet enough for a toy,” you think out loud, making Hoseok smile. His cheeks hurt a bit from how much you’ve got him grinning throughout the first three minutes of your video. 

You reach into your night table, grabbing a yellow star shaped toy, bulky with curved edges, from the first drawer. You show it to him with a smile, and he breaths a chuckle, completely taken by your charming antics. You shove the toy into your mouth, wetting it even more and lean back over to reach for something else. Legs still spread, pussy still glistening, you rummage through the drawer for a moment longer. 

Though your cunt is on full display for him, Hoseok focuses his attention on your face, enchanted by how cute you look when you're focused on something. You have the long string of the yellow toy dangling out of your lips, looking like you’re sucking a lollipop as you finally find what you’re looking for and pull it out to show it to the camera. The long, golden cylinder remote operates the vibrator, Hoseok realizes. 

Taking the vibrator out of your mouth, you set the remote down. You move the wet toy between your folds, drenching it in your juices before tugging on your pussy’s lips and shoving the toy in. Your brows furrow, mouth hangs open as you slowly slide it in, squealing in the process. You swallow thickly once it’s in, the rubber line hanging out of it just like it did in your mouth. 

“If you were here,” you start as you pick up the remote again. “I’d let you control it.” Smiling to the camera, you flip your hair off your shoulder and suck on your bottom lip. 

“Let me?” Hoseok questions under his breath. He can tell from the way your eyes sparkle with mischief that you’re choosing your words carefully. You’re egging him on, knowing he’s the dominant type. As you turn the vibrator on at its lowest setting, Hoseok can’t shake the feeling that you’d love the feeling of his tongue between your folds, maybe even a bit lower. Watching you make yourself comfortable, he scoffs, “Honey, I can ruin you.” 

You keep the remote beside you as you close your eyes and enjoy the little stimulation. Hoseok pumps some lube in his hand and starts to stroke himself again, wanting to match the same level of stimulation you’re getting to feel as though he’s there with you. You must have been getting a bit impatient with yourself though, because not even seven seconds later, one hand is on your clit, rubbing harsh circles around it, while the other is on the remote, turning up the intensity of the vibrations.

Caught in the pleasure, your thumb trembles over the buttons, the vibrator suddenly being heard clearly over the camera. With the loud hum of your toy and the symphony of moans escaping you, the music can barely be heard. It’s just you, him and that star shaped vibrator you’ve seemed to lose all control over. A screech tumbles out of you as the remote falls out of your hand and onto the floor. You let out a moan of frustration while the vibrator goes crazy inside you. 

Hoseok can’t help but smile at your horny, clumsy state. He’s so enraptured by your annoyed yet pleased sounds that he doesn’t even realize he’s been jerking his cock to a fast pace for the last little bit. 

You lay back in your pillows, seemingly accepting your fate as your body jolts and eyes roll back with every buzz of pleasure. High moan after moan tears out of you. You beg him to never stop, grinding your hips up and Hoseok can’t help but wonder what he’s doing to you exactly in your mind that’s making you this needy. 

“O-oh, fuck yee-eess,” you manage to whine. You have your arms framing your breasts, pushing them together for him to admire as you get yourself off. While one hand gingerly plays with one of your nipples, your other hand rests near your mouth, sucking on your trembling fingers like you’re trying to stay quiet. 

“Fuck, just scream,” Hoseok whispers under his breath. What he’d give right now to have you scream his name. He moans loudly at the sight of your riling on your bed, so captivated by your pleasure, as he jacks himself off at a speed he never thought he could. 

Your moans get higher pitched by the second and Hoseok realizes that you’re getting closer. Hips shooting up, you finally cry out all your moans and whines as you cum. Hoseok’s eyes widen at the sight, breathlessly whining to himself as you roll your hips up to ride your orgasm out. 

Face lost in the pile of pillows behind you as you throw your head back, all Hoseok can really see is your slick gleamed pussy. Hints of your orgasm leaks out of you before you flip to your side and pull your knees up to your chest. Whimpering quietly into your pillow, you bounce a bit on your bed. 

Hoseok swallows hard. Going to lick his lips, he notices another trail of drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t make an effort to wipe it away, one hand too busy pumping his needy cock while the other’s clutching onto the chair’s armrest. Knuckles whitening, he tightens his grip and lets out a dark moan at the sight of you overstimulating yourself because you’re just that needy. 

Sitting up again, you run a hand through your hair and try to spread your legs. They’re still shaking; you’re still shaking. Eyes wet with horny tears, you let a few loud moans slip pass your pouty lips. “Fu-ck,” you stutter, eyes rolling back a bit as you hold onto the underside of your thighs. He can tell you’re doing your best to keep your pussy visible for the camera. You’re trying desperately to hold your legs apart, but with all that uninterrupted friction, you’re struggling. Knees knocking together, blocking your breasts and pussy from view, you can’t seem to keep your body under control. 

All previous attempts to remain quiet have fully been discarded. As Hoseok previously requested, you start screaming out your pleasures. Falling back into your pillows, body shuddering, you put all your strength in pulling your legs apart and scream at the instant pleasure it provides. Hoseok furrows his brows, chest heaving as he watches you toe the line of your next orgasm. 

You start to rile in place again, choking on a sob-like moan. Hoseok lets out a little sigh at the sound, swearing to himself that it sounds all too familiar. He doesn’t dwell too much on the familiarity, though, as you enjoy your next high. 

Then you suddenly sit up, eyes wide. “Holy shit,” you practically sob, quickly pulling the vibrator out and letting all your juices squirt out of you. You hold the vibrator to your clit and cry out as your release sprays all over you, the bed and the camera. Shutting your eyes, you stick your tongue out to catch a quick taste of yourself before looking back at the camera and squealing. 

Hoseok jumps back a bit, as if he too is getting squirted all over. His orgasm suddenly overtakes him just from the sight of you tasting yourself then trying to save the camera all while still holding the vibrator to your clit and squirting whatever you have to offer. The way you’re still desperate for stimulation even after possibly ruining your camera has him almost shaking. Ropes of his cum fall all over his desk, streaking his screen and keyboard, but he couldn’t care less. You’re both a fucking mess and he likes it that way. 

You finally discard the vibrator, letting it continue to buzz on your bed and fall back. Your body shudders a bit and you bring your knees up to your chest, letting your orgasm course through you for a minute longer. “Well, shit,” you whisper to yourself. Slowly, you unfold yourself and sit up to wipe the camera off with the hem of your shirt. Laying back onto your pillows, you’re breathless, eyes heavy and breasts heaving as you giggle quietly at the lens. “I don’t know if you could tell, but that wasn’t supposed to happen. Maybe I’m not cut out for this camgirl life afterall.” 

You’ve got that shy look in your eyes again, and Hoseok only cleans his screen to get a better look at you. He’s still pumping himself, not completely drained and satisfied just yet. And though you look a bit fucked out, he can tell that you can definitely go for another round. But, you don’t. Instead, you brush the hair out of your face and pull your shirt down. He groans as your breasts disappear from view. 

“I-I think I’ve kept the neighbours up for long enough,” you nervously giggle before tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

Hoseok huffs, sitting back in his seat. Another couple of rounds won’t make a difference then, will it? He thinks to himself as you wish him well and hope you’ve done a good job. A breathy chuckle escapes him at your words. He can’t believe you could be this clueless to your own charms. It’s clear to him, as it would be to anyone else who would watch your lives if you were to make them, that you’re absolutely perfect. 

Glancing down at the throb between his legs, Hoseok finds himself hardening once again just from the thought of you. The last stilled image of you reaching back to turn the camera off, a clear shot to your breasts, nipple stud in full view, has him squirming in his seat a bit. 

From the yellow glow of your username, Hoseok knows that you’re still online. But with his cock still craving another round of your beauty, he decides against giving you an answer yet. He tells himself he needs to watch your video one more time. Or maybe even three. Just to be sure. 

After wiping his desk down from his last orgasm, Hoseok restarts the video. He pumps a bit more lube in his hand and smiles as you greet him through the camera. 

“Hi. I hope this is okay. I’ve never really done this before. You make it look so easy every night.”

You sit atop of the washing machine, your roommate, Minh, across from you. After how your night ended, you needed to wash your bedding. Upon hearing you mention leaving this morning, she decided it’s time to clean her laundry too and tagged along. You don’t really mind it. All you hope is that she doesn’t ask too many questions about why you’re washing your sheets earlier than usual. 

You knock your feet against the washer window and try to soothe the quick beats of your anxious heart while she reads peacefully. It’s been exactly four hours since you’ve sent him the video you took of yourself last night. You know he’s online. The golden glow of his name tells you as much anyways. You’re not sure if he has looked at your message though. Maybe he’s ignoring you, or worse. He’s blocked you. You swallow back a nervous lump in your throat at the thought and tell yourself that you’re being ridiculous. 

“Stop,” Minh sighs, looking up from her book. 

You still your legs, muttering a quiet apology. As she turns back to her book, you wonder if it was your mention of last night that’s thrown him off. He did look uncomfortable, most of the time lost in his own world. But, maybe he didn’t want anyone else to know that. Maybe the fact that you brought it up has turned him off. 

BUZZ!

Your heart nearly tumbles out of your chest at the sound. Hands darting to the phone, you quickly unlock it to look at your notifications. Your eyes light up when you see his username. Lips trembling, you tap the notification and wait anxiously for the app to load to his message. 

[from hopeonthescreen340] : i can’t imagine a moment of you like this being a bother

A little gasp escapes you at his response. You blink, once, twice, three times, trying to make sure that what you’re reading isn’t just some hopeful thinking you’re projecting simply because you find yourself completely and utterly infatuated by him. Reading the message over and over again, you try your best to fight off the smile playing on your lips. You know full well that you can’t come up with something witty to send back if you get all giddy. 

His comment is cute but you got an earful from Mrs. Jiwoo across the hall asking that you bring men over at an earlier time to get that over with sooner. Minh was completely confused, having spent the night out with a few friends. You had to later explain to her that Mrs. Jiwoo has no idea what she’s talking about. And though both conversations were mortifying, you’re somewhat relieved Mrs. Jiwoo didn’t think you were alone, getting off to some guy on a screen, and that Minh bought your excuse. 

[from hopeonthescreen340] : i think this site would crash if you started up your own livestream honey

The pet name has your knees knocking just as it did last night. You still can’t believe he said your username and spoke to you through his live. Sure, it resulted in some backlash, but having his attention like that was like nothing you’ve experienced before. 

Looking around, you make sure you haven’t caught Minh’s attention. She remains unbothered, flipping a page in her book. Glancing back down at your phone,  you let out a little giggle. Is this really happening? This guy must get tons of videos like the one you just sent, tons of people must throw themselves at him like you indirectly did. With that thought suddenly in mind, you wonder if he’s merely telling you all this to be nice. Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings and is talking you up just to keep you away. 

[to hopeonthescreen340] : you really mean it? 

You type and delete the message a couple of times before finally sending it. Chewing on your lower lip, you watch the three floating bubbles wave as he types out his reply. Did that sound too desperate? Your fingers tremble over the keyboard again as you let out a shaky deep breath. No. You mentally assert. Why would he lie? If he wanted to get you off his back he would have ignored your messages, maybe even deleted them all too. He has nothing to gain from lying to you. 

[from hopeonthescreen340] : with all my heart

You bite back a giggle, in the middle of typing out a reply of gratitude when he sends another message that has you shaking again. 

[from hopeonthescreen340] : but i don’t think you should host a livestream

Defeated, disheartened, disillusioned, you scoff at your phone. Is he playing games? Is that what he’s up to right now? Slouching, you knit your brows and glare down at your screen. 

[to hopeonthescreen340] : thought you meant what you said?

[from hopeonthescreen340] : i did 

[from hopeonthescreen340] : i do

[from hopeonthescreen340] : youre just a little too innocent for this kind of scene

You shake your head, dryly chuckling in disbelief. What kind of backhanded compliment is that? Too innocent? Yes, maybe you were nervous in the beginning but you thought that the rest of the video was pretty good. Heart sinking, you can only stare down at your phone. 

How could you not see this coming? You sent your favourite camboy a video of yourself with only the best scenario in mind. How could you so easily disregard the possibility of being rejected like this? Running a hair through your hair, you type a quick, plain response. 

[to hopeonthescreen340] : k. thanks.

Putting your phone away, you turn back to laundry. With a ding, you hop off the machine with Minh and get to drying. The warm, freshly cleaned sheets will probably be the new highlight of your day. So the sooner you finish cleaning them, the quicker this day will go by. Or, at least that’s what you hope.

A tired sigh fills the living room as you switch the channel again. Snacking on some cherries, you’ve taken to eating your feelings away. You’ve already gone through two packs of blueberries and a pack of strawberries. Your lips are smeared with the cherry juice and fingernails stained red. 

As you change the channel once more, your mind wanders back to the messages. Maybe he’s right? Maybe you are too “innocent” or whatever to be a regular on a livestream. You roll your eyes at yourself, knowing that’s not what’s got you so tired of the day. 

The truth is you never really had your heart set on being a livestreamer. You know deep down all you really wanted was some more attention from an online crush. You wanted to feel beautiful to him, wanted to know he was losing himself to the thought of you. To have him crave you like you crave him was your real intention behind that video. And now that you know that’s not the case, you can’t help but feel riddled with regret and stupidity. You should’ve taken what you could, taken the use of your username as the flirty, casual comment it was meant to be. You took him out of the context of the live stream too soon, too quick. You’ve got your hopes up and all you have left to show for it is cherry lips and fingertips. 

The vibrating hum of your phone pulls you out of your thoughts. You grab a tissue and wipe as much of the fruit off your hands before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

“It’s busy here. I’m probably gonna be home late.”

You glance out the window, judging how dark it already is. The sun’s already setting, swirls of golden peach hues taking over the darkening sky. Minh’s not usually home before dark anyways, but you appreciate the call either way. “Alright. There’s some leftovers for you when you get here.”

“Great, I’m starved. Hey, did you check the mail?”

You bite on your lip to hold back a forgetful sigh. “Mhm,” you lie, slowly getting up from your spot. You tiptoe your way to the door and try to pick up your keys as quietly as possible. 

Minh must’ve heard the lie in the sudden high tone of your voice or the jingle of the keys because her scoldings soon followed. “I told you to check it four times before I left. It’s probably full now. You know I’m waiting on a package. How is it supposed to fit if mail from a week ago is still in there?” 

“I’m getting it right now. I promise!” you reassure. 

Minh sighs and mutters a “you better” before hanging up. 

You sigh and toss your phone on the table by the door, heading out to get Minh’s precious mail. You were going to suggest that she just pick it up on her way to the apartment once she’s off her shift, but the last time you did that, she scolded you for not doing your half of the chores. You figured it’s better to just go do it yourself. 

Lost in thought, you don’t realize you’ve left barefoot. And, to top that embarrassing realization, you also left behind a sweater, cardigan, something to cover yourself with as all you have on is a pastel yellow tank top and a pair of matching lounge shorts. Annoyed with yourself, you figure it's much easier to just quickly go grab your mail now instead of riding the elevator up and down. 

You pad the cold ground of the building’s lobby, rushing to the foyer before someone can see you. After fumbling with the keys for a couple of seconds, you finally find the right one and unlock your mailbox. 

“‘Scuse me,” a voice mutters to your left. 

You keep your eyes locked on your mail. For some reason, you figure that if you don’t make eye contact with the other tenant, then you’d face less embarrassment. So, you mumble an apology and side stepping to the right all while keeping your head low. Your plan seems foolproof until he quietly thanks you in a deep voice all too familiar to ignore. That lively tone laced in a tired voice tickles the curve of your spine, making you roll your shoulders back.

Curiosity always seems to get the best of you. Trailing your gaze up his frame, you think he doesn’t look that familiar until- 

“Oh god,” you whisper. 

He turns to face you, face dropping when he recognizes you as well. You bring your letters up to your face, shielding yourself from the shame and embarrassment of coming face to face with the man that subvertly rejected you online. Peeking above them, however, you can’t resist the urge to check him out. You tell yourself it’s to make sure it’s really him, but you know full well that you just want to get a good look at him. 

Loose grey sweatpants, baggy white shirt, black hair in its usual middle part, exposing just the right amount of forehead to get you wet from just one glance. Oh, and that little, silver hoop pierced into his nostril. It looks even more heavenly in person, as does he. Yeah, it’s definitely him. You can feel your heart taking residence in your throat as you meet his dazed gaze. 

“Oh my god,” you repeat to yourself in a whisper. Glancing between him and the key in his mailbox, you can’t believe he lives in the same building as you. You’ve been watching his videos for about six months now. Never had you seen him around your building before, not even a bump in the elevator. 

“Starfruit,” he mutters, sounding surprised himself.

For some reason, the nod to your username draws a little mewl out of you. Your eyes widen the moment you realize what you’ve just done. His brows shoot up, the tips of his ears tinting red. 

“I’m sorry,” you rush out. “I, um, I didn’t mean to do any of that.” 

His expression immediately softens, a little smirk gracing his lips as he scans your figure. You shift your weight from foot to foot, eyes averting to the mailboxes as his eyes lock on your hips, drinking in the way your shorts sit on your curves. You can feel his eyes soon trail up and linger on your breasts. You internally scold yourself for resting your shoulders back and puffing out your chest so he can get a better view. Even after all that’s transpired, you still can’t help but throw yourself at him. 

He doesn’t seem to mind that, however, shamelessly staring at how your cleavage peeks out of your pastel yellow tank top. Clearing his throat, he snaps his gaze back to your face as if just remembering that you’re watching him stare at you. “Uh, there’s no need to apologize,” he shrugs before turning to grab his mail too. 

“I didn’t know you lived-”

“Me either,” he cuts you off, biting his lip when he realizes what he did. He lets out a breathy chuckle and shakes his head. “Uh-”

“I wouldn’t have sent anything if I’d known,” you explain. Shutting your mailbox, you lock it once more and remove your key all while continuing to hold your mail over your face to hide your shame. 

His smile somewhat wavers as he tilts his head to get a better look at your face despite the presence of your mail in front of it. “Why?”

You clutch onto your keys, avoiding his gaze as you reply, “well, um, it’s just a bit embarrassing to send that kind of thing to someone in your building.”

“And it wouldn’t be to a stranger?”

You sigh and finally meet his eyes. “For all I knew, you were on the other side of the world. I didn’t risk much when you rejec-” You cut yourself off, clearing your throat. “It’s just different when it’s to a stranger.”

He shuts his mailbox too, dryly chuckling at you. He gives you one last once over, licking his lips, before walking past you. You furrow your brows, confused eyes following his tall frame back to the building’s lobby. You can’t help but wonder what the look was for. Did you say something wrong? Maybe that whole thing about strangers was offensive? 

“Wait,” you call after him, following his steps to the elevator.

He pushes the button then spares you a side glance as he shifts through his mail. You curl a loose strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly grabbing his attention. His eyes lock on the simple action, adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. 

You hold your mail to your chest, letting out a little sigh, then muster the courage to say. “Look, I’m just sorry I sexualized you.” The honest confession has you gulping, looking at the floor in the hopes that it will open up and swallow you whole just to get you out of this humiliation fest you’ve got yourself lost in. “It’s just easier to feel less guilt about it through a stranger’s live stream rather than a neighbour’s.”

The elevator rings, signalling it’s arrival and you wait for him to make a move to enter. Only when he nods towards the door, urging you to go in first, do you step onto the elevator. 

“Floor?”

“Tenth,” you mutter, regretting every word you’ve spoken since running into him. 

He remains silent for a second before clearing his throat. Glancing at him, you raise a brow. “I sexualized myself, so there’s no need to blame yourself for anything. And, for the record, I’m not sorry about that video at all.” A blush creeps up his neck at his own confession. 

Licking your lips, you draw your bottom lip between your teeth, nervously nibbling on it. Not much of his reply makes sense. For one, it goes against whatever you thought he meant in his messages earlier today. You want to believe he rejected you since he already said that in so many words but his sincerity makes you question your interpretation. 

“So you actually…” you trail off, reading his expression carefully. “You actually liked the video?”

His entire face reddens. You’ve never seen him this shy before. He’s usually so cocky, so controlled. Not a lot can faze him. In fact, now that you think about it, you’ve never seen him fazed by any sexual things his viewers have commented. Yet, here he is. Looking flushed and, dare you even think, embarrassed, he shifts his weight from foot to foot. “It was amazing,” he whispers, looking over to you. “I watched it more than once actually.”

Your jaw falls, eyes widen. Is that why it took him so long to reply? The air in your lungs thickens as you realize that he probably got off to your video. The thought alone has you shivering in place with lustful pride. 

“Really?”

He nods.

“How many times?”

DING!

The elevator signals the floor arrival and it’s only now that you realize he only hit the button to the tenth floor. He nods for you to step out first and you obey, eyes aimlessly staring at the floor as you try to make sense of the fact that the two of you not only live in the same building, but on the same floor as well. 

With all that has come to light in the last few moments, you realize you can’t get lost in your worries anymore. Turning to face him, you offer a shy smile and say, “I’m-”

“Starfruit,” he finishes with a smirk. “I know.” 

You raise your brows in question. His grin only widens, lighting up the dim hallway like the rays of a morning sun. But it doesn’t distract you from wondering why he doesn’t want to know your real name. “I think ‘hope on the screen’ is a bit of a mouth full,” you joke.

He chuckles, looking to the side a bit before turning back to you. “What’s wrong, honey? Not used to having your mouth full?”

You freeze, breath hitching. Goosebumps prickle your skin as you try to settle your ramming heart with sad excuses that brush off his statement to be anything but sexual. However, with just one look at his smug features, you know full well that’s exactly what he meant.

“Not usually by a name, no.”

Lust clouds his eyes.  He sets his jaw, gaze hardening. Quirking a brow, he asks, “Is that right?” When you nod, he sighs. “Just Hope will do then.”

“Hopie,” you somewhat slur with a smile. 

A little smirk tugs on his lips and he nods. “Sure, Hobi is fine.” 

You don’t bother correcting him, liking his version of the name better anyways. For a moment, you both stand inches apart, staring at each other. He then suddenly blinks and clears his throat. Looking down the right side of the hall, he bites his lip and turns back to face you. You pick up on his hint to go your separate ways and nod, walking ahead of him back to your own apartment. You’re convinced this will be your first and last meeting, in which he will call you Starfruit everytime he sees you and you will reply with Hobi and convince yourself that you’re okay with that. However, his footsteps only follow after you.

You make it to your door before turning to face him. He stops an arm’s length away, features clueless and eyes confused. 

“Looking for an invite to come in?” you tease, hoping to fluster him. 

“You offering one?” he smirks. 

Mouth gaping, you look between him and the door. How is it that you’re the one flustered? That was not the plan. Hobi’s smirk only widens. You suddenly wonder if he’s bluffing, that cocky look starting to irritate your wettening core.

You turn to your door, unlock it then push it open. Leaning your back against the doorframe, you reply, “You tell me.” 

Hobi swipes his tongue between the gaps of his teeth, eyes darkening once more. “You sure about this, Starfruit?” He asks as he takes a step closer. 

“What’s not to be sure about?” You question. “I’m just inviting a neighbour over for a drink. It’s an innocent offer. Wouldn’t you agree, Hobi?”

A low growl tears through his throat before he dips his head and catches your lips in his. You kiss him back with very little hesitance. His lips taste of lemon and cream, sweet and citrusy like he just had dessert. Moaning into his mouth, you hear his mail spill in your apartment somewhere to your left. He then grabs the stack of letters in your hands and repeats the same action, tossing the mail into your apartment. 

His hands are free to roam around your body but immediately settle on your ass. Hips pinning you against the doorframe, Hobi grabs handfuls of each asscheek. Groaning and groping, he doesn’t miss a chance to make you wetter than you already feel yourself getting. 

You don’t hesitate to get your hands on him either. Clutching onto his shoulders, you chase after his lips as he pulls away. Nudging you back with his nose, Hobi then dips his face in the crook of your neck. His tongue darts out, hot breath fanning over your goosebump prickled skin. Warm and wet, his tongue swirls around your collarbone then up to your jawline. Meanwhile, his greedy hands are working fast to pull your shorts to the side, exposing your panty-less pussy.

You don’t give him a chance to see that, wanting him to feel it instead. You spread your legs and hold his thigh between them. Pressing your clit to his dampening sweatpants, you roll your hips onto his leg. 

Hobi stills for a second, only just pulling his face away from yours to watch your body move against his. A giddy grin plays on his lips, his hands returning to your ass to help guide your thrusts against him. 

You wrap your arms around his neck and rest your forehead against his cheek. Never did you think you’d find yourself in this position. Last night, you imagined him fucking you against the wall to get yourself off, but never pictured that wall to be in the hallway. Standing in the middle of your doorway, one foot in the apartment and the other out, the two of you risk being caught in a compromising position by the entire floor. And yet, neither of you seem to care. With his body so close that his heat warms you, you find very little interest in anything else. His racing heart against yours and that excited gleam in his eyes is all you can focus on. He looks a bit happier than he did last night and that alone has you moving your hips a bit faster against him.

“Mhm, honey,” he hums before pressing his lips against your forehead. “Just like that.”

To unknowing eyes, the two of you might look like a long time couple, horny and adventurous in your intimate endeavours just from the way he holds and expresses his interest in you. You even find yourself indulging in that daydream for a second, giving into your delusions and pretending that Hobi is your boyfriend and the two of you are that adventurous couple. Whines leave you as he digs his fingers into your ass. It somewhat pulls you out of that daydream. 

His grip then circles around to your hips, stilling your thrusts and holding your against the doorframe. He flashes a cocky smile at your sad mewls from the loss of friction. “Don’t pout,” he whispers. You further draw your bottom lip and test his grip on your hips as you try to continue your movements. 

Hobi chuckles darkly, tightening his hold on you. “I know you’re needy, honey,” he purrs. “But if you don’t behave soon, you won’t get to cum at all. Do I make myself clear?” He questions before licking your pout away. 

It takes everything in you not to squirm. His voice is enough to make you needy, but his words make you desperate. You nod and pull your bottom lip into your mouth, sucking on the strip of saliva his tongue left behind. Hobi raises a brow at your actions. Gathering some spit in his mouth, he mutters, “pout,” then drops the stringy liquid over your lips. Some of it slides down your chin to your neck but, once he’s done, you part your lips. And as you drink in his saliva, Hobi licks up the trail of spit from your cleavage to your chin. He places a wet kiss to your lips once he reaches them.

Pulling away, he peppers your cheeks with soft kisses while one of his hands tugs the hem of your shorts aside once more. The cool air hits your wet folds. You whine against him and try to fight against the hold on your hips against. The longer he delays getting to your clit, the needier you get.

“Patience, Starfruit,” he mumbles against your cheek. 

The soft pad of his thumb brushes up against the short hair upon your pussy a couple of times, filling the pit of your stomach with a growing restless desire to just be filled and fucked. He’s teasing because he can, because he loves the way you squirm against his hold and pout for his tongue. You know this; he knows this. Catching the other’s eye, both of you share a knowing smile. 

Holding your gaze, his thumb finally nudges its way between your folds and grazes your swollen bud. You instantly shudder, breasts heaving from the excitement. He smirks, dragging his thumb back and forth on your clit as he watches you slowly come undone. 

His head lowers again, lips latching onto your neck. He nibbles and sucks on your skin. You can only tangle your fingers in his hair and moan. As your eyes flutter shut, Hobi fully removes his right hand from your hip, and devotes it to your pussy. He runs two long, slender fingers between your folds, instantly drenching them, and chuckles against your neck, “what’s got you this wet, Starfruit?”

A gasp escapes you as he circles his fingers around your clit. Your mind’s a foggy mess, focused only on his pretty face and how easily his fingers can have you shaking. There’s not much attention spared on anything else, so you answer with the first thing that comes to mind. Eyes hooded, you reply, “Just a little hope.” 

He likes it- loves it, fingers slipping into your pussy in an instant. A growl rumbles upon your skin in the process and you can’t fight the shivers that dance along your spine. You whimper his name, resting your forehead on his shoulder. The hand previously holding your hips still wraps around your waist. He’s somewhat cradling you against his chest as his fingers unforgivingly thrust in and out of you. Movements harsh but touches so gentle; Hobi is a god of duality. Just another fact you can’t deny.

Your orgasm knots in the pit of your stomach, only just satisfying that boundless crave for him. His body is all but pressed against yours. Cheek to cheek, your lips are merely inches away from his ear, while his kisses yours. You untangle your fingers from his hair, gently tugging on it as you do just because you can, and you wrap your arms around his shoulder in a tight, desperate embrace. Still, you need more of him, need him closer, so you hook a leg around his waist too. 

Hobi growls a chuckle against the shell of your ear as he gives into your silent, needy request and slides his hand from your waist to your ass. He lands a light spank, as if testing your limits, drawing a loud squeal out of you. 

“F-fuck,” you whine. “Again?” you ask, pushing your ass back into his hand. “Please! Pl-ease, Hobi.”

He groans, whispering, “Already begging, honey?” 

Before you can reply, he spanks you again. The smack is harder, clap louder and you can’t help but match the volume of your moans to it. Your pussy tightens, hips roll uncontrollably against his fingers. You're reaching your peak; the both of you can feel it. Hobi grips onto your ass, and it’s only now that you also realize you’re clinging onto him not just because you want him, but to keep from falling. Your knees have gone weak awhile ago, but you were so enthralled by the pleasure to fully register it. 

You’re squealing, screeching your moans against his shoulder with every wet slouch that echoes from your core. “Oh, god! Yes, yes, yes, Hobi! I’m- I’m-”

His little eager chuckles, the kind where his voice rumbles into your ear and echoes within your soul, are the force that push you off the edge… until the door across the hall opens. 

Mrs. Jiwoo screams at the pornographic sight in front of her. You quickly shoot a hand to his wrist, holding it still in you the moment you realize you’ve provoked an audience. Though you’ve kept his hand still from the embarrassment your mind’s telling you you’re supposed to have, your hips continue their lifts against his hand. The act of getting caught has you shaking with the wash of a harsh orgasm that you can’t seem to stop yourself. Hobi peppers your face with kisses, unfazed by the interruption as well. Within seconds, you flood his fingers with your release. 

The older woman is beside herself. She rushes back into her apartment as you throw your head back and moan a giggle of delight. “When I said during the day, this is not what I meant!” She shouts from the other side of the door. 

You don’t care. You can barely even hear her with how powerful your high hits you. Your ears feel as though they’re submerged underwater, mind fogging with light-headedness and body shuddering as it struggles to stay upright. 

“You fucking slut,” Hobi seethes, gently sinking his teething into your neck. 

You whimper in response, hips jolting in an attempt to escape the overstimulation of his ruthless fingers pushing in and out of you.  

“That got you off, huh slut? Getting caught by the neighbours?”

“Maybe I’m not as innocent as you think.”

The growl that echoes in his chest is enough to make you cum a bit more. And the fact that you know that response wasn’t what he was expecting has a smile playing on your trembling lips. A few strands of his hair fall over his eyes as he scans your face. He looks as though he’s trying to place you, confused by your words and actions. A smile suddenly stretches upon his lips, that tongue of his cockily pushing out.

You can’t quite think straight with his fingers still deep in you, holding still while your hips jolt against his hands. But, if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s amused, perhaps even obsessed with the way you discard your inhibitions for him. The reality of the matter is, that if any other partner had wanted you against the doorframe of your apartment, fingering you in the hall for all to see, you wouldn’t have allowed it. But Hobi is different. He provokes recklessness and abandons fears so effortlessly that you can’t help but follow.

Fingers withdrawing from your pussy and into your mouth, Hobi lifts your ass so that your bodies are completely flushed against each other. You suck without much of a command, quietly mewling at the taste of yourself on his fingers. You try to hold his gaze, but his eyes travel to something over your shoulder. He smirks as he guides you inside, the grip on your ass strengthening. Curious as to what’s got him so possessive, you spare a quick glance over your shoulder. Another set of neighbours, Jin and Jimin, stare at the two of you, jaws slack and eyes wide. When you meet their gaze, Jimin quickly looks away, fumbling with his keys then struggling  to unlock the door. But Jin only continues to stare, his eyes dropping down to Hobi’s fingers digging into the plump flesh of your ass. 

An embarrassed squeal escapes you before Hobi pulls your attention away from the guys by curling his fingers in your mouth and tugging your jaw towards him. His eyes darken, face hovering inches away from yours, but all you register is the bulging veins in his neck. Kicking the door close, he whispers, “I don't share, Starfruit.”

Ceasing all sharp suckling and swirls of your tongue, you freeze at his words. His eyes soften and  flash with worry, fingers uncurl and withdraw from your mouth. He parts his lips to speak but you only smash yours against his and clutch onto his thick biceps. He kisses back in an instant, cupping the underside of your asscheeks to give them a good shake. He seems to have some sort of infatuation with your ass. His hands have barely wandered far from your backside, as at least one hand has been groping and gripping it. You smirk against his lips and arch your back so that your ass further pushes into his palm. He smacks it, tongue attacking yours all the while. 

He breaks the kiss to ask against your lips, “bedroom?”

You moan in response and push him back in the general direction you think your room is in. You don’t realize you’ve terribly misjudged your placement in the room until you push him into the door. He grunts upon impact, pulling his lips from yours with a little laugh. You nervously giggle with him, convinced he’s going to tease you, maybe even open the door again and give all peering eyes an encore, but instead he smiles and leads you down the hall. 

Bodies collided, all you can do is move with him, timidly peppering his chin with little kisses. For some reason, you only feel shy in his presence when he’s not overtaken by lust. It makes the interaction more real when he just flashes that bright smile at you and continues to hold you close against him. Lips dragging under his chin, teeth grazing the soft skin, you take a moment to admire his beauty up close. The camera doesn’t do him justice. He glows. Skin, smile, eyes, everything about him gleams, glitters, glistens of beauty. And when lacking a dose of lust, his features shine into something pure. You can’t quite tether the purity to a source, and you aren’t granted the time to as he finds your bedroom. 

In mere seconds, that bright sunshine gleam in his eyes flashes into a dark moonlight glow. He’s lust driven, sex crazed. And suddenly you’re no exception. Following his every silent command, you let him shove you onto your bed. You land with a soft grunt, fumbling with your skirt. He’s so eager to be all over you, he doesn’t even take a moment to flick on your lights. No, Hobi has different plans. His infatuation with you and that video seem to go to lengths you didn’t think were possible. 

“Turn on those lights from last night,” he orders while making his way over to the curtains and draws them shut. 

You furrow your brows. “Why?”

“Why not, Starfruit?” 

He must know the effect of using your screen name, must see the way you chew on your lips and absentmindedly puff your breasts out. In that fruity voice of his, he really can coax you in and out of your thoughts.

Hobi pulls his shirt off as he makes his way over to you. Gulping, you take a moment to admire his tan torso. You’ve been thinking about it since his last live, thinking about scratching your nails down his chest then cat-licking the faint marks up. You wonder if he’d let you do that now. 

But, as he crawls onto your bed, his eyes flash a silent warning to do as you’re told. You lean back and switch on the twinkling starlights tangled around your room. The quiet room mirrors the production you set up for him last night, once again reflecting the ambiance of a midnight showing. Despite the sunset peachy swirls, Hobi has recreated the set for your video. Actually, with the presence of his grey sweatpants and the little yellow outfit you have on, he has somehow merged your two videos together, transporting the two of you into your own private live stream setting. 

“I don’t suppose you’d want me in lace too?” you tease as his lean body hovers over your curves. 

He breathes a chuckle, placing a soft kiss over your lips before replying, “I don’t want you in anything at all.”

Your legs have a mind of their own, adjusting apart to give him some room to lay between them.  Your trembling breath fans over his lips, hesitant hands rest on his bare shoulders. He picks up on your anxiety and nudges his nose against yours, the cool edge of that hoop piercing refreshing your skin. 

Delicately, he whispers, “Lemme know if it’s too much, Starfruit. It’s never too late to change your mind.”

His reassurance is enough to have you arching your body into his.  Based on the concern swimming in his eyes, you can tell that he’s waiting for some verbal confirmation. But you, instead, put your mouth into different use. As his tongue reappears to graze the gaps of his teeth, a brow raising in question, you catch it. Hooking your tongue around his, you pull it into your mouth and hollow your cheeks. His eyes widen with every suck, warm breath heating your face as it fans over you. A chuckle or two escapes him as he watches you hold his gaze shamelessly while playing with his tongue in ways you’ve only ever thought of. 

Hobi drops to his elbows, arms on either side of your head, and presses his body against yours. The shift of his position further pushes his tongue into your mouth. Your previous sucking fest turns into a wet, sloppy makeout session. He rolls his clothed hips into yours with each swirl of his tongue, groaning as you mewl from the subtle friction. 

He seems to be losing patience, breaking the sloppy kiss, a string of saliva connecting your tongues, to trail kisses down your neck. You think he’s going to stop in the dip of your collarbone, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leads the sloppy trail of kisses down your cleavage. Before you can even register it, Hobi has his teeth locked on the neckband of your tank top. He pulls it down to expose your breasts. Locking eyes, you find something animalistic swimming within his gaze. Unbounded, uncontrolled, it seems as though every minute spent with you has unleashed yet another layer of primal lust ready to take over every inch of you. Never have you seen such passion in those eyes before, even on his best days, his best lives. You start to wonder if maybe it’s the presence of another that has him all worked up.

Hobi lures you out of your thoughts as he leans back and rests his weight back up on his hands again. Looking down at you, he admires your chest. His eyes bounce between your pierced and bare nipples, as if deciding which one he’s in the mood for. You take a deep breath and arch your back to push your breasts up towards him, urging him to just pick one already and devour you. 

A little breathy chuckle escapes him once he picks up on your hints. The pad of his thumb brushes over your pierced nipple. Slow, quiet, steady. He remains still, lost in thought before his eyes find yours again. That primal instinct that was previously unleashed has somewhat tamed itself. A little smile tugs on a corner of his lip, dimples only just visible. 

Something endearing lies behind his eyes. Something… pure. You lay flat on the bed again as you stare up at him. Quirking a brow, you silently question his motionless frame. He doesn’t answer, doesn’t even seem to notice your subtle change of expression. He simply stares, admires. 

“Hobi?”

Your quiet voice lulls him back to you. He blinks, shakes his head then snaps his gaze back down to your chest, that little smile of his widening. Before you can question him again, both his hands cup your breasts. You gasp a moan, pushing your chest up against him again. 

Hobi just pushes you back down. He squeezes your tits together then dips his head between them. His wet lips push their way through only to blow and vibrate. He blubbers, babbles, saliva drenching your tits as he shakes his head between them. 

Never has a man been so obsessed, memorized by your body enough to motorboat you. Most of the time, your interaction with others lasts shorter than this. But here Hobi lays, shoving his face between your breasts. He’s infatuated with you enough to take his time. 

Moaning, rolling your hips up into his, you close your eyes and enjoy his little treat. Your hands slide from his shoulders to his back, hugging him closer to you. You feel that sinful tongue of his dart out again, licking a trail up to your pierced nipple only to envelop it in his mouth. Hands lost in his hair, you push his face further against you. You know full well that he can’t get any closer, but you try anyways. 

His teeth graze the silver stud, a quiet clatter of metal on teeth meeting your ears. Hobi looks up at you, holding your gaze, and gently tugs on your hardened nipple. In a pout, you mewl at the sight, the stinging, blissful sensation. A smirk graces his lips when he lets go. 

“You sound so fucking cute,” he chuckles, dipping his head to give your nipple a little kiss. 

He’s sweet and kind and you want to get lost in his eyes and honey voice. But, with his bulge rubbing against your shorts, all you can think about is how well he’d fit in your mouth. Using your feet, you push his sweatpants down his frame. 

Hobi chuckles under his breath before helping you out a bit and kicking his pants off. He dips his head back to your breasts, this time focusing his attention on your bare nipple. He gives it the same treat as the studded one, licking, sucking, nibbling. Mid tug, he trails a hand down your body, resting it upon your drenched center and asks, “when are these coming off?”

“When I get to suck you off.”

Your words leave you fast, unexpectedly. You’ve never been this unaware of yourself, uncomposed. Even in your most submissive moments, you’ve maintained a certain amount of control. However, with Hobi, it’s almost as though all that control becomes his. 

He quirks a brow up at you, releasing your nipple. Scanning your features, he judges how serious you are. With your chest heaving and gaze unwavering, he seems to conclude that you really mean it. 

“Want me to come up there?”

You fight off a smile and shake your head. Nudging his shoulder, you have him fall beside you, laying on his back. “I’ll come down to you,” you tell him as you sit on your knees and push your shorts off.

Hobi’s brows shoot up at your actions. He chews on his lips, eyes devouring every exposed inch of you. As his hand rests on your ass, gently rubbing it, you let your gaze traill down his chest to his tall, thick cock. It’s bigger than you thought it was. You know he’s big after watching his live streams, but you didn’t think he’d be this massive. Vein laced, precum smeared, pink tipped, his huge cock begs for your attention. You gulp now wondering if he’d fit in your mouth at all.

“You don’t have to,” Hobi whispers. You snap your gaze to his and you can see the concern that swims in his eyes. Is he worried that he won’t fit or that he’ll hurt you? 

Licking your lips, you collect any drool about to fall from the sight of his dick and shake your head. “No, I really want to.” Your tone is steady but voice breathless. Pressing your legs together, you can’t fight your need for him any longer. Without much thought, you throw your leg over his chest, straddling his torso as you position yourself in front of his dick. 

A gasp meets your wet folds and you freeze for a second, thinking that you may have acted out of pure greed. You’re about to move off him when his hands smack down on your thighs and slide up to your ass. He pushes your plump cheeks up and digs his fingertips into your little dimples. As you cat-lick his precum oozing tip, he runs the bridge of his nose through your folds. 

You moan loudly, his bold move provoking you to engulf his tip and then some into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around him and it’s only now that you realize, with your tongue sliding and looping around him, how thick he really is. It only makes you want more of him.

While you attempt to shove in another inch or two down your throat, Hobi laps his tongue over your pussy, favouring your clit over your entrance. After flicking it with the tip of his tongue, he purses his lips around your clit and sucks harshly. 

Through a gag, you moan around his length. Only half of him is lodged in your throat, and you thought you might be ready to take a bit more until he began to focus all his energy on your clit. You shudder against his lips. Closing your eyes, you try to recompose yourself. You have a job to do as well and you know you won't be able to do it right if all you focus on is how well he can work his mouth. Taking in a deep breath through your nose, you continue your bobs up and down his length, working your hand on the last few inches you haven’t found the courage to shove in your mouth yet. 

Hobi can’t seem to keep his volume down. Every one of your harsh sucks and slurps has him crumbling into more of a moaning mess. Your jaw aches, eyes water but you work through it, living for every moan and groan that vibrates over your needy core. And though he continues to play around with your clit, the sounds you've sucked out of him have sprinkled a bit of hesitance in his approach. His previously sharp licks and suctions over your pussy have somewhat stuttered the faster your bounce your head up and down his length. 

He composes himself quicker than you do, however. Tongue poking in and out of your entrance, his thumb slides over to your clit and rubs hard circles around it. You squeal, choking on his cock at the sudden switch. However, that’s not what forces you to pull him out of your mouth. That thumb of his drenches itself in your juices and trails up the curve of your ass to smear your juices all over your asshole. As his mouth returns to your clit, he pushes his thumb into your ass, making you pull his cock out and throw our head back. 

You’re so lost in that new wave of pleasure, all attention on his cock falters. You grip onto his thighs and grind your hips into his mouth. Hobi smirks, but he’s not happy with your actions. His free hand comes down on your ass as a silent warning. You want to take it as such but with his thumb moving in and out of you and his mouth sucking on your clit, you can’t find it in you to do anything else but whine and push your weight down on his face. 

Hobi growls against your wetness, teeth grazing your bud. Your eyes widen, and a loud moan pours out of you. He breaths a chuckle over your clit all while continuing to nibble on it. Lips still pressed against your aching heat, he questions, “who the fuck told you to stop?”

You wrap a hand back around cock, pumping him at a fast pace. Still, Hobi doesn’t think it’s enough. He withdraws his thumb from your ass and takes to fingering your instead. With two fingers thrusting in and out of you again, his mouth is free to latch onto your asshole. He licks and pokes his tongue in and out your tiniest hole while your body shakes over his. 

“Suck my dick, slut,” he orders with a growl, spanking you just to grab and grope you all over again. 

You don’t dare disobey a direct order. Wrapping your lips around his length, you immediately pick up where you left off and shove his thick cock down your throat. Ignoring every gag instinct, every urge to pull him out and take a proper breath before taking him in again. But, when he’s shaking his face between your cheeks, swirling his tongue around your hole and pushing his fingers in and out of you at an incomprehensible pace, you can’t focus, let alone think, about anything else. His cock falls out of your mouth once more. You don’t want to disappoint him, but how can he expect you to do anything when he’s making you feel so good? 

“Oh my god!” You scream. Sitting up on his face, you all but force him to take his fingers out of you and relatch his lips over your folds once more. You ride his face as your orgasm nears, a variety of curses pouring out of you in desperate moans. “Ahh, fuck yes! H-Hobi!”

He groans in response, smacking his pussy slick hands over your ass. He grips onto your supple flesh, pushing your ass up to get a better hold on your pussy. 

Your hips jolt over his mouth, eyes roll back. There’s not much more you can take. Body quaking, you warn, “I’m go-nna cum!”

“Do it!” Hobi rasps, sounding hungry and deprived. 

Your jaw falls open, high pitched moans tumbling out as your release gushes into his mouth. Hobi flattens his tongue and lets you ride his face. You circle your hips around his face, mewling and whining as you grind out your orgasm. Hearing Hobi’s slurps and laps over your pussy only makes your body shudder and jolt all the more. 

His mouth suddenly escapes your needy hips. You huff a whine, looking over your shoulder at him. Hobi has his jaw pushed out and lips purses like he’s holding onto something in his mouth. You furrow your brows, about to question him when he pushes your body into the bed between his legs. 

Sitting up, Hobi leers over your ass while you’re left in suspense with your face buried in the sheets. He pulls your cheeks apart and drops a warm, thick dollop of saliva mixed cum. He uses his forefinger to rub it around your hole, catching any leaking streaks that rush back to your pussy. You shudder as a string of mewls muffles into the bed.

“Where’s your vibrator?”

You turn your head to the side, smushing your cheek into the mattress instead and ask, “Which one?” 

Hobi chuckles at your words. As he pushes his finger into your ass, he replies, “How many do you have?”

Gasping from the blissful sensation, you try to focus on the question. You only really have two. The yellow star-shaped one and that dildo you use when you really need a good fucking. But judging by the tone of his voice, he seems to be expecting a lot. You chew on your lip and debate on inflating that number. But what will you do if he asks to see them all? 

 “I-I’m not sure.”

“Take a guess.”

You pause. Balling the sheets into your hands, you swallow thickly. You know you should just be honest, but after that mediocre blow-job, you don’t think you can handle disappointing him any further. Still, it’s better and safer to tell the truth. Besides, you know full well that you can’t lie to him. It would break your heart more than his. 

“Just two,” you finally reply. “They’re at the table by the bed, first drawer.”

Hobi places a sweet kiss on each cheek before he shifts a bit behind you. The drawer opens and closes, Hobi shifting back in place again. “Is there something wrong with having just two?” He asks as he runs the curved edges of the star vibrator up and down your folds. 

Your pussy quivers at the sensation, hips greedily grinding against it. So needy for more, one would think you didn’t just cum a minute ago. “You tell me,” you whisper. After swallowing your moans, you ask, “Doesn’t two seem innocent?”

The toy stops mid stroke and you stiffen up with it. Maybe you’ve taken the comment too far, but you can’t deny the gnawing voice in your heart telling you he’s just here for a quick fuck. You’ve raised your hopes up too high, romanticized him too often not to take what he had said to heart. Chewing on your lip, you wonder if you should apologize for your tone and suggest to just continue all this without another word. You’re about to voice your idea when you feel his lips on your curves of your ass again, the wet toy moving once more. 

“There’s nothing wrong with a little innocence, Starfruit,” he mutters against your cheek. Trailing that toy up to your asshole, he grazes his teeth over your cheek and says, “It’s what makes you so sweet.”

As his teeth nibble on your skin, you quietly whine into the bed. Hobi holds you in place as you squirm, sensing your impatience to be played with again. “Deep breath,” he mutters against the curve of your ass. 

You inhale deeply and brace yourself for what you think might be coming next. Hearing your intake, and catching the way your shoulders rise, Hobi pushes the wet toy into your tight hole. There’s a bit of resistance, as you're not used to more than two fingers in there usually. However, the toy enters just fine. It stretches you so fucking well, making your left eye twitch the way it always does when you’ve reached pure bliss. 

“Besides,” Hobi suddenly continues. He shifts under you again, reaching back into the drawer. “You’re hardly innocent around me.”

The star buzzes to life in you. You gasp and sit up as your body shudders from the sudden jolt of pleasure. From your new position, you feel his tip poke at your clit and you can’t stop the squeal that escapes you then. Hobi wraps his arms around your waist, kissing the curve of your spine and igniting your lust frenzied nerves.  

“I gotta be in you, honey,” he mutters between kisses. 

“Yes, please.”

With a chuckle, Hobi nuzzles his face into your back. The gesture is so sincere, so casual that for a second you let yourself believe this is a usual occurrence. You let yourself believe that you and Hobi always find each other like this because you’re dating. You let yourself indulge in the fantasy that you belong to Hobi and he belongs to you. The second comes and goes, but you’re still left with his warm breath fanning on your back and sweet kisses trailing up your spine.

Hobi lifts your leg, muttering, “Under mine.” He positions both calves under his thigh and sits you on his lower stomach. His hands retreat off your body and you shiver from the loss of warmth his touch always brings. 

You look over your shoulder, curious, and find him lying on his back with his arms crossed behind his head. He’s eyes lock on your ass. He admires it, studies it’s curves and the way it sits on his abdomen. Meeting your gaze, Hobi smirks. 

“Make it clap for me.”

The request has you breathless. It sparks the memory of your question all those moments ago, before things go so hot and heavy. How many times? How many times did he watch that video? 

With a shy smile, you turn back around and lean forward, resting your hands on the mattress between his legs. You take a deep breath then shake your ass, the claps subsequently following. Hobi groans behind you. You moan in response. The slow buzzes of the vibrator only heighten the act of shaking your ass over his abs. 

With that extra little treat for you, you feel a bit guilty. He’d been showering you with attention and affection. He’s made you cum twice already and all you’ve offered was a sloppy blowjob you couldn’t even follow through with. You want to give him that little extra bit of attention he never forgets to offer you. Ceasing you movements for a second, earning a light spank to continue, you lift your hips.

“I don’t remember you asking for my cock, Starfruit.” His tone is heavy with authority. It only makes it harder to ignore him. “And I sure as hell don’t remember telling you to stop.”

Another smack lands on your ass. This one is harder, stronger and you whimper at the warning. You can’t bear to ignore him any longer, knowing his patience will soon run out. “I just wanted to try something, Hobi.”

He grunts, but doesn’t say much more. You take this as approval to continue and sit your ass just before his cock, pussy resting on his heavy balls. His hands find your hips again, but they don’t grope you like they usually do. Instead, they simply rest there. You interpret this as a precautionary measure, in case you try anything without permission again. 

“Do you wanna watch it clap?”

Hobi hums in reponses, thumbs gently rubbing your skin. Leaning forward again, you push your ass back so his cock slips between your cheeks. The gasp that escapes him fills your chest with pride. A smile plays on your lips and you shake your ass once more, cheeks now clapping around his length. 

“Innocent, my ass,” you giggle. 

Hobi fills the room with that dark chuckle of his. You can hear the amusement of the joke and pleasure of the display from the tone of his voice. He smacks his hands down on your cheeks, helping them move fast around his cock. 

“Fucking slut,” he hisses as he tightens his grip. His hips suddenly jolt upwards causing you to almost fall over his lap. Hobi catches you before you slip off his lap, however, and holds you back in place. 

He huffs and hisses, moans and groans. You’re sure he’s about to cum, can even feel his cock twitching, but he stops you just before he lets himself go. “I just need to be inside you.” 

The desperation in his voice has you giggling. Hobi spanks the laughter out of you, grumbling, “Behave or you won’t cum for the rest of the night.”

You bite back a whine. Shyly looking over your shoulder, you find that wild urge resurface in his gaze again. He must’ve been really close to cumming. Hobi catches your gaze, a wicked smirk tugging on his lips. He reaches for the vibrator’s remote and turns the intensity up. You whimper and pull on the sheets in front of you. 

Lifting your hips, you nod at his warning and turn back around. You are met with your reflection from the full-length mirror by your closet. It’s parallel to your bed so you can see yourself sink down on Hobi’s massive cock and watch as well as feel your pussy stretch so fucking well from his girth. “H-Hobi,” you squeal as he guides your hips further down his shaft. 

“Hoseok,” he corrects. 

You cease all movement, already halfway down his length. The vibrator is still humming loudly in you, only just distracting you from what you’ve just heard. Did he just tell you his real name? He’d been so adamant on keeping it to himself, even refusing to know yours. Yet, here he lies. With his hands secured on your hips and cock ruining you for all other men, perhaps even toys, he tells you his name. 

“Is it too much?” He suddenly asks while adjusting his hold on your hips. 

You shake your head, breathlessly muttering, “No, it’s perfect.” 

It’s not until he’s guiding you back down on him do you realize he was talking about his cock. You suck in a breath and wait until you’ve completely taken in him before whimpering your name. He grips onto your hips tighter and growls. The reaction is enough to fill you with worry. You fear he may not have wanted to know your name, that he only wanted you to scream his. 

“(Y/N)”

His moans carry on as you circle your hips around his cock. Each syllable of your name sounds more desperate and greedy than the last. And when you finally switch to bouncing, ass clapping down on his thighs in loud smacks, he growls your name. Over and over again, you’re dripping off the tip of his tongue. All he thinks about is you, all he says is you, all he sees is you. 

Ass in bliss, pussy in pleasure, your body meets heaven and your mind overflows with everything Hoseok. You can’t get enough of him or the way he utters your name in that fruity, lively voice of his. 

You think this is all the pleasure you need when he sits himself up. He rests his chin on your shoulder, one hand sliding down from your hips to rub your clit while the other slides up. You catch his gaze in the reflection and offer a shy smile before you feel him yank your tank top down once more and expose your breasts. 

Bouncing uncontrollably, your tits are all his attention can focus on now. He doesn’t even make a move to grope one of them, too consumed by the way they move to disturb their rhythm. The mere sight of him continuously being mesmerized by you only brings you closer to your high. Your pussy tightens around him again and you can’t ignore the twitch of his cock this time. You giggle at his reflection, drawing his attention away from your tits. 

“You’re ready to cum again, Starfruit?” 

The smirk he wears is just as deadly as the size of his cock. 

You crumble beneath it, whimpering a tiny, “Yes, please, Hobi.”

He kisses your shoulder and nods, as if giving you the approval to cum whenever. Your eyes roll back, moans intensify and body seems to be losing all composure for the third time tonight. You screw your eyes shut, feeling your orgasm nearing but Hoseok replaces his kisses for a little bite on your shoulder. Gasping a moan, you snap your eyes open and meet his gaze once more. 

“Look at me,” he orders in a hushed tone. “I want you to look at me when you cum.”

You expected to find that untamed animalistic look in his eyes, or maybe even a barrier of distance to remind you that this is just a one time thing. Instead, you find affection. Within those lust-blown pupils, you find that glowing sunshine-like sparkle of sincerity. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. 

Just like that, while holding his gaze and getting lost in his eyes, your ograsm overtakes the entirety of your body. Grounding your ass into hips, you shudder, whimper and tear your sheets out from under his legs. You’ve lost the ability to hold that honest gaze of his and completely shatter from the force of your orgasm. Mind whirling, ears ringing, you feel like the wind has got knocked out of you too. Seeing stars, you can’t think straight. All you can feel is him. 

And while you’re losing yourself, gushing and convulsing all over him, Hoseok continues to rub harsh circles around your clit and rolls his hips up into yours. He further gets himself off all while helping you ride out your high as well. He groans in your ear as it rings and finally takes to groping your breast again. He grabs at anything, wanting to feel all of you as his dick twitches once more. With your warm cum coating his cock, Hoseok can’t hold himself back any longer. He locks his arms around your waist, holds you still over his hips and releases a heavy load of his cum. 

“(Y/N)” he growls as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

You lean your head back against his shoulder. Eyes closed, mouth pouring moans, you revel in the ropes of cum he shoots in you. He fills you up all too well that you know you’ll cry if this is a first and last time occurrence. Your pussy quivers from the nonstop friction, that vibrator in your ass not doing you any favours to slow the process of overstimulation. You tell yourself that the moment Hoseok is done, you’re going to demand that he take that vibrator out and give you a moment to collect yourself before even thinking about another round. 

But then he nuzzles his face into your skin and you melt into his frame. You feel him inhale your scent and smile against you. Biting your lip, you force yourself to endure another moment or two of overstimulation if it means he can stay this happy for a little bit longer. 

“Ah, shit,” he suddenly mutters into the nape of your neck. “You alright, honey?”

You open your eyes and find him staring at your fucked out reflection with a look of concern. Meekly, you nod but he doesn’t buy it. He unwraps his arms around you and pushes your body forward. You whine and whimper, wanting to fight against it since that angle seems to give a whole new wave of pleasure you’re certain you cannot handle right now. 

“Bend over, honey,” he chuckles. “Trust me.”

You moan out of frustration, your ass starting to become just as sensitive to the touch as your pussy is. Still, you know you can trust him, and bend over. “Careful.”

Hoseok kisses your asscheek and mutters, “always,” before gently tugging on the yellow rubber line to pull the star out. He sighs at whatever sight rests in front of him, but you’re all too consumed with recovering from such a hard orgasm. The ringing in your ears has barely stopped and you keep telling yourself that if you keep taking deep breaths you just might be about to settle your heart down and regain your sense of sound. 

The buzzing suddenly ceases, a little clatter on your night table momentarily filling the silence. Hoseok then slowly pushes your hips off his softening cock, rubbing your ass in hopes of soothing all those little mewls that leave you. 

He then gasps and you can already tell that you won’t like what comes out of his mouth next. 

“I know you’re sensitive,” he starts. You whine, already knowing where this is leading. “But, you need to get cleaned up somehow.”

You shudder and grip onto the sheets as a precaution. The ringing in your ears has somewhat settled, but you don’t get comfortable with that fact just yet. After a long whine, you ask, “How do you want me?”

Hoseok breaths a chuckle and you hear him pat a spot next to him. Heaving, you look over your shoulder at the vacant space beside him. You sigh and crawl over there, lying on your back and spreading your legs immediately. Hoseok runs a hands down your torso, watching as you make yourself comfortable on the bed. The two of you work around each other like this is a nightly routine, and you’re not mad about that. 

Once you’re settled, he positions himself between your legs and dips his head down to your pussy. You close your legs around his face in an instant, the sensitivity being too much to handle too soon. Hoseok doesn’t care; he works through it. He laps and licks up every part of your mixed cum. Soon, however, his hands get a hold of your thighs and he pulls them apart. He shakes his head as he devours your pussy once more and you find yourself having to tug on his hair to get him off you. 

“Hoseok, pl-please!” You whine, attempting to close your legs once more. 

Unlatching his lips from your overstimulated pussy with a little wet pop, he sits up and smirks down at your fucked out state. You bring your legs together, cross your ankles and pull your knees into your chest as the last remnants of your orgasm shudders through you. 

The bed dips beside you. Hoseok makes himself comfortable. He lies next to you, chest heaving and eyes locked on the ceiling. And once you feel your orgasm finally pass through, you unfold yourself. Your nakedness has never been more apparent to you until now. With lustful desires trickling away, all that remains is the bareness of your bodies and the hovering reality of your emotions.

You shift your weight and pull your comforter over your curves, quickly shielding yourself before he can look over and get another look at you. You freeze all over when he spares you a glance, curious as to what you’re doing. It’s like you didn't just spend the better part of an hour or so screaming his name. 

Hoseok smirks, gaze wandering down your covered frame anyways. His eyes don’t need to undress you, knowing exactly what you look like from what angle, yet they still do. He finds your gaze again, breath stabilizing, and mimics your actions. Shifting to get under the sheets, Hoseok asks, “Are you okay?”

The question stunts you. Actually, the fact that he’s still here and not halfway through getting dressed stunts you. You can only stare at him for a moment, your ears regaining full ability and chest ceasing its full rises and falls. 

He furrows his brows. Taking your silence as avoidance from the truth, he says, “You can tell me if I hurt you. I’m sorr-”

“Aren’t you leaving?” Your question sounds colder than intended. And the fact that you cut him off to ask it, is not doing you any favours. 

Hoseok can only stare back at you, speechless. He chews on his lip and scoffs a dry sigh before you quickly correct your intentions. 

“Not that I want you to leave.” A brow of his quirks in interest. “It’s just… I thought that’s what you’d want to do.”

He must see the fear in your eyes, must hear the earnest plea to stay in your voice as he shifts closer to you and tucks an arm under your head. You scoot closer to him too, sweaty bodies colliding once more. Your arms draped over the other’s waist, you pull each other closer. His breath fans over your hot face and you slowly trail your gaze up from his neck to his eyes. 

Lips less than an inch apart, Hoseok mutters, “If it’s up to me, neither one of us would ever leave.” He nudges your nose with his, brushing that hoop piercing against your skin.

Your hand slides up to his face, caressing his cheek while your thumb rubs his chin. You want to tell him you feel the same way, that you’d want to be in any moment as long as he’s there with you. But, he seems to read that in your eyes, in the way you hold his gaze shamelessly and flash that shy smile. 

Your lips are so close now, you’re exchanging breaths, but he doesn’t kiss you yet. Instead he whispers, “Thirteen.”

You knit your brows as confusion riddles your face. 

“You asked how many times I’ve watched your video; thirteen.”

Thirteen. Your mind struggles to comprehend that reality, eyes searching his face for signs of dishonesty. You only find genuineness and a hint of admiration in his eyes and the way he says, “Starfruit; (Y/N).”

“You couldn’t have gotten off that many times,” you scoff.

“I didn’t.” 

Your nerves jolt into another heartwarming frenzy as your body freezes over with realization. It’s never been about just sex, it’s never been about cameras and live streams. It’s only ever been about finding the one on the screen, finding the hope you’ve been searching for every time either one of you logs on and scrolls through comments.

“I just came back from an errand. Jin wanted cake and Jimin was too tired to get out.” He suddenly starts, pulling you out of your thoughts. You pause for a moment, realizing that Jin and Jimin have a third roommate. “I was about to go inside when I saw you walk out of your apartment. I honestly couldn’t believe it was you. But I knew it the moment I saw those yellow shorts.”

Your breath hitches and he smiles. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“You walked so fast,” he chuckles. “And by the time I figured out what I wanted to say, you were already on the elevator. I was honestly about to just go back inside and forget the entire thing. I even opened the door. I couldn’t go in, though. I just needed to see you one last time.” 

He pauses to press a gentle kiss on the corner of your lips. You flutter your eyes shut, melting into his existence. He continues, “I ran down the stairs, hoping to catch you before you left. When I saw you checking the mail, I'm not sure what came over me. I pretended to be doing the same thing. I didn’t think you’d be that embarrassed about the video.”

Slowly, you open your eyes and meet his apologetic gaze. Heart swooning, you let out a shaky breath and confess in a quiet mutter, “I don’t want to be a camgirl.”

“What?”

“I sent you that video because I wanted you to notice me again. And you’ve been looking so sad and tired during your lives, I just wanted to cheer you up a bit.” 

Hoseok stares, brows knitted, lips parted. You open your mouth to apologize when he presses his lips to yours, engulfing you in a whirlwind of soft gold emotions. You drink in every breath, curling your tongue around his. 

“I lied about you being innocent.”

You blink. 

“Well, you are innocent but that’s not the reason why I told you not to live stream. I just wanted to keep you to myself.”

“I’m not very happy with the idea of sharing you either.”

“I really like your ass.”

You pause. Your war of confessions hovers over your tangled bodies but all you can do is laugh at his words. He can’t hold back the laughter bubbling from his chest either, and you feel the sweet rumble of his chuckles before you hear them. He gingerly leans in for another kiss but it seems to be more teeth than lips as you two try to laugh through the kiss. 

The hand resting on your waist trails down to your ass, rubbing gentle circles around it as your laughter trickles out. You kiss him again, properly and with little tongue so you can focus on the way his lips move against yours. 

When he pulls away, he shares his last confession. “I hate streaming.”

You bite back a gasp, chewing on your lips. He takes this as a sign to continue. “I mean, I used to love it. It just seems like more work than it’s worth now. And I want moments like this more often.”

“You’re quitting,” you whisper in realization. 

He nods. 

You hum, nodding along as everything begins to make sense. You conclude that he must’ve felt this way for a while and that’s why there was a sudden shift in his demeanour. 

Pushing his hair back, you softly kiss his cheek and mutter against his skin, “I started watching for Hobi. But, I sent that video to Hoseok.”

Bodies flushed, Hoseok shudders against you. Eyes flutter shut, hearts beat in sync, and as you drift further into this daydream, you hear the lingering words he breathes into your hair. 

“You’re an angel, (Y/N). Sweeter than Starfruit.”

note; please do not leave hate towards me or any other readers. please do not copy, repost, or translate any of my work without my permission. 

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

[hibibun]

Smoke and Mirrors

Series: The Magnus Archives Pairing: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims Summary: Elias offers to help Jon quit smoking. He doesn't particularly feel that strongly about it, but when presented with another incentive, Jon finds himself going along with it anyway. for jonelias week day 2 - manipulation & caretaking Notes/Warnings: Pre-Canon, Manipulation, Smoking, Dom/sub undertones AO3 CH1 - ?

It starts with a harmless, albeit likely patronizing, observation.

“That’s a nasty habit.”

Jon’s eyes flick up and away from the hand steadying his lighter, the smoke already starting to drift off the end of his cigarette. He’s used to such comments. Generally, people are even worse about it, go on about how he’s polluting the air and so on—hence, why he’s even on this side of the building, which has more or less been claimed by the other smokers at the Institute.

However, he’s pinned by the fact the words came from none other than Elias Bouchard, Head of the Magnus Institute and currently his boss’s boss. He finishes his inhale, carefully manages his exhale without it sputtering into the coughs his rapidly beating heart want him to make. Evidently, Elias doesn’t smoke or approve of it, which makes Jon wonder if he simply comes out here to make such comments.

“I’ve been meaning to quit,” Jon shares a bit defensively, though it has been a half-hearted thought with even more abysmal attempts. He’d never really been one to handle stress well and seemed to come back to it no matter how many days he’d managed to avoid lighting one. It doesn’t help that in general his attempts to find anything of use or lucidity at the Institute have only ended in fairy tales and irritation.

“I can help, if you’d like,” Elias offers and there’s something in his tone Jon can’t identify that makes him uneasy. Reminds him of why exactly the remark he’d made managed to bother him.

Lately, if Jon isn’t mistaken, Elias has taken an interest in him. In his arrogance, he would like to think it had something to do with his work, though the reality is it’s doubtful anything he’s done as a mere researcher would be enough to catch the attention of the head the Institute. No, the exchanges they have more rely on things expressed during his initial interview that he’d put out of his mind. Considering how busy the man usually is, he hadn’t been sure whether to chalk up the interlude between their meetings to be one of sudden disinterest, or if he had been actually dealing with other matters. It comes as a strange relief that the latter appears true, though as usual, he is uncertain as to why.

Either way, needlessly, Jon has impressions on the mind. And while he does not believe in the idea of changing yourself for approval, he also can’t deny that it would be an utter shame to lose this man’s attention over something as simple as a cigarette. Against his better judgment, though, ‘Would it really be such a bad thing if he quit?’ Jon wonders—the stick in his hand steadily wasting away to ash.

“How do you propose to help?”  

Wordlessly, Elias holds a hand out, expectant. Jon stares at his hand, then up at him.

“May I have the rest of what you have on you? I wouldn’t be so cruel as you force you cold turkey quit as it isn’t always safe, but I can help in moderation.”

Hesitantly, Jon digs in his pocket and drags the pack out. He places it in Elias’s waiting palm, trying to ignore the momentary brush of their fingers. Next, he asks him about his habits. About how many does he burn through a day and when, before carefully counting out how many he thinks he should have between now and the next time they meet.

“I cannot make you stop entirely, but I would be delighted if you manage some restraint. Tomorrow, if there are leftovers you refrained from smoking, I have a surprise in mind. If you cannot manage it, well, then there’s always next time, but this is a good starting point wouldn’t you say?” Elias asks rhetorically, and Jon feels strange looking at his smile. Intrigued at what he possibly thinks would be a worthwhile surprise. He licks his lips and lets himself have a puff before the whole thing burns out, using the excuse that he needs to exhale to look away from Elias and his odd smile.

“I’ll do my best I suppose, if you’re that serious about it.”

“Excellent,” he hears Elias say, but doesn’t look at him, fearing what he might see.

                                                               -

Of the seven handed back to him, there’s only one he has to give. Jon had almost used that one too—forever a victim to sleepless nights and itching for something that might put him at ease.

Still, Elias placates him and they repeat the same exchange. Jon hands him his new pack, unopened, and Elias counts out the next set he’s allowed. It’s difficult to read his expression again as while he had at least one to give, something about the exchange still leaves Jon feeling like he’s disappointed him. Elias doesn’t say as much, but it strikes him like it’s true anyway.

“While your progress is slower than I might have anticipated, I’m a man of my word.”

He digs through a drawer in his desk momentarily, before bringing out a stack of papers.  

Jon stares at it suspiciously, unsure how it is much of a surprise at all. It mostly just looks like… work.

“Feel free to read it here or take it with you. It’s a copy anyway, so you may do what you like with it, but I think it may be of some interest.”

After another moment of hesitation, Jon takes the stapled packet, glancing over the front to confirm it is indeed a statement. He must make a face as Elias laughs.

“I promise it isn’t another assignment. I just would like you to read it and maybe share your thoughts.”

His eyes are already wanting to skim over what it is that Elias would think is interesting to him. With a stiff politeness that was beginning to feel silly given their current arrangement, Jon nods shuffling the papers closer to his chest and stands.

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow then.”

Elias doesn’t betray another hint of what it might be and is suspiciously business like in his dismissal. Their meeting had hardly reflected that, but it isn’t something Jon intends to comment on. Whatever was going on, the answers might already be in his hands and with a bit of frustration, he knows he’ll have to wait until the evening to really dig into it. He can only hope next time he’ll garner some kind of understanding.  

                                                              -

He isn’t sure if he’s smoking because of what he read, or because he doesn’t want to see what else Elias has for him. Either way, by the time he’s crushed the butt of his last cigarette into the ashtray his stomach is swimming with a mixture of relief and regret. He’s lying a little when he says he doesn’t want to know more—it’s the whole reason he even started working at the Institute in the first place. A fact Elias apparently bothered to remember from his interview. It’s terrifying though, the reality it could be real and not simply a fabricated tale that has an easy to stomach explanation. Something he’s spent a long time trying to convince himself of, even while knowing himself the supernatural must exist.

Lying farther away on top of all those issues is the root of what started this all. He’s thoroughly swallowed his fear in smoke and will have no spare cigarettes to give tomorrow. It hasn’t done anything for how scared he feels, and worse he loathes the dread piling heavier at whatever signs of disappointment will be waiting on Elias’s face.

Or maybe, there won’t be anything there at all.

He still doesn’t know why Elias is doing all this, and he even admitted quitting won’t be easy.

It isn’t the first time he’s had a dream about the statements he’s investigated. Even if he steadfastly denies the claims and feels justified as he comes up with nothing for many of the cases assigned to him, certain instances in the investigation or in the initial tales themselves if the giver is a good storyteller are enough to get to him when he sleeps. He always feels a little silly for that in the morning—writing it off as an over active imagination and a life too focused on work.

Still, this dream surprises him for its sheer vividness compared to the others.

In front of him is a familiar parlor full of comfortable looking couches, some with hand-embroidered cushions, plants tastefully decorating its corners, and a vast amount of paintings taking up almost all the available space of the walls. He has never been in this room. Never seen it, but it’s nostalgic—the type of room you’d expect in a period piece drama or at a grandparents’ home.

The words filter in, and the scene shifts. There is a woman now seated at one of the settees, her gaze untrustingly glancing about the room. The room is empty otherwise, only with an entrance way into it from the front hall, and a side door leading to another part of the house.

The woman reaches for her purse, makes a move to open it before sighing and changing her mind.

She was running late. It was a bit odd, and I was starting to get a little antsy. I hate being in that room in general, but, well, it was hard to request waiting somewhere else politely. I mean the poor old woman was pretty much on her own—I just wanted to check in like I did every Tuesday afternoon, and then be on my way. Really there wasn’t anything wrong with it. When you got past the decorations… it was actually rather cozy.

Wildly, the woman twists around at the large family portrait hanging just behind her seat. There wasn’t anything particularly odd about it. A big family of six, stiff and bunched together, neither smiling nor frowning. Simply existing. Staring.

What I didn’t like was how narrow it was. How little space it felt like was actually in the room; and worse you… when you were in there by yourself, the pictures had a weird sense to them. I can’t explain it. It just felt like they were watching you.

She quickly looks away and takes a deep breath. Then, she stares directly ahead. Jon panics, feeling like she is now looking directly at him, but her expression quickly breaks down into anguish and terror. Fear clear across her face, she whips her head instead to the other side of the room now and fixates on a door there. Shakily, she raises and rushes toward it. The door hadn’t been there before, and the moment it closes, isn’t there at all.

You have to understand; I know it sounds crazy, but it was the only thing that felt right at the moment. I-I think I knew the door wasn’t there before. I had been in that room a million times before, I knew pretty much every inch of it because it was so horrible to be there, but that’s why I had to go through it. I just wanted to get away from all those creepy eyes staring at me—

Jon cannot see inside the door—Trisha Wellen was unable to describe properly or in any coherent manner what was beyond that door. Just that it felt like she was stuck there for a very long time, until suddenly she wasn’t several days later. What terrifies Jon more though is the undeniable truth that he had been one of those eyes behind the paintings, and despite knowing everything in her statement did nothing.

It was a dream. Ms. Wellen was shaken, given her statement, but it and the follow up were enough to scare him, clearly. The fact she has been listed missing for a little over a year as well doesn’t help matters. There is nothing he could have done to help that woman as the event in question happened two years ago and it was just a dream.

He is out of cigarettes and feels cold.

                                                              -

“Why did you give me this?” Jon starts their conversation, by dropping the statement back on Elias’s desk, maybe a tad harsher than intended. He doesn’t address the actual reason for these meetings first, and based on Elias’s expression, he finds that awfully amusing.

“Now then, irritability usually doesn’t crop up until after a few days of deprivation. I know you’re better than that Jonathan,” Elias tilts the conversation in a different direction purposefully. Jon feels pinned under those eyes, accusing him of weakness in what the other knows is an unfair assessment.

“You know exactly what has me ‘irritable’,” Jon starts, his eyes flicking away again, but only to land on a series of portraits of the previous heads of the Institute. He shivers involuntarily remembering the words that brought him in here. When he can look at Elias again the man is still staring at him as if sizing him up. It’s difficult to tell whether the reaction he’s displaying is one that feels actually reasonable or whether he’s somehow failed whatever test this was supposed to be.

“Please, sit,” he directs, the words feeling more like a command than a polite suggestion. Once Jon is obedient in the matter, he continues speaking.

“Let’s try this again. How are you feeling this morning, Jon?”

“I’m fine, just…” he almost admits he’s unnerved, maybe worried, “confused. I haven’t ever seen a case like this. It’s jarring to see something that might be credible I suppose, but who knows? I certainly have no way to contact Ms. Wellen about it. I can only assume it has some truth to it because I can’t fathom another reason you’d show me it.”

The why still lingers heavy in his throat, but considering Elias’s reaction when he’d opened with that he isn’t sure he’ll get that answer. From the way he’s looking at him, it must be true though, as frightening as that reality feels to accept.

“Does it discourage you?”

Jon isn’t sure which aspect of their arrangement Elias is referring to with his question. He was never particularly dead set on quitting smoking to begin with, merely went along with it out of curiosity, and the vague notion that he knows it would be better for him. If he’s talking about what he came here to find, then that’s a more complex answer.

He isn’t discouraged, so much as sent back spiraling to things he doesn’t want to admit. All along, he’s known that these things exist in the world and that even if his own encounter felt so brief, he couldn’t be the only one to have an experience like it. Denying that for so long simply felt easier. Bearable.

“No, no I need to know… just surprised to see something that didn’t feel fabricated.”

“I told you it would be a surprise. If you’re still interested, I assure you there are more in the Institute if you look hard enough. For now though, let’s get you sorted out.” Seamlessly, Elias changes the subject once again and waits patiently for the same exchange they’ve been making. He clicks his tongue when Jon has nothing to offer him from yesterday, but dutifully counts out the amount, taking one less than he’d given the day before, which Jon does not comment on.

“I understand why you felt it necessary to use them all, given how shocking this must be, but if you do wish to stop, best not to make a habit of it.” He’s trapped again by Elias’s eyes and he tries to squash down the definite sensation he’s disappointed him. Why that matters so much should be the more alarming question, but instead Jon quietly pockets the box again and chooses his words carefully.

“If I have more questions… will you answer them if I can keep up with it? Or was this the only surprise you had?” Jon asks, tone just slightly bordering shaky.

“You’ll just have to find out.” Elias answers him all pleasant looking smiles once more. “I believe they’re looking for you down in research, and I have scheduling to work out, so that will be all for now.”

[sebthesnipe]

Muck and Mayhem

First // Previously // Next

My Dearest Procyon

Masterpost

MDP Discord Server

Chapter 35

Original story based on this wonderful post by @underdog-arts

TW: blood and cursing.

Patton trudged through the deep mud, keeping close to the sloping bank as they drew closer to the fortress. The river there had dried  up long ago, but with the recent flashes of rain that had passed through this area, the banks were caked in sludge from the ash and topsoil. 

‘I still don’t see why we had to go around,’ Virgil shot at the feline currently cradled in Patton’s, his own whiskers twitching as he peered over the dragon’s shoulder. 

‘I told you,’ Logan projected back with a glare. ‘It would be easier to hide if we followed the river bank.’

‘And get buried under six feet of mud!’ Virgil counted. 

‘Don’t be so dramatic,’ the cat sent back, ‘The mud is no more than two foot deep.’

‘Whatever!’ Virgil mentally scoffed, ‘It could still kill us!’

‘Patton is the strongest out of the three of us,’ Logan pointed out, ‘Hence, why he is carrying us. It will be fine.’

The raccoon gave a dismissive growl before crawling back into Patton’s backpack. ‘You just wanted to see your boyfriend be all muscley.’

“I don’t know what you two are arguing about,” Patton mumbled, “but could you please stop? We have other things to worry about.”

‘Yeah, Logan,’ Virgil shot towards the feline once more, earning a feral growl from the beast. 

“Logan!” Patton chided, in a harsh whisper. “That is enough!”

Logan’s ears flattened against his head as he glanced away, his exasperation obvious through their bond. The three fell silent as Patton continued his slow progress along the banks. 

It wasn’t long before the fortress loomed above them, the usual moss covered walls charred black where flames had danced along them.

Logan wiggled from his partner’s grasp, climbing up his shoulder and half into his hair to try and get a better view. 

He could see the front entrance, though just barely. The small stone bridge was a bit unkempt, but remained standing, despite the fires. The large wooden doors were latched shut, but unmanned. 

‘Something is not right,’ Logan projected towards the raccoon in Patton’s pack. 

‘What do you mean?’ Virgil pressed back, his striped muzzle appearing from inside. 

‘The door is unguarded,’

‘What?!’ Virgil scappered out of the bag, climbing onto the opposite shoulder and stretching on his hindlegs to see. 

“Virgil!” Patton grumbled, the raccoon paws pushing the dragon’s pink curls into his eyes, blinding him for a moment. “What’s going on? What’s happening?” 

‘I’m going to go check it out,’ Virgil informed his animal companion, already leaping onto the side of the bank. 

‘Virgil! Wait!’ Logan rushed, but the procyon was already too far gone. 

“Should I go after him?” Patton asked, tilting his head to glance up at the cat, feeling his concern.

Logan hesitated before giving a shake of his head. Going after the raccoon now would only make it more likely that they’d be spotted. 

………………………………………………………

“This way!” Remus grumbled, trying to pull his brother in the direction his mace was pointing. 

“Not a chance!” Roman spat in return, pulling in the opposite direction weakly. “The baku said this way!”

“Yeah, well the baku has barely come out of their cell!” Remus argued. “I’ve lived here for the last ten-”

An animalistic roar pierced the arm, cutting off Roman’s disheveled twin and sending terror through the man. 

“Assbutter!” Remus cursed, pulling on Roman hard enough to force him in the direction Remus had been pointing. “He knows you’re gone now! We don’t have time to argue!” 

“Who?” Roman pressed, gasping as he tried to keep up with Remus’ pace. “Noname?”

“I can’t believe I’m helping you,” Remus huffed as they hobbled on. “I shouldn’t be helping you…”

“Remus,” Roman breathed, voice pained. “I can’t help if-” he flinched as they rounded the corner, his leg protesting. He was starting to get a bit light headed. He had lost a lot of blood. “-if you don’t tell me what's going on,” he managed to finish, movements beginning to slow even further. 

He could smell the night air. They were getting closer. Remus had been right.

“Like you could help anyways,” Remus scoffed, “Look at yourself! You look like a pissmuffin in-” he cut himself off as he caught sight of another pair of guards. He slid his arm from around Roman’s waist, hoping the man could support himself. He didn’t have time to coddle him at the moment. 

The two soldiers hurried forwards, swords drawn. Remus didn’t hesitate as one of the blades were swung at him. He brought his mace up, swatting the steel away from him before turning to elbow the guard in the face. Another spin and he was bringing the heavy end of his weapon down on the man’s head, sending him crumbling to the floor and dissolving into dust.

“Thank all that is unholy I didn’t upgrade security when I was asked,” Remus mumbled, with an amused smile before turning at the sound of a pained grunt. 

Roman pressed against the wall , shield braced with both hands as the guard pressed harder against it with his own. Their swords had somehow been discarded, leaving the two men grappling shield to shield. 

It was obvious Roman would lose this particular test of strength. The prince was already out of breath, sweating and beaten. A new gash was apparent on his forehead, sending blood pouring into his eyes, the gash on his shoulder worsening from his effort as well. 

“Don’t just stand there!” Roman cried, glancing at his twin. “Help me!” 

Remus seemed to snap out of his stupor, rushing to his brother’s aid. “Right!” he mumbled, hurrying forward, his hands moving to pull the soldier off the prince. There was a brief struggle before Remus managed to bring a knee up into the soldier’s groin, earning him just enough respite to finish him off with his mace. 

“Huh…” The smaller twin breathed as he moved to stand. “Looks like homuncli had balls just like we do,” he thought out loud, turning towards his brother. “Who kne- Roman!”

Roman collapsed, sliding down the wall with a trail of red following him along the cracked cobbles. Remus was by his side in an instant, trying to steady the other man as he pulled him into a seated position. 

“Come on, Ro, we don’t have time for this!” Remus pleaded, giving the prince’s cheek a few firm pats to try and bring him to. “We have to g-”

The walls around them shook, dust falling from the ceiling. Remus glanced up, his fear spiking. He shook the other man.

“Come on!” he demanded, “He’s getting closer! I can’t stop him when he’s like this!”

Roman gave no response, head lulling to one side. 

“I told you, your plan was horrible!” Remus spat, pulling back a hand. “But did you listen to me?! No! You never do! You always think you’re so smart! You always think you’re better than everyone!” He brought his hand down, slapping the prince firmly, a red outline apparent on Roman’s cheek. “Roman! Come on!” 

He slapped him again. 

Roman’s body shifted, head falling against his brother’s shoulder.

………………………………………………………………………………..

Virgil scurried across the small clearing, hiding behind the charred remains of a small stump. He peered around it, gaze searching for an opening. 

Logan had been right. There had been no guards at the entrance or on the tower. Something was definitely wrong. Had they discovered Roman was missing? He certainly hoped not. It was too soon. 

The raccoon darted across another small clearing, finally catching sight of a mass of ivy still clinging to one of stone walls before hunkering below a small mound of decaying brush.

If the eerie roar that had sounded only minutes ago was anything to go by, then Virgil’s hopes were about to be severely dashed. 

Not that anything would change. 

Either Virgil died trying to save Roman or he would die without him.  

Virgil inched forwards, gaze darting to and fro to make sure there was no one in sight before making his way to the ivy.

He hoisted himself up, climbing the vines with ease, only pausing as he crest the top of the wall to take stock of his surroundings. 

The small alcove that overlooked the fields was just as empty as the entrance way below. He didn’t like this at-

The wall quaked beneath him, sending the raccoon stumbling a bit as he jumped down off the ledge and onto the floor beneath it. Whatever the source of those quakes was, it was big. 

“Roman!”

The cry had Virgil tensing, ears perked, breath hitching. Roman? Roman was nearby?

He listened, trying to catch the muffled sound of voices once more.

“Come on!” Virgil heard Remus demand, “He’s getting closer! I can’t stop him when he’s like this!”

Virgil bolted in the direction the sound was coming from. He paused only briefly to shift back into his human form, yanking open the door to the small vestibule. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and shoved open another. 

The sight of Roman’s form slumped against his twin, beaten, bruised, and bloodied had him coming up short. 

He wasn’t dead… 

He couldn’t be dead...

…………………………………………………………………….

“He crawled up the ivy on the Northeast side,” Logan mumbled from where he sat on the sloping bank, his human form engrossed in another vision as Patton finished scrapping the mud off himself. 

“Is he alright?” the dragon asked, glancing up. “Has he run into trouble?”

“Not yet,” Logan reassured. “It appears that the guards are preoccupied elsewhere. Something must be hap-” Logan fell silent, his anxiety spiking enough to have Patton jumping. 

“What?!” the dragon demanded, “What is it?!” 

“It’s Roman!” Logan breathed, pulling himself out of his meditative state. 

“What about him?!” Patton demanded as the other man met his gaze. He saw the answer immediately in the witch’s eyes.

“We need to go,” Logan replied simply, ignoring the question as he took hold of his partner’s hand and dragged him up the bank. 

They were far too easy to spot out there in the open, but they had no other choice. Not anymore. Logan’s self-loathing doubled as they ran. He should have been able to master that invisibility charm! They could have gotten there faster! Why did he always have to take the safest route?!

………………………………………………………………..

“Get away from him!” Virgil growled at his friend’s twin. “What did you do?!”

“Badgerboy!” Remus breathed in surprise and relief. “Calm your tits and help me with him, quick before Noname shows up!” the man urged, trying to pull Roman up. 

Virgil hesitated, another quake making him sway a bit before he gave in, moving to the opposite side and pulling Roman’s arm around his shoulders. 

“He’s not…” Virgil asked, pleading as he glanced towards the twin.

“Dead?” Remus finished for him. “No. Not yet, but he will be soon if-”

Another roar shook the foundation, sending the ceiling before them crumbling down.

“Other way! Other way!” Virgil cried, scrambling back as a large stone slab landed just in front of them, trying to turn them in the opposite direction. 

Remus attempted to comply, but only managing to pull Roman in a different direction sending the three of them sprawling to the floor. 

“Great!” Virgil huffed, taking a moment to cover his mouth as he choked up more of the red liquid he was fairly certain needed to stay inside him. “Our exit is blocked, now what?!”

“Shh!” Remus growled, inching forwards. 

“Don’t shush m-”

“Shut your fannyflaps!” the twin growled with a wave of his hand. “Listen!” 

Silence fell between them as Virgil strained his ears. Slowly the sound of heavy footfalls and clanking armor drifted towards him. 

“They’re coming,” Remus huffed as he straightened, gaze panicked as he tried to figure out a solution.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Virgil urged, trying to pick up Roman once more.

“No! There’s no time!” Remus pointed out. “Even if you could escape, fatass over here,” he nodded towards his brother, “would just slow you down.”

“We can’t just let them capture us!” the witch protested.

Remus hesitated for only a brief moment before the words sank in. “That is exactly what we can do!” he breathed excitedly. 

“What?!” Virgil scoffed. “Are you insane?!” 

“Yes, but that’s beside the point,” Remus rushed, moving to Roman’s side once more. “Listen, Noname won’t kill Roman, he’s too important. If anything he will get him help. He’ll make sure Roman is safe and survives.”

“Yeah, and what about me?” Virgil scoffed. “And even if Roman survives, he’ll just be tortured again!”

“No, no!” Remus growled, “Ugh! I don’t have time to explain! Just… Just turn into your bad little badger self  and get in!” he instructed, pulling at the collar of his shirt so that there was enough room for Virgil to crawl in.

“Ew! No!” Virgil shivered, pausing as one of the soldiers called out. 

“Get in Badgerboy or we’re all dead!” Remus demanded, earning another look of pained disgust before Virgil finally complied. 

The witch shifted back into a procyon, still hesitant to climb into the other man’s shirt. He could smell the guy from six feet away why would-

Remus scooped the beast up without warning, stuffing a clawing and hissing raccoon into his shirt just as a small group of men rounded the corner.

“I found him!” Remus called out to the soldiers as they approached. “Get him up and take him to Noname!” he ordered, moving to stand to the side as the men filed in to obey.

To be continued...

Taglist:

@hiddendreamer67 @nightashes @aequinoctiale @sumersnowlilly

[weepingvoidpenguin]

I’ll Help You

PART 1

Summary: Carlton Drake has officially crossed the line in terms of morale and humanity. He’s threatened your boss, Dr. Skirth, to manipulate her into staying with the project just as he’s manipulated all the victims he’s putting at risk to further his own twisted research. And once you witness a man die right in front of you because of it, you couldn’t continue on. Shamefully enough, you’re too scared to leave, you know how Carlton is and it terrifies you to no end so when Dr. Skirth comes up with the idea to involve an ex investigative journalist, your desperation gets the better of you and you agree to tag him along. You find yourself spending more and more time with him until it seems like you can’t pry yourself away and he grows increasingly protective of you when you vulnerably express your fears to him.

Warnings: None . . . yet

Word Count: 2,446

  You looked to your left at Dr. Skirth and smiled as the yellow symbiote merged successfully with the rabbit. It’d been months with failure after failure but not for nothing. You learned from each failure and changed according to that. 

   Dr. Skirth lit up as she observed the white creature in the box in front of her. You knew this project was a team effort but you were biased so all your pride centered around her. You were there alongside her when she trudged through the nights at the lab trying to make progress in the beginning. You’d ran to go get her coffee or ice water, whichever she was in the mood for at the time. On multiple occasions you’ve woken her up and pulled her from her drool drenched papers to walk her to the break room so she could rest on the couch. Then, the next morning, you showed up with two coffees in tow, one for the doctor and one for you, of course. 

   Dr. Skirth had graciously taken you under her wing months before this project came into existence. She’d needed an assistant for quite some time but never admitted it to herself, her explanation being that if she was tired then she was making progress through those late nights. But at a family party the word had gotten out that she had finally caved and was taking applications for the position. Now, you knew hardly anything about science excluding the little you retained in high school and whatever you managed to get through in college, but once you offered your help, she brought you onto the team anyway. You were beyond grateful. Although science wasn’t necessarily the way you thought your life would be heading, you figured as long as you could learn something new and enjoy yourself while doing it, there was no harm in leaping into that career field. It took a few months before you could actually assist on any physical labs but while you were getting her coffee and inserting her notes into a hard drive, you’d managed to teach yourself equations and terminology that went along with her field of work. She never held you back when she was certain you could advance and for that you thanked whatever gods were listening that your cousin married her because although your job description was to help her, she had really helped you in more ways than you could recall. 

   So, yeah. You were pretty proud of this intelligent woman standing on your left. But your cheery attitude dispersed quickly at Carlton’s words, “It’s too soon,” you cut him off, knowing exactly where he was going with his orders.

   Carlton raised an eyebrow at you, his mouth hanging half open. It wasn’t a secret that Drake loathed you for some reason. Practically from the first day you arrived he’d had it out for you, he tried to demean you in front of anyone who was unfortunate enough to be present and when you would simply turn away from his childish behavior, he tried to continue and crawl his way under your skin.

   Now, you didn’t necessarily think Carlton Drake was a bad guy, up until recently, that is. The way he spoke to children was always kind and genuine, he would never inhibit great potential and he appreciated intelligence like no other (you know, since it benefitted him) but after his most recent scandal with getting a man fired who had been prodding his nose deep into things that should’ve stayed buried and trying to wipe his hands clean of the deaths that he was responsible for, you’d changed your mind on what you thought of him.

   “We’re not ready for human testing yet, it’d be unethical-” Dora tried to explain but you both knew her logic would fall on greedy, deaf ears. 

   You opened your mouth to back her up, already bursting with anger at his arrogant demands but once he’d mentioned Skirth’s children, your jaw shut hard enough to make you look into a mirror later and check for cracked teeth. 

   “How are your children by the way?” He asked, obviously not giving a damn how they were and trying to get his underlying meaning across.

   Your jaw clenched and your throat tightened with fury. How dare this arrogant, greed-driven businessman threaten your fucking family. If he weren’t so powerful you would've killed him right then and there. But then again, if he wasn’t so powerful, his words wouldn’t have instilled the fear that they did.

-

   “What a fucking psychopath!” You shouted after Dora closed the door to her office.

   The volume of your voice made her flinch and you could tell she was fighting the urge to turn around and check to see if he was coming, “Please keep your voice down, (Y/N).” she lowered her hands to motion silence and when she thought the coast was clear she sighed, “But yeah. Psychotic,” 

   She walked around the edge of her desk and sat in its waiting chair before bringing her hands up to her head and rubbing it, “You don’t have to participate in this,” she offered, catching your attention away from the overwhelming anger coursing through you. “You could leave, keep your hands clean of this . . . and your conscious,” 

   You looked down at her then, her white lab coat stained with sweat from worry and the creases in her face now deep with guilt. Would you look like that if you continued working here? For Carlton? Would your conscious weigh down on you like the sky on Atlas’ shoulders? Would it be too much for you to bear with? Would people actually die from Carlton’s orders? Would you be there to be a part of it? 

   Dora still sat there, her thin fingers trying to block the light from her eyes. She was tired and worn from her head position and if it weren't for the obvious bags under her eyes, she’d look like a defenseless puppy waiting for rescue. Or, waiting for punishment. She was preparing for the toll that continuing with his orders would take on her.

   “I’m not leaving you,” you responded without much thought. “Lord knows working for Carlton is hell in itself but possibly getting blood on your hands, that’s not something anyone can take alone,” you weren’t saying you were happy with your decision and if it had been anyone else you would’ve left them long ago when Drake’s dark side began to ascend but to leave Dora alone with this psycho? No way. Besides, it’s not like you had much of a choice, he’d threatened your family and if you left knowing what you already do, there’d be consequences. 

   “I’m sorry,” Dora whimpered, her body shaking a bit, “I never should’ve agreed to let you assist.” She shook her head in her hands and sucked in shaky breaths, “I’m so sorry,”

   “Dora,” you whispered, grabbing your chair from the nearby desk and pulling it beside her, “I’m in this with you.” You placed your hand gently on her shoulder and squeezed reassuringly, “We’ll walk through hell burnt and scathed but we’ll make it out all the same,” 

   Her ragged breathing slowly steadied and you didn’t pull away until she shifted in her seat and sat back up, wiping her tears with the back of her hand as she did so, “I sure hope so,” 

-

   You nearly threw up at the sound of his bones breaking. His bones. Isaac’s bones. This poor man who Carlton swept up off the street promising safety in return for a lethal service. He wasn’t even completely aware what he was getting himself into. You’d spoken to him briefly right before he entered the lab, he seemed kind. In a sad sort of way. Like, he’d had no other choice but to be. 

   So when Carlton barely scanned over the dead body of his volunteer and called to bring the next one out, you tried to step out of the room slyly. You were scared what Drake would do if he sensed any form of weakness coming from you so you excused yourself to go to the bathroom and left quietly.

   You shuffled to the women’s bathroom and slammed the heavy door shut behind you before locking it. You whipped around, your back clashing against the cold surface of the door and slid down, the friction bringing your shirt up ever so slightly. You grabbed the collar of your lab coat and chucked it across the room, trying to distance yourself from the growing heat. You’d already managed to sweat through your shirt in multiple places but in order to avoid suspicion from Drake you grabbed a hand towel and tried to pat yourself dry. 

   You just watched someone die. A person. Like, a real person. A human being. This wasn’t some controlled science experiment that your chemistry teacher supervised and had to give permission to move onto the next step. This was a risky and unethical and overall inhumane kind of experiment that you couldn’t go home and tell anyone about when the reality of a lost life has settled into your aching bones. 

   You couldn’t tell anybody. You couldn’t tell anyone. 

   You had to tell someone.

   -

   “Ya know, hiding in plain sight is difficult enough for one of you but with two of you, it’s even worse. A blind man could see you from miles away,”

   And that’s how we’re here right now. Dora came up with the idea to search for Eddie Brock, the man who Drake had gotten fired when he’d asked a few questions that he found just a tad bit too intrusive. 

   “Okay look,” she started when we’d been caught, although it was clear from the beginning that we’d been caught by the way he’d kept looking over his shoulder all the way up this block.

   You looked at the man with the creased forehead and plump lips. So this was the guy who wasn't scared to go up against one of the most powerful guys in the state. He looked like shit. Literally. Bags that could burden any shoulder that carried it and deep grooves that showed months of constant and deep guilt. 

   You were too busy trying to size this man up to pay attention to what Dora was telling him but when they were suddenly making a beeline towards the exit, you flashed the lady at the counter a small smile and slammed your body into the closing door. 

   The cool wind danced past your face and in through your thin coat. You shivered with the sensation and stepped to the side to follow wherever Brock was taking Dora. 

   “Who’s this?” Brock asked Dora, finally looking at you since the convenience store. 

   Your eyebrows lifted and you looked between the two, “Oh, I’m suddenly part of this conversation?” You sassily spoke and took a protective step closer to Dora.

   “This is (Y/N), she’s my assistant, she can confirm everything I’m telling you,” she hastily spoke, handing him a piece of paper with our numbers written on them, “This is how you can get into contact with us,”

   Eddie hesitantly took the crumbled paper into his hand and stared down at the sloppily scrawled phone numbers. His mouth twitched, as if uncertain and his shoulders raised a bit.

   “People are dying Mr. Brock,” I spoke up, taking note of his hesitance, “We don’t know where else to go. He’s already threatened our family and . . .” you began to trail off, rubbing your clammy hands together and looking at the lights coming from the shops on the opposite side of the street, “I think he knows I’m scared,” You admitted, remembering how Carlton looked at you once you returned from the bathroom. “He’d know it was me,” you pleaded, trying to level with the burlyish man in front of you.

   He studied you hard and for what was probably too long. His eyes scanned over your face, stopping at almost every feature you had before meeting your eyes at last. 

   “Please,” You begged again, “I’ve never seen anything like this,” you chewed back the words that dried up your tongue. You hadn’t told Dora how scared you were because she’d never forgive herself if she knew of the fear that consumed you or if she knew that every sound you heard in your house caused you to jump out of your socks in paranoia. “I’ve never been so scared for anyone before . . . these people are being manipulated with safety and security but don’t know the cost they have to pay,” you pried your gaze away from the hypnotizing lights and settled on his eyes, another thing to get hypnotized by, “Not to mention how scared I am for myself,” you whimpered.

   “(Y/N),” Dr. Skirth softly spoke, placing her hand on your shoulder, causing you to look down in shame.

   “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” you felt a trail of water trickle down your face and you fought against the urge to sniffle, “I didn’t want to leave you alone there, not with Carlton threatening your kids,” 

   You glued your sight to your shoes and how they traded your weight between each other, From this angle, you could see Eddie’s hand twitch slightly upwards towards you before his opening hand closed and lowered back down to his side. 

   Embarrassed with your vulnerability, you scurried away from the both of them back towards Dora’s car and waited for the conversation to wrap itself up. 

   Minutes later, Dora crawled into the driver’s seat of the car and sighed before turning on the ignition.

   “What’d he say?” you asked.

   She remained quiet for a second then put the car in reverse, “We’ll have to wait and see,” 

-

   The rest of the night guilt racked you and kept you from another night of, let’s be honest, unpleasant sleep. Although you truthfully were scared for yourself, you felt bad for bringing yet another victim into this business and the fact that you depended on him for some sort of false safety made you almost as gullible as Carlton’s blissfully ignorant test subjects. 

   You almost regretted getting Mr. Brock involved when your phone vibrated in your hand. You pulled your gaze from the ceiling and looked at the unknown number sprawled across the screen.

   You slowly brought the phone up to your ear after answering the call and let out a chest achingly slow breath, “Hello?” 

   “It’s Eddie, um, Eddie Brock,” he sounded uncertain, like he wasn’t sure why he called you, “Listen . . . I’ll help,” 

[a-bear-at-hogwarts]

Loathing

Complicated didn’t quite cover Merula’s relationship with one Dahlia Goldman. The first word that jumped to mind was loathing it had been for some time. After all, loathing wasn’t something that sprung up out of nowhere, no... loathing grew from slight into hatred, and then festered into scraped-raw nerves and antagonism and bared-teeth lashing out. She was pretty sure she could pinpoint which slight had planted the seed, though she wasn’t fond of doing so - after all, Goldman had been showing her up for years. Why else would she have grown to loath her?

As she remembered it, they’d been eleven at the time, which would make sense considering it’d been the wait in the hall before getting sent up to put the dumb hat on where they’d first met. Much as she’d have liked to forget the particular detail, she recalled she’d been right scared, her hands shaking under her robe as she glanced about the room full of students - nobody’d known who she was yet, but they would. Soon as that old witch with the list started calling out names, someone would recognise hers.  Snyde. Death eaters’ daughter.  Merula’d known she needed to emphasise right off the bat she wasn’t to be screwed with, and at the time she’d thought she knew the perfect way to do it; the one kid there she knew enough about to make a jab at, and the one kid who wouldn’t know her to jab back either. The so-called cursed student, little sister to the famous Jacob Goldman. Famous for supposedly going mad, for searching for the vaults and getting expelled and vanishing without a trace… the sheer amount of material she could pick from only grew as she got closer to her target, padding through the huddled masses of dark-cloaked kids. From the article she remembered reading on the whole debacle, the missing Goldman had been described as noticeably tall, and it seemed to be a family trait since she stood at least a head above everyone else - tall, and muscular and scarred, two noticeable marks marring her face. Making fun of how she looked would have been the easiest thing in the world with all that to work with, names like Gangly, Chub and Scarface popping to mind immediately, but it’d have been simple and way too forgettable. She’d wanted to make a proper first impression to scare off anyone who’d have tried the same with her.

So she’d gone for the thing that was bound to hurt the most. Her Brother.

What exact words she’d used she couldn’t remember, not really - she’d gone up close to her, having to crane her neck to jeer in her face, and she’d told her… well, she’d told her a lot of things. But she’d finished it up with the cruel declaration that more likely than not, her brother's corpse was lying in a vault somewhere, rotting. Or something to that effect anyways, like she’d said the exact words were foggy. But Goldman’s reaction was crystal clear, sharp in contrast with the fog surrounding it - hell she could even remember her gaze flicking from her eyes, dark brown and long lashes with one of those scars splitting her eyebrow, to her lips painted pitch-black with some sort of matte lipstick or something, point was they’d twisted into, into….

A bored sigh. She didn’t even look at her for more than a few moments as she drawled her response, voice low and rough-

 “Yeah, no shit. He’s been missing for two years. What, are you going to tell me the sky’s blue next? Try something original at least.” 

Years later the memory of those words still burned her, ears and chest and lungs. Especially when she remembered how she’d just bloody stood there afterwards, like some kinda idiot. Just because - because she’d never been thrown quite like that before, off balance, confused and vaguely hurt and outraged because no, no that wasn’t supposed to happen, you were supposed to get upset or angry or, or-

Anything but that. I’m not irrelevant damn it!

Yet as time had gone on and she’d tried again, to find something that stung, to drag her down to earth from that lofty air of boredom she seemed to just love so much, it seemed like to Goldman at least she was. Nothing phased her, nothing got under her skin past a passive sort of annoyance, and the only thing that was more annoying was how…. how perfect she seemed, all the time. Calm, composed, in control and making progress someway, somehow. She constantly outpaced her in terms of house points, despite the fact she fell asleep in class basically every day, despite the fact she seemingly knew nothing and was starting from scratch, despite the fact she faded into the background for seemingly anyone but her. Even when Merula’d lost her temper completely, when she’d made the dumbest decisions of her life and locked her in a cupboard with a Devil's Snare...

The whole afternoon she’d been panicking, terror rasping in her ear that she might as well have just killed her outright, whatever her intent had been she’d just signed Goldman’s death certificate. It’d been the first time she’d actually been happy to see her dumb squishy face when she’d been herded into the common room by the groundskeeper guy, Hagrid or something- yet that happiness had been shortlived. Because even after all of that, even after mortal peril and betrayal she just looked…

Flat. Shut off and out of reach and calm as anything as she padded past the chattering crowds of Slytherin students and headed to her dorm. Merula’d had to pinch herself to make sure she hadn’t dreamt the whole thing, it was over that fast. There was no doubting that the girl had just had a brush with death, everything from the red marks around her arms and neck where the plant must have grabbed her to the tears in her jumper pointing to a struggle having taken place. Yet… nothing. Her face had been locked into the exact same expression it had borne every day that had passed, the tiniest of cracks marring the mask as some sort of vague annoyance lined her brow. Nothing more. Nothing….

And it ignited an anger she’d never felt before, wrathful and bitter in a way only fury kindled by redirected guilt could be. Hadn’t she spent the whole damn day worrying over what might have happened as a result of her reckless actions? Fretting over how a single act of lashing out might have cemented her in the shoes of her parents? All that time, all that fear and she came back like nothing had fucking happened-

It was only a matter of time before that seething rage bubbled over. And if she remembered right, it had done only a few days later.

It’d been late. Like, really late - she’d only stayed up in hopes of catching her alone, sneaking back into the dorms like a lost midday shadow; had it even been night or next morning? The fire had long since burnt itself out to crackling embers, its warmth leached out of the air and into the cold stone walls, encouraging her to burrow into her cloak as she waited, waited for… there. The grinding of stone, muted but audible, clued her in to the arrival of her quarry -  and as Goldman padded through the entryway with gentle, quiet steps she rose.

“You’ve been gone a long time. Is that even allowed?” The flinch of her shoulder silhouetted in the dark had given her a flicker of momentary satisfaction, before the figure turned to face her. Eyes flashed in the dark, the torchlight glancing off them as her fellow snake regarded her. “What?”

 “You waited up for me?” More than anything the amusement in her tone set her teeth on edge, anger and frustration and something, something melting together into a sensation that was very nearly painful. A feeling that, looking back on the moment from the present day, felt all too familiar. But in that moment it had been new and uncomfortable and she’d wanted more than anything for it to stop. 

“You’re awfully cocky for someone alone with someone who nearly killed you.” … oh yeah, that was why she usually avoided thinking back on this. God she’d been a dumbass eleven year old, angry and just enough of a jerk to do stupid shit like that. And it’d only riled her up more when instead of getting pissed in response, Goldman had smiled.

“You didn’t mean to.”

“You can’t know that-”

“Please,” She’d started padding towards the dorms again, brushing past her like it was the easiest thing in the world. “You’re not an idiot. That plant is far from a sure kill, nine times out of ten a teacher would hear the struggle. It’s ineffective.”

Somehow the backhanded compliment only infuriated her more, enough she’d missed the chill that traced her spine. She remembered jumping to her feet, getting in her way, in her face as blood thumped in her ears; how dare she, how dare she!

“You don’t know everything, you-! What if I did want you dead, huh?! What then?” The  underlying threat in her words was empty, but rang in the air as though it might be true…  but still. Nothing.

Or at least very nearly so.

Because while no fear or fury lit in the figures eyes, she remembered clear as day that something undeniable had changed. Something about her stance, the way she looked at her maybe. More than a year later she still couldn’t figure  out what it was, what had shifted and bloomed in the low, flickering light of candle and torch… but as it had, she’d frozen. Because Goldman was still smiling, but now… now it was something else. A challenge. A dare.

“Then you should try harder.”

Frozen to place like frost had claimed her bones and all, Merula hadn’t said a word as the tall figure had brushed past her. 

Not then at least. As it always did, always did, confusion and fear and guilt had all given way to a flood of rage. And after the day that followed, she’d returned to her furious attempts to break that mask the tall girl wore - however she bloody well could. Sure they had their moments, brief snippets of time where she was… decent. But it never lasted. Her very existence seemed to get under her skin, how she’d look at her as though her efforts to lash out were mere amusement, how she’d confront her on purpose - and how she couldn’t resist rising to her confrontation with bared teeth and sharp words. She hated the fact that loathing couldn’t quite seem to cover what she felt while sparring with Goldman. 

She hated that she couldn’t quite want it to.

[kusunogatari]

[ Plague || Chapter Three ] [ @abyssaldespair ] [ Uchiha Obito, Suigin Ryū, Hatake Kakashi ] [ Blood, vomit ] [ Verse: When Dead Walk ] [ Previous || Next ]

With the samples in hand, Ryū makes her way to her room where a desk is littered with her own research, and that of the small village medic. To start, she makes a few more small seals, affixing them to the spare vials to take in chakra and keep the cells alive. Removing the stopper from the first, she withdraws the blood with her energy, hovering it in a small, floating, undulating orb. Both hands lift to stabilize it, eyes closing in concentration as she lets her chakra reach into the plasma. Like feeling her way through organs with her hands, she lets the chakra ‘see’ for her - focusing to the most minute degree she can manage.

For a time, Kakashi stands and watches...but there’s little for him to glean as she simply works in still silence. Eventually he takes to wandering the manor as a whole, mentally mapping the entire building before moving on to the surrounding yards, gardens, and forest. True, they aren’t exactly expecting any guests - wanted or unwanted - but it gives him something to do...and a way to prepare should something go wrong.

The last thing he wants is to just...stand here and feel idle. Might as well be useful.

Ryū, all the while, attempts to take the first step in her research: to isolate a virus sample, and begin to look into its blueprint. From there...it’ll be a matter of guessing and checking what pieces accomplish what, and how best to unravel them until they’re no longer able to multiply.

To put it simply...it’s going to take hours, and hours...and hours...and time isn’t exactly on her side.

Loathe to stop, she eventually caves after several consecutive hours, pulling herself back from her work and almost feeling woozy for a moment at the change of perspective. Replacing the sample, she takes a moment to recover before retreating to the lower floor to eat...and also feed Kakashi.

Which also brings up the notion of finding Obito something to sate him.

Pushing that aside for now, she’s surprised to find the Hatake in the building, examining the painted walls. “...place is pretty fancy, huh?”

That earns a short huff of a laugh. “I guess...then again, they had a lot of time to work on it. Suigin-sama says the original villagers built this place huge with plans for my clan to grow. But...that never really happened. So instead, it sort of became a village hub. During things like...severe weather, or floods, or fires...everyone would come here. It’s big enough, and the village small enough, everyone could come here in times of emergency and be relatively comfortable. And I guess, with nothing else to do with it...they took time to make it pretty over the years. All the beams are carved, the fusuma are painted...it’s really very beautiful.”

“...and so empty.”

“...a shame, isn’t it?”

Kakashi turns to her, taking a moment to mull that over. “...you don’t find it...odd to be here?”

She hums in thought. “...not really. It’s home, even if I spent most of my life in Konoha. Iwa attacked when I was four...and I came back to train when I was eighteen. It’s very...quiet. But also very peaceful. It’s nothing like Konoha.”

That earns a snort. “No...definitely not. But I mean…” He gestures a hand. “...you don’t find it unsettling? Given all that happened here?”

Ryū gives a small, wry smile. “...do you mean if I think it’s haunted?”

He shrugs. “...if you believe in that sort of thing.”

“Our teachings revolve much around souls...I know that they exist. I’ve even held one.”

Kakashi’s brows lift.

“So, do I believe they can linger, and haunt a place…? Sure. Do I think any are here…?” Her gaze moves to the front door. “...some of them. But very...faintly. Maybe more like impressions than full hauntings.” Her expression sobers. “...after all...most of them died horribly...and without warning. Surely they all had regrets, fear, confusion...I wouldn’t doubt that some became lost and attached themselves to the one place they knew best.”

Something about Kakashi’s expression seems to...unnerve. “...not sure I could stay in a place like this for very long. It’s beautiful, peaceful...but you can just...feel that something is off.”

Ryū gives a nod of understanding. “...someday I’d like to try to cleanse it. I just...don’t know how. I’ve just always had something more pressing, as horrible as that sounds. I had to focus on my training, and then my work...I hardly get to come here anymore.” A soft sigh escapes her. “...until then...it’s still home. Still the place I feel most...comfortable. Most like myself.”

He eyes her thoughtfully, but doesn’t press the subject. “...well, I suppose for now, it’s a bit haunted for me too.”

Her head tilts in question.

Giving a jerk of his head toward the upper floor, he murmurs, “...Obito’s a bit of a ghost for me. I thought he was dead. And now...I’ve got so many questions. How he survived, why he never came back...why he’s involved with people like Akatsuki. And until he’s cured, well...I guess there’s no use in wondering.”

Ryū wilts somberly. “...well, I’m not going to quit until I figure this out. Then you can ask him whatever you want, I suppose...but first…” She tries a hint of a smile. “I think we both need something to eat."

“When in doubt...take a lunch break.”

They let the subject lie, working together to make something halfway edible. The rice stores are still in decent shape, and the overgrown garden still has a few vegetables to be found. And in hardly any time, Kakashi magics a few fish from the river, giving an eye-crinkling smile.

Nearly finished with her serving, Ryū takes a moment to think. “...I’m not sure how to go about feeding Obito.”

That earns a pause from Kakashi as well. “Well...I doubt he’d sit with us and be polite.”

Deadpanning for a tick, she offers, “I can open a gap in the barrier...but I’m not sure if he’ll eat anything like this. The only thing they seem interested in is raw meat…”

“Well, I can rustle up a few more fish. Give that a try.”

“...all right.”

She takes to tidying as Kakashi raids the river again, returning with a few decent catches. Giving him an uncertain look, Ryū leads the way to Obito’s room.

By now, he’s regained consciousness. A careful peek around the corner shows him just...standing in the middle of the room beside the futon, exactly where they left him. Fresh regurgitated blood has dribbled down his chin, twitching and occasional grunting...or retching. But without anyone nearby to target, he’s almost...passive.

...something tells her that’s about to change. And very quickly.

...well, might as well give the barrier a test… Slowly stepping into the doorway, Ryū watches as his gaze snaps to her.

...like before, it’s completely devoid of any recognition. Just alighting with fervor at the sight of prey. Of a new host to infect. With a scream, he runs to the doorway, crashing into the barrier with a thudding gong of sound.

It holds. The seals flare for a moment as the reserve is sapped, but she feels only a slight drop in the chakra contained in the wall. Each subsequent strike takes a little more chakra, but overall, the gathering of the seals keeps up. It helps that his time unconscious allowed it to build a buffer.

Watching him carefully, Ryū tries to be objective, studying what she can observe as he tries to make it through the doorway. The same gauntness hollows his face slightly, eyes still filmed yellow. Overall...little has changed.

“...all right. I’ll keep his attention and make a small gap along the floor,” she then says aloud to her companion. “Just big enough to get the tray through.”

“Got it.” Crouched just out of sight, Kakashi waits.

Hand signs allow her to manipulate the barrier, creating a hole he wastes no time in using. She then lets the chakra fuse back into place, and steps further down the hall, dulling her chakra and waiting.

For a time, Obito continues his screeching and banging even with the pair beyond his field of vision. But then he slowly quiets, interest lost.

Breath held and teeth nibbling her lip, Ryū waits...and then brightens at the rather visceral sounds of him finding and consuming their little gift for him. Good! That should give his body something to process...though I doubt much will be absorbed before he vomits again… But at least it’s something.

With that out of the way, she takes another hallway around (thankful, for once, that this place is such a maze) and meets back up with Kakashi. “Well...that went better than I expected.”

“Any progress is good progress. Hopefully he keeps some of it down.”

“Time will tell.”

Until then...it’s back to the same old thing.

Ryū spends nearly all of her time trying to isolate the virus. Her only breaks are to sleep, eat, relieve herself, and check on Obito. He, at least, changes very little. The same aggression, the same appetite, the same instability and mess. But though she analyzes that part logically, the rest of her doesn’t see it. The rest of her clings to the memory of the last time she saw him before he got sick, using it as motivation to keep working, keep trying, just a little more…

It takes three days before she manages to be delicate enough to extract a virus from the sample. There’s a rushing sigh of relief as she does so, which makes a nearby napping Kakashi jump in alarm. “Finally…!”

“...what happened?”

“I got ahold of a virus. Now...to start breaking it down and finding its weak points.”

“...oh! Uh...good.”

Snorting even as she keeps working, she assures him, “It’s a big step. It’s like...I found the place the intel is being hidden. Now I just have to navigate a long hallway with many, many doors. And keep opening every door and seeing what my chakra does to it until I find one that lets me find the intel.”

The comparison for his understanding’s sake makes him snort. “That...is a lot easier for me to comprehend.”

“You’re welcome.”

That big step, however, is soon dogged by a brick wall. Deciphering genetic code isn’t exactly the quickest thing a medic can do. So, yet again, hours and hours pour into a quiet concentration. Kakashi takes to wandering again, checking and double checking their surroundings...if only for something to do.

After four solid days of code checking...Ryū is at a breaking point. Dark circles rest under her eyes, skin paling after over a week straight without a lick of sunlight. She’s even lost a bit of weight under the combined stress and minimal diet. Needing a break, she takes to standing outside Obito’s room.

Whenever he’s left alone, there’s no violence. He just...stands. Twitches. Pukes. Occasionally has random fits of yelling or thrashing, but his aggression otherwise disappears until someone comes within view. Then he’s a maniac. Pounding against the barrier and hollering until his vocal cords wear with stress.

Utterly spent, Ryū just...leans her brow against the barrier, unable to feel his impacts, his yelling muffled behind the wall. Eyes close as exhaustion begs her eyelids down. She’s so tired...but she can’t stop. Can’t give up. She has to be getting closer...but the process is so tedious, so time-consuming, so...frustratingly without results, it’s almost maddening. Her patience is typically saint-like...but with all that rides on this work, it’s fraying under the strain.

“...I’m not stopping,” she murmurs as though he can hear her. “I’m just...taking a little break. I wanted to come see you…”

All the while, his relentless strikes continue.

“Don’t worry...I’m getting close. I can feel it. I know it...I just…” A heavy sigh wilts her shoulders. “I just...need more time. Okay…?”

No reply beyond the typical shrieking.

“...all right. I’ll...go try again. It’s almost time for dinner. We’ll see what Kakashi-senpai found for you, okay…? Okay…” Straightening, she looks to him wearily before resting a palm along the chakra.

She can’t wait to feel his hand on hers again…

Letting it slip, Ryū then retreats down the hall to her room, fetching the proper phial containing the virus she’s working on. Bringing it out and regathering her focus, it narrows to the tiny organism in her grip.

Several doors down, Obito has yet to calm. The seals along the corners burn bright red. The pulse of their warning beats faster and faster. Downstairs, in another wing, Kakashi listens idly to the muffled sounds of his old friend’s struggles.

Along the barrier, cracks begin to bloom. The chakra reserve drains to its last dredges. Ryū is unaware in the master quarters, senses reduced to the tiny speck in her chakra.

When the shield shatters...she doesn’t feel it.

Several things happen in quick succession.

Obito slams into the wall opposite his doorway, stunned as he finally finds the freedom he was wanting. Head shaking, he gives a few grunts of animalistic curiosity. He’s loose...he can look for the light...where? Where did it go? Giving a holler, he moves down the hall a few steps in the other direction.

Below, Kakashi’s keen hearing brings him to a halt. That...that was louder than before. He picks up footsteps. The next sound is further down the corridor.

...oh shit.

Ryū!

Manor layout memorized, he makes for the quickest route up: out the nearest window, up the wall, and into the hallway that intersects the one Obito is in...just in time to see him go streaking by in a blur of red and black.

“Ryū!”

Eyes snapping open at Kakashi’s shouted warning, Ryū’s senses expand back outward, and in the strange vertigo that follows, she picks up Obito’s chakra, coming in fast…! Panicking, she shoves the virus into the phial, sealing it shut just as he comes hurtling through the doorway.

As she looks up, he meets her gaze, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze.

Then, with a bellow, he barrels through any furniture in his way. Papers scatter, wood snaps, and Ryū barely manages to erect another barrier just as he reaches her. The momentum throws her back atop a chair that splinters beneath her, earning a cry as it digs into her back. The phial remains clutched in her hand even as the new shield fades.

Obito, stunned for a moment at the impact, recoils just long enough to let her bring up another over her person as he dives atop her, teeth gnashing and hands clawing. The added weight presses splintered wood into her back, jaw tightening as she splits her focus between her barrier and numbing the sensation remotely.

Skidding into the room, Kakashi wastes no time in dragging Obito back, locking him by the crooks of his elbows. “Knock it...off…!” he grunts, struggling against his old teammate’s surprising strength.

Bringing herself up off the floor, Ryū catches her breath for a moment before trying to find a way to incapacitate the Uchiha...but his unpredictable flailing makes that nearly impossible.

It only gets worse when he turns on Kakashi instead.

“Senpai!”

Doing his best to grapple Obito, he orders, “Stay back! I can handle -!”

Before his sentence can end, he cuts off as Obito stiffens and vomits a mixture of blood and half-rotten fish all over his front. The pair stumble apart, Obito twitching violently and Kakashi flinching in revulsion.

And before anyone can act...Obito takes off out of the room, stumbling and gasping.

Pulling the door closed, Ryū hesitates to approach Kakashi. “Are...are you all right?”

“Fine, just...disgusted,” he assures her, peeling off his flak jacket. “That is the rankest vomit I think I’ve ever had the displeasure to smell.”

“You don’t have any open wounds, do you? None got in your nose or mouth?”

“No, no I’m fine...though I might have to puke myself here in a second.”

“There’s no time! We have to bring him back!” Before he can reply, she tugs the door back open, taking off down the hall.

The sight makes Kakashi stiffen as he spies the unmistakable stain of crimson along the back of her coat. “...Ryū…!”

The pair make to follow the escapee, pausing to listen. The front door of the manor is thrown open, and a jog outside reveals Obito in the front garden, on his hands and knees, digging in the ground…?

Holding out an arm, Ryū brings them both to a stop. “...what is he…?”

“Ryū, your back -”

“I know, just...hold on.”

Together, they watch in careful silence as he keeps digging, pausing to vomit again before continuing his work. A moment later, there’s an ear-splitting squeal, and...he hauls up some kind of rodent…?

Brow furrowing, Ryū then cringes as Obito tears the creature’s head off, stuffing it into his mouth as quickly as he can. “...he’s hunting…”

“...guess we proved to be too much of a match…?”

“Maybe...that, combined with losing what he had in his stomach must have been enough.”

Sat on his knees, Obito sways for a moment, seemingly passive again before simply...slumping to the ground, unconscious.

...that rings an alarm.

“...come on, we have to get him inside.”

“But -?”

“We don’t know when he’ll wake up!”

“Ryū, you really think that’s a good idea? He almost bit you!”

“I -! I know that, but -!”

“It’s too dangerous having him in the house. If I hadn’t -?” He cuts off with a curt sigh. “...we at least have to keep him farther away from you. It can’t be that easy for him to catch you off-guard if this happens again. Is there a basement?”

Still looking indignant, she hesitates. “...yes.”

“Then we’ll take him there. Set up new seals. Keep your visits to him to a minimum. All right?”

Almost feeling like a scolded child, Ryū glances bitterly aside. “...fine.”

More sealing paper. More seals. More chakra. An alcove in the underground floor of the manor is set aside for his new quarters. Beyond the shrinking pile of coal for the boiler and stored away furniture, Ryū applies more sedative chakra to keep him under a while longer as the seals gather more energy.

“...how’s your back?”

“Fine.”

“...can you...heal it?”

Ryū heaves a small sigh. “...not directly. And do so indirectly takes more time and focus than I’d like.”

“Well you can’t just leave it open.”

Finally turning to look to him, she manages a hint of amusement in her gaze. “Now who’s the chiding medic?”

“There’s a dangerous virus going around. I’m a little more worried than usual.”

“Well, I’m not about to get any of his fluids on my back...but fine. I’ll...do something about it.”

“I could patch it up.”

A white brow perks.

“Hey, I know basic first aid. Enough to tend to a puncture wound, all right?”

“Okay, okay…”

Retreating to the main floor, Ryū fetches a first aid box that looks almost untouched. Shrugging out of her coat with a slight hiss, she does her best to stand patiently as Kakashi rolls up her shirt to give the wound a look.

“Well, doesn’t look like there’s any debris, at least.”

“Anything small probably just stuck in the coat.”

Giving it a dousing of alcohol nonetheless, he glances up as she tenses. “...think I’ll put a stitch or two in just to be safe.”

“Whatever you think.”

Needle and thread cleaned, he passes it through until the wound mostly pinches shut. Antiseptic is applied to some gauze, pressed to the puncture and held in place by a few wrapped layers around her ribcage. “Well...it’s not as good a job as you could do, but it should suffice.”

“Thanks…” Tugging her shirt back down, Ryū considers her coat. “...better wash it before it stains...stitch that hole shut.”

“All right. I’ll be...around.”

Giving him a flicker of a smile, the healer makes her way back upstairs to the master quarters.

...what a mess.

There’s a weight of guilt in her gut at the now-ruined antiques. Eyeing the chair warily, she just...tosses everything broken into a corner before sitting atop the bed and sewing her coat. It’s far from its first patch job...and this is far from her first coat. Saline digging into the fibers at her command loosens the blood, the soiled liquid tossed down the sink in the attached bathroom. Stubbornly, she puts the coat back on, buckling the belt over the middle.

...there.

Kneeling on the floor, she then slowly picks up her scattered research notes, reading them over briefly and wondering why she hasn’t heard anything from the other medics yet. Have any made any headway? Is she behind, ahead, on-pace?

...part of her fears that the rest of the world has been overrun. That the three of them - well...two - might be all that’s left. Tucked away in this remote little corner of the world.

Sitting on her knees with a kind of numbness in her chest, Ryū just...lingers for a while. What happens if they fail…? If she fails? What if the plague spreads too quickly? What if they never find a cure? What if -?!

Hands lift to cup over her face. No...no, she can’t afford to think like that. No matter what, she has to keep trying. Even if it’s up until the very end...she can’t give up…! She’ll find a way. She has to!

...she has to…

Heaving a curt breath, she stands, replacing her notes atop the desk and taking the phial out of her leg pack.

...back to work.

As much as she hates it...she does her best to avoid going to the basement. Kakashi checks on him, and their shifts to bring him something to eat are kept quick and quiet. The less they stress the barrier, the better.

...but even then...it doesn’t take Ryū long to notice something.

“...I think he’s sick.”

The incredulous look Kakashi gives her is met with a glare. “I mean besides the plague. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

“His breath is rattling. And he hasn’t been as active. He’s still aggressive, but...it seems almost...muted somehow.” She nibbles a thumbnail, thinking. “...Suigin-sama said his immune system felt weak. That it would be easier to contract something on top of what he already has.”

“What, you think he’s got a cold or something?”

“No...worse. It seems like some kind of pneumonia. He definitely has liquid in his lungs.”

“Well...what are we supposed to do about it?”

“...I have to treat it.”

“But -?”

“If I don’t, he’ll only get worse, and he might -” The word sticks in her throat. “...I can’t not do something about it. Ignoring it won’t make it go away.”

Kakashi heaves a heavy sigh. “...so, what? You knock him out and work on him?”

“That’s seemingly the only way.”

“...wonderful.”

The pair make their way down to the lowest manor level, lights dull and flickering. Approaching him quietly, Ryū listens, gesturing for Kakashi to do the same. To her, it’s plain as day: the wheezing, wet breaths. He must have picked something up while outside...damn it, I shouldn’t have let him get that far…!

But there’s no time for regrets now. Stepping into view, she watches him carefully. For a moment, he weaves as though dizzy before making to attack the barrier. As she thought, his strikes seem to lack the power they had before. There’s a lethargy to his form and his movements that tells he’s doing worse.

Either he’s sick on top of the plague...or the plague is getting worse.

She prays it’s just the former.

“...are you sure about this?”

“Positive. I have to, Kakashi. The more that ravages at his body, the weaker he’ll get, until…”

The Hatake sighs, head bowing with hands in his pockets. Beside him, Ryū lets her gaze fall.

...and then...they both notice something.

It’s...quiet.

Bringing her eyes back up, Ryū feels her heart still at what she sees. Palms pressed to the barrier, Obito stares at her, as per usual. And yet…

And yet…!

For a moment - just a moment - there’s something...human in his eyes. A kind of somber recognition tempered with...longing…

...is he -?

But as soon as it starts, the calm stops, and she can’t help a flinch as he resumes his attack. Her heart jumps back into action, and it’s only then she realizes the wetness along her cheeks.

Kakashi gives her a careful glance from the corner of his eye. “...Ryū…?”

Turning aside for a moment, she doesn’t reply. He...he saw her, didn’t he? Knew her! It was just for a heartbeat, but...it was there. She saw it!

“...Ryū, I -”

“I’m fine. Just...get ready in case something goes wrong.”

Watching her carefully, he then wilts with a sigh. “...all right.

Connecting the barrier’s chakra reserve to her own, Ryū begins readying to manipulate it. Keeping one hand flat against the wall, Obito’s eyes drawn to it, she carefully sneaks the other through a gap she tears in the chakra. Gripping along his side, she quickly floods his system with anesthetic chakra.

Like a puppet with his strings cut, Obito suddenly goes limp, slumping against the barrier before crumpling to the floor.

“All right...I’ll get to work. Just, um...stay nearby in case he wakes up. It should keep him out for a good while, but...better safe than sorry.”

“Right.”

Laying Obito on his back, Ryū rolls back his shirt to bare his chest, chakra glowing as she gets to work.

“...what is...that?”

Glancing up, she sees Kakashi’s gaze at Obito’s right side. “...in all honesty? I’m not sure. I haven’t ever looked too close. But if what you told me is true - about him being crushed - it might be some kind of...replacement flesh for what was affected.”

“...huh…”

“Another mystery to ask him about later,” she murmurs.

“...guess so.”

With that, they fade into a companionable silence as she tries to repair what damage she can.

     Chapter three! Obito got to go for a bit of an adventure! But, oh boy...looks like his immune system isn't quite keeping up. Hopefully Ryū can get him patched up, and then finish off this disease for good!

[apocryphalfemme]

Solum Sonus

The successor to my previous fic Veritas Revelata.  Happy (end of) Pharmercy Week 2018!

Please enjoy below the cut, and see you in the air.

“In fact, when she thinks about it, reasons as to why she shouldn’t be in a relationship begin to pile up.  Orphaned before she began her education.  Jumping so many grades at a time that she was in med school before she hit puberty.  Abused and manipulated by the monster that Overwatch became.  Scarred by a toxic amour who inflicted wounds that still haven’t fully healed.  Scorching her soul and breaking her body to heal others.  Thanks to the hellish cocktail that constitutes her life experience, Angela’s interpersonal skills are about as developed as those of a cinderblock.  Fareeha doesn’t deserve to have to put up with this kind of mess.  Maybe…  Maybe they shouldn’t be together.

The thought shakes Angela to her core.”

Or

While awaiting the solider’s return to Watchpoint: Gibraltar, Angela considers the nature of her relationship with Fareeha.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Ti-

-ck.

“Verdammt.”  The clock is broken.  And Angela is losing her mind.  Every five seconds, the accursed thing hangs for just a moment too long.  It’s absolutely infuriating.  

In truth however, it’s been broken for several weeks now.  Usually she’s so focused on her work that the sound it makes is little more than background noise.  Plus, who pays attention to analog anymore?  Athena keeps time accurate to the zeptosecond displayed on the holopads throughout the Watchpoint.  But that’s besides the point.  For some reason, Angela has not for the life of her been able to ignore the noise today.

Of course, today is no ordinary day.  Today, Fareeha is finally returning to Gibraltar from an extended deployment to Nunavut, Canada.  She’s been gone for two months, two weeks, and four days.  Angela has kept very precise track.  She did try to let the time pass of its own accord, but… well.

Call it a scientific foible.  Call it a neurosis.  Call it whatever you want.   Angela has been eagerly counting down the days to Fareeha’s homecoming this entire time.  Part of her can’t wait to hear all about the progress that’s been made in the frozen north of the Americas.  Part of her just can’t wait to see Fareeha again.  Another, more primal part of her wants to press her girlfriend up against the wall and just-

Wait.

Girlfriend?

Are they… girlfriends?

Angela slouches back in her chair, pinching her brow.  This is the other reason she’s so eager to have Fareeha back home.  Because a mere week and a half after Fareeha first professed her love to Angela, Winston had sent her halfway around the world.  Angela had been livid.  Fareeha needed at least a month to recover and acclimatize to her new prosthetic leg.  But mainly, she was angry because they’d never had a chance to… talk.

Oh, sure, they’ve called each other during their separation, almost every day.  But they have yet to take the time to discuss the nature of their relationship and where it’s going to go.  Especially in light of Fareeha’s confession.  To be fair though, neither of them are particularly good at this sort of thing, even under normal circumstances.  Fareeha, charged with the burden of command, is always so very busy marshaling their forces, or organizing briefings, or allocating resources.  And Angela is no better.  She practically lives in her lab.  Sometimes literally.  Though she’s now begun to make an effort to venture out into the world, usually with Fareeha, almost all of her time is still consumed with the fabrication of the pico-structure of new strands of nanite, or the refinement of older surgical impedimenta, or endless experiment documentation, or… something.  There’s always something.  So whenever the two of them are alone together, they’re loath to do anything but simply be; to exist in tandem away from the pressures of responsibility.  There had been months, months of skirting around what they meant to each other before Fareeha’s near-death experience had forced them to broach the topic.  So while they very clearly are something, Angela’s not sure either of them knows what.

And even then, what is that something?  What exactly is the foundation of their relationship?  Fareeha has made it very clear that she’s in love with Angela, desperately so.  Does she love Fareeha in return?  She thinks so.  But the thing is, Angela isn’t good at relationships, she knows this for a fact.  The only other romantic connection she’s ever had was…  Well.  Frankly, it was the relationship equivalent of dumpster fire, and certainly not a confidence builder in terms of her ability to have a healthy relationship with a partner.  The last thing she wants to do is hurt Fareeha by jumping into something that she isn’t prepared for.  

In fact, when she thinks about it, reasons as to why she shouldn’t be in a relationship begin to pile up.  Orphaned before she began her education.  Jumping so many grades at a time that she was in med school before she hit puberty.  Abused and manipulated by the monster that Overwatch became.  Scarred by a toxic amour who inflicted wounds that still haven’t fully healed.  Scorching her soul and breaking her body to heal others.  Thanks to the hellish cocktail that constitutes her life experience, Angela’s interpersonal skills are about as developed as those of a cinderblock.  Fareeha doesn’t deserve to have to put up with this kind of mess.  Maybe…  Maybe they shouldn’t be together.

The thought shakes Angela to her core.

She also knows that’s the last thing she wants.  Even if she knew for certain that leaving Fareeha would be the best thing for the soldier, Angela’s not sure she could do it.  Fareeha is always there for her, always dropping everything to help Angela through the fire.  It’s selfish, she knows but…  Angela moans quietly, holding her head in her hands.  For ten and a half weeks these thoughts have whirled unceasingly through her mind.  On some level, she doesn’t even want to have this conversation, doesn’t want to be thinking about this in the first place.  Honestly, all she really wants is…

Fareeha.  What she wants is Fareeha.  When she wakes, when she dreams, at the forefront of her mind is always, always Fareeha.

Why do they need labels?  Why can’t they just be together?

Enervated, she checks the time, and jumps when she reads the digits on the holopad.  03:45 AM.  Fareeha’s flight is slated to touchdown in fifteen minutes.  She glares at the report in front of her.

“Screw this,” she mutters.

Pulling her lab coat over her shoulders, she’s out the door without a second glance at her shambolic desk.  She can file that report later and Athena can kill the lights.  Angela’s got somewhere she needs to be.

Winding through the empty halls of the Watchpoint, she decides to push her perturbation to the side, if only for the time being.  For Fareeha’s sake.  The soldier’s probably exhausted and the last thing they should do at this hour is have a conversation about the nature of their relationship.  So when Fareeha gets off the dropship, Angela will greet her with a warm, yet calm demeanor.  Maintain composure.  Perhaps invite her back to her quarters and treat her to a well deserved hot meal, if she feels up to it.

Eventually, Angela pushes through the industrial double doors to the landing pad.  She hugs herself for warmth, shivering as the cold night air of Gibraltar nips through her clothing.  Why the hell do they make lab coats so ridiculously thin?  She looks at her watch.  Arrival in T-minus 2 minutes.  Surrounded by slumbering aviation machinery, Angela waits anxiously.  

All at once, a dropship roars overhead, swinging around in the sky before commencing touch down.  They’re here.  The engines thrum thunderously, whipping the air as the craft sinks to the landing pad, causing her coat to billow wildly behind her.  She starts to fidget with the high neck of her sweater, and slaps her hand when she realizes she’s doing so.

Remember.  Composure.  For Fareeha’s sake.

The colossal VTOL thrusters proceed to cool off and the loading ramp begins to extend.  Angela scans the people disembarking, trying to catch a glimpse of golden loops braided in sable hair.  First come the team members who were deployed.  They’re clearly exhausted and quickly filter off the landing pad to bed.  Then the freight unloads itself, running on automated protocols.  And finally comes… the flight crew.  Laughing, joking after a long haul across the Pacific.  They wave cheerfully in her direction, but quickly depart when the pilot suggests they go get drunk in town.  

The landing pad falls quiet.  

Angela’s poise falters.  

Where is she?

And like an answer to a prayer, Captain Amari abruptly appears at the top of the ramp hauling her oversized duffle bag, yawning into the back of her hand.  She’s here.  She’s home.  Angela tries to call out, but her voice sticks in her throat as she stares for the first time in weeks at the strapping woman sauntering down the ramp.

But when Fareeha catches sight of her, the soldier falls stock-still.  Their eyes lock.  For several long, heavy moments, neither of them move.  And then Fareeha is letting her duffle bag fall to the ground, starting to sprint in Angela’s direction.  Angela’s composure flies out the god-damn window.  Suddenly, she’s running across the tarmac, in her heels no less, to meet Fareeha halfway.

They collide solidly, arms wrapping tightly around each other.  She buries her head in Fareeha’s chest and feels strong arms curl further around her back, pulling her close.  Warmth floods Angela’s body, eradicating the chill.  Silence reigns, interrupted only by shaking breaths.  

Until Fareeha finally speaks, tremulous voice muffled in Angela’s hair.

“I missed you.”

Angela almost laughs, but emotion chokes her.

“I missed you.”

Again, silence falls.  

Well.  Not quite silence.  

In Angela’s ears, Fareeha’s heart beats powerfully.  It grounds her like an anchor, focusing her in the here and now.  The worry, the doubt, the fear melts away, immaterial.  Suddenly, clarity strikes Angela like lightning.  She knows what she has to say.  She knows exactly what to say.  Gently, she leans back in Fareeha’s embrace before reaching up to take the woman’s head in her hands.  She gazes into kind ochre eyes and speaks, quiet but unafraid.

“Fareeha, I want to be with you, but I don’t know how.  I’ve never… Never before have I felt about someone the way I feel about you.  Never so strongly.  It scares me a little, and I would be lying if I said I knew how a future together would play out.  I am far, far from perfect.  It will not be easy.  But I do want to be with you.  If you’ll have me.”

Fareeha doesn’t even hesitate.  In lieu of speaking, she pulls Angela close once more, the taller woman leaning down to kiss her fervently.  It’s exactly the answer Angela had hoped for.

Minutes pass before she breaks away to breathlessly speak.

“Now come to bed.  You must be exhausted.”

Fareeha’s eyes twinkle mischievously.

“Why Angela, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were propositioning me,” she teases softly.

Angela snorts and lightly cuffs Fareeha on the chest.

“You are shameless, you know that?”

The soldier goes to retrieve her duffle, calling over her shoulder,

“I only do it because you’re cute when you blush!”

Angela feels herself redden, a fact that has Fareeha grinning when she returns to wrap an arm around Angela’s shoulders.  She slips her own arm around Fareeha’s waist, and they slowly walk towards the doors to the Watchpoint.

“Fareeha Amari, I swear…”

“Oh you know you love it.”

She’s right.

Angela does love it.  

She loves it all.

She pulls Fareeha a little closer as they walk to try to show her just how much love she feels.  Things may not be perfect.  But with Fareeha by her side, Angela feels at peace.  Finally, at peace.  Together, once more.

[alargebear]

Just Get Together Already

Summary:   Chika was scared, Riko wasn’t helping, and You just wanted them to finally kiss.

Pairing: ChikaRiko

Words: 2.3k

Links: AO3  FFnet

Note: Who doesn't love non-angsty You with their ChikaRiko. Honestly, not sure what this is, but I had fun writing it.

"You've had a crush on her since you first saw her, haven't you?" You said, head tilted and butt planted on Chika's bed. The conversation nothing new.

Chika went to speak up from her spot at the table in the center of the room, but You wouldn't let her. Frustrated at how this conversation would always go, and this one no different.

"Don't even try and deny it." You crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes and voice filled with frustrations only found in a best friend's denial. "I think everyone but Riko knows how you feel about her. It's not much of a secret anymore. You're lucky that girl is just as dense as you are when it comes to this stuff.."

"Riko is not dense," Chika said, voice carrying a smidge to much force. "She always notices when something's wrong with me and knows what to say to cheer me up."

"Sure. Sure." You rolled her eyes, continuing with a hushed voice. "Really, when it comes to anything else you're always the first to notice someone's real feelings, but not this."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Chika asked with an exaggerated huff.

You had to fight every urge not to shout. How could Chika not see the way Riko looked at her? The way Riko talked about her? For a girl so knowing and keen, You had to wonder how Chika could miss so many telltale signs.

"Nothing." You sighed. "At least admit that you love her. It's super obvious."

Chika's puffed cheeks turned a hint of red, her eyes fell from You's down to the table. "Is it really that obvious?"

"Yeah, everybody can see it." You smiled. Progress, even so small, was something. "Kanan was wondering if you guys were dating already."

Chika drummed her fingers against the table, cheeks still red and palms starting to sweat. "But Riko doesn't know, right?"

It'd make this a whole lot easier if she did, You kept that thought to herself. "I don't think so."

"Good." Chika heaved a heavy, relieving sigh.

You waited for a continuation that didn't come, and the silence that did come was strange. Awkward, as Chika still blushed and You's frustrations couldn't keep her still.

"Why don't you confess?" You asked. "You're always talking about how everyone should make their dreams happen and do what makes them happy. So this shouldn't be any different, right?"

Chika slumped, head resting atop her arms. "It's totally different."

"How?" You's voice carrying the slightest hint of irritation she hadn't meant to reach the surface. She never did want to dismiss Chika's issues which were rooted in, most likely, self-doubt. You had seen it enough to know.

"That's what everyone else should do. Not me." Chika shrugged as if what she said were entirely too normal, head rolling from shoulder to shoulder. "I mean, we're talking about Riko here, she's special. There's no way, and I don't want to make things weird for her. She just started getting comfortable with the whole group. I can't mess that up."

"I think you're special, too, and I bet the rest of Aqours would agree with me." You tried a smile, but Chika wouldn't meet her eyes. "Even Riko."

"Riko's not just special!" Chika perked up, meeting You's eyes for the first time all afternoon. "She's pretty, and talented, and nice. She understands me so much, and I know there's no chance."

"You're pretty, and talented, and nice, too," You said without hesitation.

"But you're my best friend. That's what you're supposed to say."

You grit her teeth, not doing much to hide her annoyance anymore. Chika's self-loathing was always a sure fire way to get a rise out of her. This one of the worst bouts Chika had ever let her see so out in the open.

"You know how I hate when you talk like this." You narrowed her eyes.

Chika shirked back at a talk she'd heard countless times. "It's still true. Riko's amazing, and I'm a-"

"Amazing," You cut in. "You're amazing, Chika, and I know Riko sees it, too."

Chika straightened her back, facing fully toward You, but voice low and with a tremble. "I don't believe you."

It was such a meek and half-hearted response, You knew she had an opening. "Then how about we make a bet?"

Chika's voice wasn't any stronger as she answered. "What kind of bet?"

"You confess to Riko."

"No!"

"Wait." You held up a hand. "You haven't even heard what you get if things don't work out, even though I know it will."

Chika wanted to speak back up, fears of failure urging her to quit, but You's steadfast stare wouldn't allow it. She kept quiet and listened as her stomach churned and mind raced, but a tinge of confidence came from You's assuring warm smile.

"If Riko says no, which won't happen, I'll do everything I can to make sure things don't get awkward. I'll be there for you the whole time, and do whatever you want me to. I don't want to see you get your heart broken, but I'll make sure you're okay," You said, warm smile perking into something more playful. "You'll get all the oranges you can eat, too."

There was never any question that You would be there for her, Chika knew that, hearing it out loud helped solidify the thought. It wasn't her own confidence, instead stolen from You's warmth and friendship. It was near enough to spur her on, a push that only You could ever give.

"Than what do you get if Riko says yes?" Chika asked, frown turning into the faintest of smiles.

You tapped her chin with added flair, a dark cloud that strangled Chika's room with fears and awkwardness dissipated. "You'll buy me some ice cream."

"That's it?"

"Yup." You nodded.

Chika tightened a hand into a fist, nails digging into her palm. She could do this. She had You, and she loved Riko, that was enough. Fears of not being enough would never go away, but maybe she could steal some confidence from someone who thinks things that she could never see in herself.

"Alright, I'll do it."

"Really?" You went wide-eyed.

"But you have to promise that she won't say no." Chika stood up, walking up to You with her arm held out and pinky extended.

"I promise."

You interlocked their pinkies and smiled at Chika, an old ritual they'd used for years brought back memories of their childhood. Chika smiled back.

When You watched Chika drag Riko out of the classroom as soon as the day ended, she thought that would be the end of it.

So she had to wonder why she was sitting alone in Riko's room, not even an hour after. Her only hint a text from Riko.

I need to talk to you. Big emergency!!!!!!!!!

Riko's bed was comfortable, but You couldn't focus on it. Shouldn't Chika and Riko be spending the rest of the day together? All lovey-dovey together like they should have always been, or at least she hoped. Those two couldn't possibly make things so simple.

Thinking that Chika's fears were the biggest hurdle to jump, You couldn't imagine what Riko was dealing with, but as the door to the room swung open and Riko barged in with rosy-red cheeks and frantic eyes. Pacing back and forth taking time to catch her breath, You forgot something important. Riko could be a mess when it came to Chika.

"You will never guess what happened!" Riko's voice was huffed and puffed as she tried to catch her breath, running hands through her hair as she paced back and forth.

You didn't answer, nodding along with a smile that tried not to say she already knew.

"Chika." Riko paused for another breath. "She confessed to me."

"Wow." You clasped her hands in front of her face. Trying her best at faux surprise. "That's great news. We've talked about your crush for a long time. I'm so happy for you."

"It's amazing." Riko put a hand to her chest, breath stabilizing to a more normal pace. "I don't even know what to do. I love her so much and she loves me, too. I'm nervous and happy at the same time."

"It took you two long enough." You tried peering past Riko down a dark hall out the open door, not a sign of Chika. "Where is Chika? I want to congratulate her, too."

Riko stopped gushing, a thought catching her off-guard as she went wide-eyed. She covered her mouth and stopped moving completely. "Oh no."

You's smile dropped. "What's wrong?"

Riko buried her face in her hands, voice losing the giddy excitement from before. "I didn't answer Chika."

"You what?" You stared, slack-jawed. Of all of the possible scenarios she'd run through, this was not one of them.

"When she said she loved me I got so happy I froze up." Riko stopped, swallowing hard. "I stared at her and nodded, but I didn't answer her. I'm such an idiot."

"So, what." You couldn't believe any of it. "You left her there and ran away?"

Riko nodded, not looking up from her hands.

You opened and closed her mouth, trying so hard to find any sort of comment. Blinking, she couldn't look away from the mess in front of he as Riko shook her head in her hands.

"What do I do?" Riko asked, looking up to You.

You shook her head, snapping out of her confusion-induced daze. "You need to go see Chika. Like, now."

"You're right," Riko said. "But how can I even look at her? It'll be so embarrassing."

"I think running away from the girl you love after she confesses to you is a little more embarrassing." You smirked, Riko was less than amused. "Who cares if it's embarrassing, anyway."

"I do!" Riko shouted. "I can't look at Chika anymore. I'm so dumb."

"You're a mess, Riko, and I know it's scary." You walked across the room to a trembling Riko. She put a comforting hand on her shoulder and tried rubbing the trembles away. "But you know Chika has it even worse right now. She doesn't even have me there to comfort her."

"I'm awful."

"You're not." You went from Riko's shoulder to her back, rubbing circles. "But you need to make this right because you know what Chika's thinking right now."

"She thinks I rejected her, and I bet she thinks she isn't good enough for me."

"Yup." You smiled as she got a small bit of eye contact out of Riko. "That's why you need to make sure you fix this. The last thing I want is you two to mess up your friendship, and I know you guys are perfect for each other. Just go to Chika right now and explain everything to her."

"You think it'll be that easy?" Riko asked, finding faith in You's kind smile and gentle hand.

"It's Chika. Things are never that complicated." You backed away. "Make sure to say 'I love you'. That's an important part of most confessions."

Riko giggled, it wasn't much, but it was enough to let her arms go slack at her side "This is serious."

"That's why you should go now." You ushered Riko out of her own room. "Who knows what Chika's thinking about right now."

"You're right." Riko started out the door, You not far behind. "Thanks, You. You really are an amazing friend."

As You left Riko's house, Riko heading toward the inn next door, she smiled. It was genuine and without a hint of exasperation that had become commonplace when it came to anything Chika and Riko. They'd be alright.

The ice cream cone was a decadent mismatch of flavors stacked four scoops high. You hadn't had anything like it in such a long time, and the beautiful sunshine on the deck of an ice cream parlor set an amazing backdrop. Blue, green, red, and white topped off with a single unnecessary cherry added only for the fact that it was free. All of it was, maybe that was what made it so sweet.

"Did you have to get the most expensive thing they had?" Chika lolled her head back and forth on the table, Riko close at her side and You directly across.

"Chika," Riko said. "You made a bet, remember? And I think this is the least we can do for You after everything."

You took slow licks, savoring each taste. "Thanks a bunch you two. I'm happy everything worked out in the end. I was getting tired of having to watch you two be so into each other, but not doing anything about it."

Chika scratched her cheek. "We were a little dense."

You nodded. "But things worked out in the end."

There was comfortable silence as You attacked her treat, but she watched. The way Riko inched in closer to Chika, and how Chika laced their fingers together under the table. It was sweet, not as sweet as the ice cream, but close. She found a simple happiness in her closest friends finding even more of their own.

"Hurry up and finish so we can go swimming," Chika whined, head still on the table.

"We shouldn't rush her," Riko said.

You worked her way through the topmost scoop, answering with a mouthful. "It's alright you two can go ahead of me."

"It's alright. We'll wait for you." Riko smiled.

"Yeah, it wouldn't be as fun without you." Chika picked her head up and smiled. "Maybe I'll get something for myself."

"Didn't you spend all the money you had on this?" You asked.

Chika turned to her side. "Riko?"

"Fine." Riko sighed. "But just a single scoop."

You watched the pair walk-off hand in hand. Taking a big bite out of the orange scoop, she smiled.

[missixo]

St Balderich Slays the Dragon [12/19]

01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07 | 08 | 09 | 10 | 11 |(on tumblr)

This fic (on AO3)

Pairing: Balderich/Mondatta

Summary:  The humans are right to fear omnics and what they can do. What he can and will do to humanity. He is Jörmungandr, and he will see humanity fall.

St Balderich Slays the Dragon

Chapter 12

Over the next few months, every Crusader on base is deployed to some part of Europe or other to assist in a push back against omnic incursions. Jörmungandr isn’t overly worried, he’s heard them talking about how they’re still nowhere near destroying an omnium.

Halfway through the first month, Ozzie does indeed make it on base, thankfully with a matching foot, and into the communications center. Well, all of his regular patients are going to be in and out for at least a few weeks, now is as good a time as any to catch up. It doesn’t take much to convince her to let him on the fifth floor with her so they can continue talking while she’s on shift.

“Just don’t tell anyone I did this, ok? Your voice is different than what I remember.”

“My synth is locked. And I got punched in the head about a month ago, quite the story...”

The communications center is mostly staffed by omnics with one or two human supervisors, and he learns it’s kept on a completely separate network from the rest of the base. Explains his inability to remote hack it.

“Everyone has some access to it, but it’s all level one, or level two, which is the bigwigs.”

The ‘work stations’ are microscopic desks with stools all huddled in an empty area by the door, each with a port that allows direct access to the digital entry into the system. Jörmungandr quietly ports into the station next to Ozzie’s and starts scanning the firewalls he needs to get through. It’s a nightmare. The best he can do for now is leave a scrap of code that can slowly drill a small hole for him to use later. It’s going to take months. He wants to throw something out a window. Preferably whoever designed this, possibly after shaking their hand.

After Ozzie shoos him out citing a supervisor coming on shift, he heads for the service stairs and, for old time’s sake, sets off at least one fire alarm per floor. Petty, but it feels so good to inconvenience these humans a little bit after the news he got today.

***

A week later, MD is just back from bullying Ferdinand into going to his physical therapy appointment - the happy idiot can come back unscathed from a battle with bastions and OR-13s, but manages to pull a muscle in his hand opening a pickle jar of all things - when Balderich, Reinhardt, and Henri get back from their latest deployment almost three days late.

“... Lieutenant, would you like a razor for that thing on your face?”

He doesn’t know what’s so funny but Balderich and Henri break down laughing while Reinhardt looks wounded by his question.

“I’m trying to grow it out!”

***

Jörmungandr spends the months of back-to-back deployments taking shifts at the base hospital again, clipping loops of security footage - empty stairwells and hallways - and chatting with Ozzie and Broom when their breaks line up. He trades meaningless gossip back and forth, carefully nudging Ozzie for information on how the communications system works, porting in to a station each time they meet up in there and nudging his drill code that hundredth of a percent ahead of schedule.

During the occasional week that the colonel is on base, he focuses on this new bond the man seems to have formed for him. The flirting is strange, but he feels like he's improving as he goes.

***

Balderich levers himself slowly out of his bed, groaning the whole way. He's on two weeks mandatory rest after pulling something in his leg, and he has check-ups that need doing. Three months of these in-and-out deployments are taking a toll on him and his men, and he can only see more of the same when he thinks of the weeks and months to come. He rubs at a sore muscle in his neck and suddenly remembers his physical later this morning, a small point of pleasure in this mess the world is becoming.

MD still doesn't go easy on him when he's between missions, even with this budding... thing between them. He'd like to call it attraction, maybe a relationship on his more confident days, but some days he's not entirely sure; on those days it almost feels like an acting role the omnic is still figuring out how to play convincingly.

He scratches his jaw and makes a face at the heavy stubble he finds, effectively distracting himself from his contemplations. A quick pass over his scalp leaves the same prickling sensation over his palm.

'Get over it or get it over with...'

In the end, he can't get over it, so he hobbles into the bathroom, sits on the toilet lid, and blesses his long arms that can reach the sink so he can shave sitting down. His scalp is nearly clear when Reinhardt disregards proper decorum - it's becoming an 'as usual' thing, and it's becoming annoying - and enters his quarters.

"Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

"MD wanted me to let you know he'll be making housecalls today because, I quote, 'I've seen geriatrics more mobile than you lot.'"

Charming as always. "Thank you, Reinhardt. Do the others know?"

"Mhm, you were my last stop." His desk chair squeaks as his former squire makes himself comfortable. Must be bored if he's willing to sit with Balderich on his off day. The younger man is recovering from a nasty concussion because he refuses to wear his helmet now unless Balderich shoves it on his head for him and a cracked clavicle. The sling pinning his arm looks a little worn, like MD had to scrounge around to find one the right size.

He finishes making himself feel human again and slowly makes his way back to bed. Reinhardt is badly suppressing a grin. "You look too happy, what's going on?"

"I can't wait to see your face when he stops by, that's all."

One eyebrow rises to his newly-removed hairline. What the hell does that mean?

***

Reinhardt ropes him into watching some awful American 1980's TV show because David Jackenoff - "Hasselhoff!" whatever - is in it. They're three episodes and one and a half hours of regret into it when MD comes to the rescue.

The lieutenant does indeed burst out laughing at Balderich's face when the omnic walks in wearing nothing but his plates, not even his ugly flipflops. MD notices and pokes his shoulder.

"Everything alright, Colonel? I didn't realize American TV was truly so effective at brain rot."

"I-- Where are your clothes?" Genius response there.

"I didn't feel like wearing them today, and as I'm only 'government property,' there's no dress code I'm required to observe." The loathing and disgust reassures him it is indeed MD standing nude in front of him. And about to examine the pulled muscle in his leg.

'Someone somewhere hates me.' Talk about look but don’t touch.

The presence of an entirely unwelcome audience keeps any swelling down, at least, and the exam goes smoothly. The pair of them share a look and Balderich envies MD his unemotive face as he forces down laughter.

"You're recovering well, which is good news. I'd be disappointed if a pulled muscle was all it took to remove you from the picture."

"It'll take more than this to keep me pinned. How much do you weigh, again?" He curls his hands a little to keep them to himself. MD's been allowing him liberties with touch the last month or two, but he gets a feeling he'd be pushing it right now with Reinhardt in the room.

Reinhardt's face nearly breaks his veneer of calm. He's getting old, but he's not dead yet.

"Not enough to keep you on your back unless you wanted." MD drops a reusable cold pack next to him. "Until the next time you can't keep out of trouble, then. Honestly, this is the only way you can think of to get me in your quarters?"

"It's certainly the easiest, give me credit for that much."

"I won't because it just makes more work for me, which is hardly my idea of a good time. Lieutenant, I'll see you later to check on that break."

Reinhardt nods dumbly as MD gathers his things. His jaw drops when Balderich blatantly watches the omnic's silicone padded ass as he leaves. Once the door clicks shut, he finds his voice again.

"You're a cruel, dirty old man."

Balderich laughs so hard his face almost hurts enough to match his leg.

***

Jörmungandr can't help a quiet laugh as he slips into the safety of the med bay.

'His face! Maker, that was priceless.'

Circuits buzz pleasantly under his chassis, a fairly normal occurrence since he decided to pursue this distraction with the colonel. It settles down enough after an hour that he can ignore it and check on his little scrap of hacking code.

It moves at a glacial pace, but it makes progress all the same. It's so close now, the buzzing in his circuits returns with a slightly different feeling, no less pleasant for that extra edge to it. He has months invested already, he can wait a few more days...

***

MD isn’t sure how, but one night almost six months after he first gained access to the communications room, he gets roped into playing ‘referee’ - glorified audience - for a few rounds of competitive drinking between the men - all on base at once for the first time in four months - while he nurses a bottle of oil. At least he gets to claim one of the couches in the rec room to himself while they get hammered. Balderich opts out early on, something about the whiskey affecting his plans for later? They’ve slowly been getting more physical lately, when Balderich asked him to his quarters later this evening.

Reinhardt gets knocked out in round three and collapses on the couch next to MD so heavily the omnic bounces a few inches and almost spills his oil. He barks a rebuke at the inebriated lieutenant, who drunkenly laughs through an apology. MD is reminded of Balderich’s complaints that Reinhardt is getting cocky on deployments recently. And he still wishes Reinhardt would shave the beard he’s slowly trying to grow out from its original goatee.

“How any of you still have your liver is beyond me.”

“It would take more than a few pints of beer to finish off a mighty Crusader!”

“Perhaps, but those few pints could make you an easier target for a bastion if you get deployed tomorrow.”

Reinhardt laughs, “You have a good heart, my friend! Always concerned about us.”

“I have a core, lieutenant.”

“Hey hey hey, we’re past this lieutenant nonsense. It’s Reinhardt, remember? And ok, yes, but a core is like… like a tech heart, ah?” The German’s speech was so slurred from drink, the last words almost sounded like one long one, and it took the omnic a minute to parse out what he said.

“You clearly need sleep, my friend. I think I’ll let you have the couch for the night.” He carefully but firmly takes the stein of beer the man is still holding and dumps it in the sink before heading to Balderich’s quarters. He has an idea of what the man meant, though he’s not sure how it’s going to play out.

The man greets him at the door with a kiss, answered with a spark of omnic energy he only recently figured out.

“You took your time getting here.”

“Your men are very distracting.”

“Not too distracting, I hope?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That you are.” Balderich startles a squeak out of the omnic when he picks him up, MD’s arms wrapping snug around his neck.

“I should kick you for that.”

“Ah, but you won’t.”

[realm-of-dragons]

Staff App - Hawks

Played by Admin Grimm

OOC:

Name: Grimm

Age: 21

Preferred Pronouns: Any!

Timezone: PST

Discord: N/A

Any topics you want added to the content warning list?: Pandemics

Second choice character?: Bakugo 

IC:

Name: Takami Keigo AKA “Hawks”

Age: 27

Gender ID / pronouns: Trans Male, He/Him

OTPs, BroTPs, or NoTPS?: EndHawks baby… As far as BroTPs go I’m down for basically anything- I’m hoping for friendship between him and Rumi, but ultimately will be up for whatever has good chemistry/history in the setting of the group.

Race: Skyfolk

Appearance: Hawks is of average height and has a narrow but athletic build. Despite his small size, he holds a great deal of muscle packed into his form, and could probably crush a skull between his thighs if he wanted. He has large, terra cotta colored wings, although he mostly keeps them folded against his back nowadays. His hair is long, messy, and blond, but typically tied back into a braid. 

Role: Prince Consort of the Elves, Elven Ambassador to the Skyfolk, Former Skyfolk Chieftain, and Royal Pain in the Ass.

Skills:

Hawks was once one of the fastest and most acrobatic flyers in his tribe; he still retains some of these skills, although he is limited by his injured shoulder.

Hawks can use both a sword and a bow with deadly accuracy mid flight, and has hunted all sorts of animals to feed his people.

When it comes to grounded combat, however, he is average at best with a blade. He’s still learning to compensate for his newfound lacking mobility.

He is excellent at reading others, a skill which helped him serve as chief, and is dedicated to helping others - it should be noted, however, that his communication skills are solely diplomatic. When it comes to his own personal thoughts and feelings he is garbage at communicating.

Backstory:

( i. )

There exists a species of bird which possesses exceptionally colorful tail feathers. It’s just a pheasant and it struggles to fly, spending most of its days grounded. It poses little threat, but it’s feathers are bright and vibrant and serve as a warning to would-be-predators. ‘Danger,’ they say, and though a bluff, they are quite effective. For the most part, the birds are left alone.

Sometimes(all the time), you’re that bird.

So maybe your feathers are dull, and your wings are average size at best, and you’re nothing particularly special to look at - But that’s not the point.

You’re just like that bird, because all you have to do is flash a vibrant and energized smile, and suddenly you’re the picture perfect representation of what your peers should aspire to be. Never mind your struggles, your anguish, or your pain. Never mind your lost childhood, your missing parents, and your failure at making friends. None of that matters in the slightest. You’re not angry. You’re not upset. You’re not in despair. 

You smile and wave and suddenly, you’re not just some orphaned, washed out, failure of a replacement chief - suddenly, you’re a warrior. A leader. Determined. Hard working. The child prodigy who took over an entire tribe at fourteen. A man who never lets anything drag him down.

It’s better this way.

( ii. )

There’s a species of bird which is preyed upon by anything and everything in its environment. It lives in constant stress and fear of being caught out, torn apart, and eaten - or, it probably would, if it possessed the same sentience as people. It’s small, fluffy, and even as an adult, appears to be newly hatched. It spends most of its life seeking out small bugs and seeds. It hides, in hopes that a predator of its own predator will grant it just a few moments longer.

Sometimes(just today), you’re that bird.

You’ve grown into your role now, more than you thought you might - and maybe the discomfort and the emotional volatility doesn’t really go away, but you’re good at hiding it, and you think that’s good enough.

But you’re just like that bird, helpless in your own environment.

You’ve heard of dragons. You’re not stupid, you know what they are. A dragon took your parents and injured countless others, naturally you’ve been educated. But education and preparation are two very different states of being, and you’re not sure any amount of knowledge could have possibly prepared you. 

You’re meeting with the other elders about something or another. You don’t really remember, after, and it’s probably not important, anyway - the sudden roar and burst of wind warns you too late to completely dodge the claws lunging your direction. 

Dragon.

The aftermath is chaotic; since you’re injured, you’re responsible for leading the evacuation, not for fighting. Every part of your body aches with discontent at running away, but there’d be no point in forcing yourself into combat. It would be stupid, and no matter how chaotic your thoughts might be, you’re not suicidal. So you obey, you lead your people to safety, and you watch as another fells the beast.

After, all you can think about is that you didn’t do anything. But it matters little. The beast is gone. You’re alive. You let a healer see to your injuries.

( iii. )

Today, you’re a fledgling bird about to leave the nest for the first time.

It doesn’t matter that you’ve already learned to fly, that you’re a leader and a warrior, or that you’re more adult than any of your peers will ever be- Today, you leave.

There’s a tradition amongst your people that all must go through before becoming chief - you skipped that, before, because your predecessor expired prematurely and your tribe was desperate for leadership. You had big shoes to fill, and you filled them as needed, but now, it’s time to move on. The dragon plaguing your people is dead, and though you still loathe your lack of involvement in the affair, you’re doing your best to move on with life. That means following tradition. 

It is custom for would-be-chieftains to travel for one year in solitude, surviving entirely off the land and the world around them. When they return, they are given a new title befitting of a leader, and they are welcomed with open arms back into their family.

You don’t really need to do that, all of your tribesmen already accept you as their undisputed leader, but you feel utterly useless when you remember how quickly the dragon struck you down. So you make a decision, and you place someone else in charge as interim leader as you prepare yourself for a long journey.

The thing about fledgling birds, though, is that they very rarely return to their nest of origin. You intend to return, so maybe you’re not like a fledgling at all- 

When you take flight, you feel dread seep into your bones. You keep flying, but you don’t look back, for fear that any glance home may be your last. 

( iv. )

You process the sound, first. Then there’s light, followed by pain, followed by delirium and the sensation of falling. You hit several tree branches as you descend - you know, because you feel the leaves and twigs rake against your flesh - but it’s difficult to determine how many. You hit the ground hard, pain exploding through your young body, and think to yourself, ‘this is it. This is death.’

Then, there’s void.

But you don’t die.

You drift in and out of consciousness for several weeks before you do finally wake. Your surroundings are unfamiliar, full of soft fabrics and lush plant life. You’re… In what appears to be a bed - you think - you know that humans and Elves keep different bedding from your own race, but you’ve never seen one quite like this. It’s soft and much larger than you’re used to, and it seems reflective of wealth and status. 

Pulling yourself into a sitting position takes incredible effort, and you realize with great disdain that your wings are injured. You manage, though, and find yourself looking up at a large Elven man.

So, here’s the state of things: You were struck by lightning. You’re recovering with the Elves, in the king’s guest chambers. This man is the Elven king himself. You’re making good progress. But.

And there’s always a but.

You might never fly again.

It’s… A lot to process. And even in the following weeks, as you regain your strength and begin moving about and exploring your new surroundings, you still struggle to wrap your head around it. Flying has been second nature to you. Instinctual. Another part of your existence as a Skyfolk. You can’t fathom a life without it.

You’re a caged, flightless bird, right now. Enji is nice. Extremely nice. Nicer than he really ought to be, all things considered. You refuse to call him King Todoroki because you like pushing his buttons, and secretly, you think he likes it too. But… There’s still something missing. This isn’t right. You need to finish your journey and return home, but you can’t do that without your flight. No matter how accommodating Enji is, it still doesn’t change the fact that you’re lounging around a golden cage and you really do not belong here.

So when your wings are deemed as healed up as they’ll ever be, you start sneaking out. You can’t get off the ground. Not yet. But you hope with enough practice, someday you’ll soar once again.

( v. )

You’re a hawk, now.

You don’t believe it, personally. Hawks are fierce, powerful, and incredible flyers - you’re weak, emotional, and barely able to slip off the ground on a good day. But Enji insists you’re a hawk, and you can’t bring yourself to argue, because nobody has ever seen your real persona before and thought so highly of it. 

Maybe that’s the nature of your relationship, though. It’s difficult to tell. 

You’re a fighter. You keep trying no matter how many times you fall, because you hate the idea of remaining grounded. Enji is there to catch you, to patch up your scrapes and bruises, and offer encouragement in how own unique way. And finally, when you do manage to take off and soar above the trees, you feel alive. This is what you were missing. 

This is who you are.

But.

You wouldn’t be here without Enji. You’d be dead, or worse - and you’re grateful, you really are, but you don’t know how to ever repay him. Soon you’ll be stable enough to continue with your life, and you’ll need to leave and go home. Enji can’t go with you. He has a kingdom to run, and you’ve accepted that. You tell yourself it’s what’s right. That it was inevitable and this is the way things are meant to be.

But. 

In the months you’ve been with the Elves, you’ve learned their culture and their customs. Maybe you don’t really fit in, but you enjoy their way of life, and you love the people you’ve met. Back home, you had friends and family, sure, but there was so much pressure - For the first time in your entire life, you feel free. Freedom is terrifying. Powerful. You crave it.

You reach a crossroads. Go home and face your responsibilities or stay and learn to enjoy your life. It’s not an easy decision to make - there was so much resting on your shoulders, and maybe there still is, because you’re expected to return, sooner or later.

But.

You’re a hawk. You’re fierce, determined, and you follow your heart. 

So you stay.

Extras:

Hawks can still fly, but he reaches his limit much faster due to his previous injury. He chooses to just walk most places instead, keeping his wings tucked against his back when he’s in motion to better balance the weight. 

He is a little spoon at heart, but tends to be a big spoon in practice due to his absurdly large wings. He has to sleep on his stomach or his side to get comfortable.

Hawks loves fried foods, particularly fried birds; he’s been told this could be interpreted as cannibalistic, but refuses to stop eating meat anytime soon.

Keigo was his birth name, and although he is trans, he does not find discomfort with it because of dysphoria; it’s a remnant of his parents, and Skyfolk gender is wonky anyway.

In spite of that, Hawks only allows his former tribesmen to call him Keigo; he much prefers to be called Hawks.

Writing sample:

Keigo’s been in a weird sort of state lately. The injuries haven’t exactly helped his energy levels, sure, but given he’s mostly recovered, he should be able to get out of his bed and wander. And still, he’s skipping meals. Choosing to lay around. A stranger might consider him lazy. Enji doesn’t berate him for the behavior, and Keigo considers that a miracle. He doesn’t know if he could handle judgement over this melancholy. Not like he can control it, anyhow. 

So they spend the days talking. Sometimes Enji reads to him. Keigo had never imagined how deep and rich the Elven culture is - he’d heard some things, in passing. The Elves were mostly isolated, before, so whatever he had heard was mostly secondhand, and, as Keigo is now learning, incorrect.

They’re sitting in bed, Keigo pressed firmly against Enji’s side. He’s been told that Elves don’t ordinarily allow this type of contact, but Keigo’s never been pushed away, and it’s one of the few things that keeps him grounded. Enji sets aside the scroll he’d been reading from and gently runs a hand over Keigo’s feathers.

“I’ve told you much about my people, but I’ve not heard much of yours.” 

Keigo stiffens. “I didn’t think you’d want to learn about them.”

“I do. I don’t even know why you ended up so far from them.” 

Well, that’s fair. Keigo supposes that, at the very least, he owes an explanation. That much information is hardly a concealed secret, just… Emotional? No. That’s not the right word, but he doesn’t have any better way to describe it. He shrugs. “It’s tradition for future chieftains to travel for a year, prior to taking charge. A right of passage, you know. When they return home, they take a new name, and are given the honor of leading.” He smiles softly as he speaks, the familiarity giving him some small comfort in this bittersweet reality.

Enji frowns. “You were to be chief, then?”

“Oh, yes. I was. I won’t be, now. I can’t fly.” As if to prove his point, Keigo attempts to move his left wing, the one that took the brunt of the lightning strike. It barely twitches.

“You still could. My healers don’t know much of your anatomy, your wings might still recover.”

Keigo really, truly wants to believe him, but he’s sick and tired of getting his hopes up. He’s probably not going to regain his flight. There’s no point fixating on a fantasy. Not when it only brings disappointment. He leans closer, nuzzling his face into the crook of Enji’s neck. “Please don’t… I can’t...”

“Keigo.” Enji’s voice is strong, firm, and determined. Keigo bites at his lip, muscles tensing. “You’re strong. You want to recover, and you will.” Then, after a pause, he asks, “you’re given new names when you return, as a sign of strength?”

Hesitantly, Keigo nods. “Yeah…” 

“Then allow me to give you one now. You’re a fighter. You’ve shown me that much with your… Fiery attitude.” 

Oh, that’s one way to phrase it.

After a nod, Enji continues. “You’re a bird of prey, fierce. Powerful. Agile, fast, cunning, and a bit of an ass sometimes, even when you’re still recovering. But you’re a creature to be revered and awed. Like a swarm of hawks.”

“Hawks…” Keigo says, the name foreign on his tongue. “My name is… Hawks.” 

Maybe, just maybe, he can get used to it, in time.

[kythen]

Prompt: 7 and Klance

7.  “Because nobody cares about me!”

“Why did you do that?”

“Go away, Keith,” Lance says, tired and quieter thanusual, which is only to be expected considering that he just took an ionblaster to the lion. Blue crackles behind him, his poor girl, her outer surfacecharred black and her interfaces scrambled. He would have to talk to her laterwhen he is less scrambled himself.

Shiro keeps Keith away from Lance with a firm hand, slingingLance’s right arm over his shoulder while Hunk takes his left. “Whateverit is, save it for later. We need to get Lance to a healing pod.”

As Shiro and Hunk pull Lance away from the hangar and in thedirection of what he hopes is a cushy healing pod, Lance hopes that Keithreally doesn’t save it for later.

—

“Why did you do that?” Keith asks a day later,right after Lance wobbles out of the healing pod and into his room, hoping forsome non-vertical rest.

“Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Lance saysautomatically, scowling as Keith waltzes into his room right behind him.“Hey, who gave you the permission to come in here?”

“That blast was headed straight for me.” Keithdemands, ignoring Lance. “Why did you jump in the way?”

“It was an accident. We were in the heat of battle and Ididn’t see the blast coming. Not everything is about you, hotshot.”

“You yelled my name before jumping in.”

“Yeah, well, I yelled a lot of things then.” Lancecrosses his arms over his chest. “What part of ‘the heat of battle’ don’tyou get?”

Keith deflates slightly but he still looks unconvinced, andLance doesn’t care. He turns his back on Keith and crawls into his bed, hopingthat Keith gets the message and goes away as he turns onto his side andthrows the covers over his head.

—

“How does Zarkon keep finding us?” Hunk wails overtheir communications channel as the lions leave the castle and plunge straightinto the thick of battle.

“You don’t suppose GPS tracking is a thing in space, doyou?” Lance answers him, staring out of Blue’s windscreen at the rows androws of Galra ships lined up before them, ready to take them out.

He barrel rolls out of the way as they start shooting,prompting Blue to start firing back as he weaves in between the ships. Theother paladins spread out, cutting a swarth through the fleet, downing rowafter row. It is painfully slow progress and Lance’s movements feel sluggishfrom having to do this too often in too short a time. Just how was Zarkontracking them down?

A shot clips his side, sending Blue and him spiralling awayand Lance shakes himself out of his daze, forcing himself to concentrate. Hefreezes the wall of ships closing in on him in one fell swoop before he movesout of the thick of battle, trying to get a big picture of how the fight wasgoing.

He sees Hunk slam into one of the bigger ships, denting itbadly enough that a single shot demolishes it easily after that. Shiro andKeith are fighting back-to-back again, their black and red lions a blur as theytake down ships left and right. Pidge is by herself on the fringe of thebattlefield, plants erupting out of the ships near her. The one closest to herbursts into a fireball, spiralling towards the Green Lion and Lance expects herto dodge nimbly out of the way.

But her lion stalls—maybe she is as exhausted as he is—andLance fears, pushing his lion into action before the rest of him catches upwith that fear. He is closer to the fireball than he is to the Green Lion andhe doesn’t think, ramming Blue right into the fireball with an apology just asthe metal cracks and gives way under the pressure of an internal explosion.

—

“Why did you do that?”

Keith doesn’t even give him the luxury of reaching his roombefore he starts again. He is the first thing Lance sees as he stumbles out ofthe healing pod, his body tight and uncomfortable after the accelerated healingprocess. Lance just wants to go back to his room and sleep but he can’t, notwith Keith blocking his path, looking like he hadn’t slept in ages.

Lance runs a hand through his hair, gross and unwashed rightout of battle, before attempting a glare at Keith. It probably comes out sadand weak and tired because Lance is sad and weak and tired and all he wants isto lie down horizontally and not get up for a while.

“What do you want, Keith?” Lance faces him anyway,squaring up the best he can.

It doesn’t help much as Keith says, “I want to know whyyou keep throwing yourself into harm’s way.”

Lance flinches and Keith catches that—of course he does sincehe is standing right in front of Lance.

“I’m not—”

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed,” Keith says, hisvoice low. “Shiro probably would have noticed too if he wasn’t so busywith the Black Lion. You keep taking hits meant for the others, for us. What’syour deal?”

“What’s my deal?” Lance repeats, a quiet angersmouldering in him, flaring up past the deep-set fatigue in his body and pastthe shit feeling that has been bogging him down for days or weeks or months.“Have you ever heard of teamwork?”

Keith’s mouth flattens out into an unconvinced line. “Notthe kind you’ve been displaying out there.”

Lance throws his arms up in the air. “What do you wantfrom me? I’m fine, the others are fine, everything’s fine in the end.”

“You can’t keep taking damage like that,” Keiththrows back in his face hotly, flaring up in response to Lance’s suddenoutburst. “You go straight into the healing pod right after every battleand you think that’s fine?”

“Why do you care?” Lance snarls at him, taking astep forward and getting right in Keith’s face. “You do that all the timetoo—running off on your own, fighting battles you can’t win, trying to rescueShiro on your own. What makes what you’re doing any different from me?”

Keith doesn’t back down, meeting Lance’s eyes squarely.“It’s different because I don’t end up a step away from death like you doall the time!”

“Oh, so that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Lance isshouting now and he can’t stop all the bitterness and self-loathing fromspilling out of him as he continues, “You’re better than me, aren’t you?You’ve got it all covered because you’re the ace!”

“That’s not it!” Keith grits out, frustrated.“What, you think doing all of this is going to make you a better pilotsomehow? A better paladin?”

“It’ll make me feel better about myself, maybe”—Lance slams a hand against his chest, right over his aching heart—“because nobody cares about me!”

His words ring out around the room, hanging sharp in the airbetween them, and Lance shrinks back as the gravity of his words sinks backinto him. He didn’t mean to say that. It just slipped out from some part of hisconscious-unconscious and now he can’t take it back. He can’t make Keith unhearall the gross, insecure feelings he has been having about himself.

“You meant that,” Keith says, serious, his voicefar softer than before.

“I…” Lance takes a step away from Keith and Keithreaches out to grab his arm, as if sensing that he is going to run.“I…”

“Is that what you really think of us?” Keith askshim, a mix of confusion and concern creasing his brows. “You think wedon’t care about you?”

“That’s… That’s not it.” Lance exhales and itcomes out in a sad, deflated puff of air. “It’s just that, y'know, therest of you guys have your thing all figured out. Shiro’s the leader, Hunk’s agreat mechanic and an even greater guy, Pidge’s our ace hacker. I mean, even you…” Lance clears his throat. “But me? I’ve got nothing. I can’tcontribute to the team. I’m just, just a seventh wheel or something.”

He is rambling, he knows this, and he wants to stop but hefinds that once he starts he just can’t. He can’t imagine how Keith is going tolook at him after this, a loser full of insecurities, or how he is even goingto respond now.

“You’re not a seventh wheel,” Keith finally says.“You’re a leg.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, like Voltron’s leg. Our leg.”

“Wait wait wait wait wait.” Lance shakes his headand looks at Keith incredulously. “Is that supposed to make me feelbetter?”

“I don’t know,” Keith admits. “Maybe? Is ithelping?”

“I don’t know?” Lance says blankly. “In anyother situation, that would make a great joke but now I’m just… uh?”

“Well, at least you’re not feeling sorry for yourselfanymore.” Keith lets go of Lance’s arm and Lance suddenly remembers thatKeith has been holding on to him this whole time.

“I wasn't—” Lance stops himself.

“You totally were.” Keith crosses his arms. “Idon’t know where you got the crazy idea that none of us care about you and youtaking all the hits for us was supposed to help in some way.” He looksstraight into Lance’s eyes. “But just stop.”

Lance drops his gaze, scrutinising his hands, freshly patchedup out of the healing pod, as he admits quietly, “I don’t know if Ican.”

“Then I’ll stop you,” Keith says, raising aneyebrow when Lance glances up at him, startled. “That’s what teammates arefor, aren’t they?”

Lance never thought a day would come where he would begrateful to Keith but here it is and it’s… a strange feeling. His body goeslimp, like all the wind has gone right out of him. He feels exhausted and hishead hurts from all the shouting. Keith offers him a shoulder silently andLance leans on him without complaining for once, too tired to care.

“Keith?” Lance starts awkwardly as they make theirway out of the pod room in slow, careful steps. “Uh… About this…”

“You just came out of an alien, medically-inducedsleep,” Keith says blandly. “I had no idea what you were talkingabout after you came out of the pod so there’s no reason to tell anyonewhat you said.”

“Thanks, Keith.”

“Just,” Keith adds, his eyes facing forward, notlooking at Lance, “take care of yourself, Lance.”

[lazy-safetastic-13]

Are you still doing the hurt/comfort prompts? If so, may I ask for 16 with fellcest?

Here you go! Sorry for the wait! 

16. “Stop telling me you’re okay.”

Rewrote it several times cuz I had no idea how I wanted to start. 

Title: We Got This

Pairing: Fellcest

Words: 1, 359

“Oh, fuck,” Sansfound purchase on a brick wall as he cradled his ribs over his thick jacket.“Shit. They got me good.” He used the wall to help him walk and he winced asthe pain only increased with each step.

He couldn’t risk teleporting either, so his best bet was tobear it until he got home.

He greatly hoped Papyrus was doing overtime so he wouldn’tsee his pitiful state. Cracks littered his arms and legs, and he was sure thathe broke some ribs as well. Sans would’ve chuckled at how lousy he looked if itdidn’t hurt so much doing so.

But who was he kidding. His partner would no doubt be homealready, sitting angrily on the couch with food untouched and slightly cold,waiting for him to come home. When he sees him though … Stars, Paps is going to be livid.

Sans made sure to use the shadows to his advantage and thealleyways for shortcuts. He couldn’t risk being seen. Not by monsters; andespecially humans.

The small skeleton growled in frustration, making slowprogress and rested when he needed to catch his breath. It was getting harderand harder to even keep awake, but when he spotted his house, Sans summonedwhatever energy he had left to keep on walking forward. Laboured breathing,aching bones, and profuse sweating be damned. He was getting home to hisbrother.

Only a bit more,he thought, and he was actually elated to see their stupidly over-decoratedmailbox.

He tripped; however, and the scream of agony left his mouthbefore he could stop it. His HP decreased two tenths more—0.3/1.0.

Fuck. It was nowonder that he was losing consciousness, and Sans couldn’t fight it any longer.His eye lights disappeared from his sockets and he faintly heard footstepscoming closer.

Shit … I guess this isit for me … Sorry, Papyrus.

Then, darkness consumed him.

A delicious aroma woke him from his slumber, and Sans had amomentary confusion of where he was until he spotted a pirate banner on theside wall.

He was in Papyrus’ room. Somehow, that did not bode well forhim.

“You’re awake.”

Sans tried to sit up; triedbeing the key word, because a blue soul appeared on his chest to press him backdown on the bed.

Papyrus neared the bed, placing the tray on the table beforesitting on the stool beside the bed.

“I’m going to do a check on you.” He announced, and Sans wasgrateful. Being checked on was such an invasive and uncomfortable feeling, sobeing warned was appreciated even if it still brought him discomfort.

The small skeleton found himself tensing when it began,forcing himself to relax by taking deep breaths.

“0.9/1.0. Good. You’ll just need to eat to recover therest.”

The stern tone made Sans sweat drop. Here it comes.

“But before that, I want you to tell me what the fuck happened.”

“Uh … Well,” He really didn’t want Papyrus to know about it.It was his problem and he’d deal with it. So he tried to play it off, let theincident be swept under the rug. “Heh. Don’t worry about it Paps. Just gotjumped on the way, no big deal. I’m okay. Rea—”

“Shut up!”

Welp, he tried.

“I’m sick of your bullshit.Stop telling me you’re okay all the damn time! It’s clear that you’re not andI’m done playing along.” Papyrus’ magic flared in an eye socket. “You’re goingto tell or else.”

Sans couldn’t help himself. “Or else what?”

And just like that, all of Papyrus heat vanished; replacedwith a defeated look. Sans felt bad.

“… You almost died, brother … Just,” Unbidden tears offrustration came. Hopelessness laced in his voice. “I don’t know what I’d do ifI lost you. You were so close to death. And I can’t help think about what wouldhappen if I didn’t go out and check the noise. What would happen if youactually dusted. If I was too late an—”

“Paps! Papyrus.”Sans forced himself to sit up and clutched onto trembling hands. “Hey, hey. I’m here. I’m alive. You saved mejust in time … I’m sorry, Paps. I didn’t mean for this happen. I had tho—” Thesmall skeleton shook his head. “I’m reallysorry for putting you through that, Papyrus.”

The tall skeleton looked away, retracting an arm to dry thetears. “It’s fin—no, it’s not fine.” He straightened and looked at Sans in theeye. “I want you tell me what happened.”

Sans’ sighed heavily, a defeated smile etched on hisfeatures. “Heh. Where do I even start.”

The sarcastic remark instantly caught Papyrus’ attention.And he understood. “… How long has this been going?”

Sans looked down to the other’s hand still on his own, andhe pulled it closer to play with it. His lover allowed it, and he continued. “Amonth after we got to the Surface.”

“A month after—Sans! It’s been—this has been happening for four months?!” The small skeleton nodded.“And you didn’t tell me?!”

“I didn’t want you to worry! And I …” Sans would’ve bit hislip if he had one. “I practically couldn’t when you got your dream job as achef.”

“… Sans. That’s—”

“You were so happy, Paps. And we were new to the Surfacethen so I didn’t put up a fuss about it. I kept thinking that maybe they justneeded more time to adjust in getting used to us … But they didn’t.” Sanssighed again. He might as well spill. “I fucking hate it here, to be honest. Inever wanted to come. The humans didn’t bother undoing the seal, and that’salready a big indication that they didn’t want us.” Sans growled, and yet stillkept a gentle hold of his brother’s hand. “Humans hate change. Humans fears andloathe the different. We were never welcome here … Well, not on my side atleast.” The small looked up to smile weakly at his lover, who in turn frowned.

Then, Papyrus shook his head. “No, you’re right.”

Sans eye lights narrowed, “Paps, don’t tell me—”

“No, nothing like that. Even I could see that they weretolerating us.” Papyrus smirked. “The other employees tried to sabotage me bymaking me look bad to be fired, but I proved them wrong time and time againuntil they stopped and finally just let me be.” Sans was relieved to hear it,at least his partner’s ‘bullies’ didn’t get physical like what his owncoworkers would do to him.

“… Sans,”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to go back?”

Sans was surprised, and yet he really shouldn’t be. Papyrushad made it clear that he was his top priority. And if he wasn’t happy, thenwhat would be the point in staying. Though, he was also in the same regard forhis brother’s happiness. “What about you?”

“I’ll find something.”

“But—”

“Glad it’s decided. Here, eat your meal and rest. I’ll goahead and pack our stuff.” Papyrus took the tray and placed it on Sans’ lap. Heplanted a quick kiss on his lover’s forehead before making his way out of theroom.

“When are we leaving?”

“In a week. I need to inform Undyne and there areresignation letters needed to be written.”

There wasn’t really much Sans could say. “Okay … Wait,Paps!” Papyrus looked to him just as he opened the door. “Are you … going tohunt them down?” He had an inkling his brother had planned his coworkers’demise in the back of his head.

“… And if I do?”

It was against the law for monsters to use their magicagainst humans, or at all for that matter. His lover was going to get into somuch trouble.

“Heh, I’ll help out.”

“It would be boring if you didn’t.” Papyrus laughed. “Nyehehe!Those pitiful humans will certainly know not to mess with us skeleton monsters again.Fuck the Surface.” And Sans guffawed.

They got this.

Woohoo!! I finished all the requests!! Thanks for the challenges guys! 

I think that, the more I wrote hurt/comfort, the harder it was to write them. O-O

The ideas in my head almost always lead to angst, and I have to remind myself, “Must … not have…. anyone die.” *coughs blood* 

Thanks for reading m(__ __)m

[sarahburness]

How to Get Past Doubt and Do What You Really Want to Do

“Doubt everything. Find your own light.” ~The Buddha

As far back as I can remember, I’ve allowed my life to be shaped by external forces.

On the outside, it appeared like I was just another carefree soul, living in the moment and going through life like a leaf on the wind. But on closer inspection, I was actually running away from having to make any real commitments and avoiding getting into a position where I had to make difficult or important decisions.

It wasn’t until recently, when I realized it was four years to the date since I’d fallen into the job that I’d despised for what seemed like forever, that I even stopped to realize this.

But on this day, as I stood looking around and contemplating where I’d ended up, I suddenly—and surprisingly—decided that was all going to change.

Before I knew it, I was acting on something that, until then, had been just a vague, albeit persistent idea floating around in the back of my mind.

I was applying to go back to university.

There was little doubt about the decision; it was something I’d be thinking about for a while but had been putting off for as long as possible.

But sure enough, the doubt soon crept in. I loathed formal education the first time around, and this time I was going to study something that was sure to stop any conversation dead with 99 percent of people I knew and make me the best friend of my one quirky aunt who’s deep into crystals and horoscopes:

Mindfulness.

I knew it was what I wanted. And I was pleased that for once I’d actually stood on my own two feet and made a decision. Not to mention, I was secretly relieved that I wouldn’t have to make another big one for at least a few years.

But little did I know that was far from how it was going to be.

In making such a big life choice, I’d made a complete about-turn from my familiar and reliable strategy of avoidance and chosen to stare life directly in the face.

And I’d forgotten just how scary-looking life can be.

My instinct to run was immediately triggered. Maybe this isn’t what I really want. Maybe I’ve changed my mind; people change their minds all the time, don’t they? Life would be simple if I just stayed where I am and found another job. It’s not too late to drop out…

Instead of fleeing like usual, this time I froze. You could say I’d made progress, but it felt like I’d gone backward—despite being unable to move backward, forward, or in any direction whatsoever.

I was well and truly paralyzed by doubt.

And I was going to study mindfulness.

Just perfect.

My paralysis came from a long-held belief that I needed to be free from all trace of doubt before I could make any major decisions and move forward in life. But as I quickly came to see, if this was the case, then no one would ever do anything they really wanted to do.

It’s in the nature of the mind to doubt. And whereas I thought the problem was that I’d rushed the decision or hadn’t considered the other options thoroughly enough, it was that I was, in fact, stirring up the murky waters of doubt with my constant questioning, making it all but impossible to see things clearly.

Nearly six months into once again being a fresher, I’ve made more decisions than during the rest of my life combined. I rarely experience doubt anymore, but when it does appear, I know why it’s there, and rather than indulge it or push it away, I can simply let the water settle before getting on with what I want to do.

Below is what I learned about doubt broken down into three steps or rules. If you doubt they’ll stop you from putting off big decisions and second-guessing yourself, put that aside for a moment while you read on and discover for yourself.

1. There will always be a reason not to do something.

If you try hard enough, you can always find a persuasive enough reason not to do anything.

You can’t go to the party because you haven’t gotten as much work done as you planned to.

You can’t start a family because you need to make at least ten grand a year more first.

You can’t run your own business because you’re already tired and it’s only going to become more demanding.

When we’re faced with making a choice, our mind often fishes for reasons not to take action, automatically accepting the ones that seem to fit into our fear-driven stories and justify how we feel.

In this way, we come to relate to our experience according to the ongoing internal narrative about what’s going on, rather than what is actually happening in the new and ever changing here and now.

It’s easy enough to understand this when you’re reading it in an article. The tricky thing is that when it happens to you, the stories can appear so real that debunking them feels like an impossible task.

This is even more true with doubt as all the while it will be telling you things like: There’s no point even trying, there’s a reason you can’t but you just haven’t found it yet, and, you’ll always be this way, so you might as well just succumb to your fate.

But no matter how sophisticated and convincing the story, if it’s going against what you really want or know deep down to be true, then you can be sure it is the doubting mind.

As a function of the mind’s problem-solving mode, doubt is an incredibly useful tool that can alert us to impending danger, help us think more critically, and enable us to make better decisions. As we spend most our time in this problem-solving mode, though, this vulnerability-seeking mechanism can become chronically switched on and quickly become debilitating.

Either way, the doubting mind is not you. But how do you know the difference between you and this part of your brain? Well, you don’t—at least not when you’re stuck in this mode, as by definition that’s what the doubting mind will tell you.

It will tell you that certainty is possible. It will tell you there will always be a better time. It will tell you that you’ll be able to see the future and know how things will turn out if only you consider things a bit longer…

First things first, then, to break free from doubt, we need to recognize that when we go fishing, we are going to catch some fish. In other words, when you believe that thoughts will give you an answer and will relieve you of uncertainty, you’re only going to create more and more doubt.

It’s only by letting the water clear that we can start seeing what it reflects more clearly. And to do this, we don’t suppress the doubt—that only stir things up more. But nor do we passively accept it.

2. Instead of accepting, learn to doubt the doubt.

In Buddhist theory, overcoming doubt is not a matter of letting it be and having blind faith in something greater, it’s about exploring it through a process of active investigation.

And what are we most likely to find when we inquire into this kind of doubt?

Fear.

For a long time, I believed that in order to be truly ready for something, I’d need to be without fear. That was, after all, what it meant to be fearless, to be a man, a Buddha, a superhero, or whatever other ideal I was guiding my life by.

Without knowing it, I had thus long been avoiding fear, shielding myself from it, and denying that I was or could ever be scared of anything.

In this way, I lost the resilience to be able to do anything that was even the slightest bit meaningful to me, and built a life that was safe, limited, and void of the things I really cared about.

But fearlessness does not mean being free from all fear. It’s the opposite: it’s learning to be so intimate with fear that it no longer controls you. It’s making such a close friend of it that you can use it to propel you forward instead of treating fear as the enemy and allowing it to hold you back.

You can uncover fear with the sneaky and perspective-shifting act of doubting the doubt. This is essentially the role of meditation and learning to notice thoughts as phenomena that are separate from yourself.

Through practice, meditation gives us a welcome alternative to pushing away, passively accepting, or being completely swept away by thoughts, allowing us to relate to our own fear in an entirely new and previously unseen way.

3. If there’s fear, you’re on the right track.

Because I failed to recognize fear and denied its existence, my doubting mind stepped in to try to solve the problem.

As opposed to filling me with angst and making my hands pour with sweat, the doubt appeared as a friend trying to protect me. And that makes sense—our doubts and fears are always trying to keep us safe. But a true friend doesn’t hold us back; instead, he or she propels us forward. And fear can do that for us if we let it. As Ram Dass explains, when “you no longer allow fear to step blatantly before you and shout of cataclysm, it will creep behind you and whisper something reasonable in your ear.”

If we acknowledge fear as a sensation, before the conditioned responses and makeshift interpretations, we see that it is a bubbling energy of potential that isn’t shouting or whispering to us about what we can’t and shouldn’t do, but signaling to us what we can and could do.

By trying to push it away and remove it from my experience, then, I was mixing up my own recipe for a life of limited potential and of achieving only what happened to fall into my lap. If I learned to be aware of it and recognize it for what it is, however, I could take the same ingredients and use them to cook up a life of unlimited potential and growth.

You can’t have change, innovation, creativity, and originality—in other words, life—without insecurity, uncertainty, and fear. And so by embracing these fundamental states and changing how you see fear, you can begin to use them to your advantage and live a full life.

This isn’t about, say, giving in to the fact that leaving your job is terrifying and so getting it over with as quickly as possible. That would mean still categorizing fear as an unwanted foe and trying to conquer it through blind action.

This is about welcoming fear as a valuable and even desirable part of your experience. It’s about noticing that when you feel terrified about leaving your job, the feeling is saying wow, you must be doing something really challenging and/or meaningful. It’s learning to see fear as a guide that’s there to help you. It might also suggest that you want to prepare yourself, and wait until after your next paycheck, but if deep down, you want to do something different, the fear is telling you “keep going in this direction, you’re on the right track.”

It’s only by bringing fear, with all its demons, into the light that we can begin to unravel the excuses we have piled upon them—many of which we don’t know are even there until we look. We can then see fear without any pretense, without any doubt, and only then embrace it as the true ally and source of life it really is.

And if you immediately think you can’t do it, are overcome by your poor track record, or just immediately zone out or want to run and hide, notice this as the doubting mind. Beat it at its own game and doubt it. And then ask yourself, what sort of life do you choose to lead: one of comfort, dissatisfaction, and surety, or one of adventure, fulfillment, and the thrill of diving into the unknown?

About Joseph Pennington

Joseph Pennington is a freelance writer, Master's student of Mindfulness, and the creator of the mindfulness voice app, Bebot: The Three Minute Breathing Space. Find out more about the breathing space and hear directly from Bebot, your mindful robot friend, by subscribing to her newsletter.

Web | More Posts

Get in the conversation! Click here to leave a comment on the site.

The post How to Get Past Doubt and Do What You Really Want to Do appeared first on Tiny Buddha.

from Tiny Buddha https://tinybuddha.com/blog/how-to-get-past-doubt-do-what-you-really-want-to-do/

[20smthngrp-blog]

                                             ( YOON DANBI, 27 )

Name: Yoon Danbi Date of Birth: 1990/11/06 Occupation: Model

SPARKNOTES:

only child of a retired fashion photographer and retired model; loathes her mother, but loves her father

selfish, narcissistic, vain, superficial; a daddy’s girl; very lonely, and is totally aware that all she has going for her is her looks

biggest fear is not being pretty and/or popular anymore, and being forgotten; acts out partly for the attention, and partly as defence to avoid being hurt first

mother is the worst influence on her, and constantly pushed/pushes her own ideals onto her daughter; very stage mom-y, and likes to control her daughter’s every move

starts modelling towards the end of high school, just like her mother; doesn’t even consider college an option

fell in love towards the end of high school with a boy who was probably the epitome of ordinary; had nothing to do with the industry and cared very little for danbi’s tactics; her romance with said boy was the only slice of normalcy she’s ever gotten in her life

mother forced her to leave him, under the guise that the boy was unsuited for the kind of life she was living

results in major heartbreak, and the development of apathy and detachment from the world around her as her career starts to pick up

chain smokes, spends her money frivolously, sleeps around, fears hates commitment; gets a nose job because she hates that it’s the same as her mother’s

gains popularity and fame as the years progress; she’s aware that most of it stems from her parents’ already existing statuses, and strives to step out of her mother’s shadow to create a name for herself

FREEFORM:

PRIDE.

“she’s beautiful. what’s her name?”

“danbi.”

her face makes it to page seven of the tabloids, even before she’s learned how to talk. it’s only right that the first born daughter of the national icon, kim shinhye, is shown to the world. surely she’ll be following in her mother’s footsteps, what with those eyes and lips she’s inherited.

her father has albums full of her photos before she’s even able to stand on her own two feet. eyes wide with childish curiosity stare up at camera lenses. mirrors are the most fascinating objects on the planet. a tube of mother’s red lipstick is held tight in a chubby fist.

GLUTTONY.

“danbi, don’t eat that.”

she doesn’t understand why taking the cookie the maid’s daughter just offered her is such a crime, but it’s pulled from her fingers before the crumbs have even hit the kitchen counter. her mother clicks her tongue. disapproval. danbi hangs her head low with shame.

“you’ll ruin your appetite, sweetheart.”

she doesn’t tell anyone about how she hasn’t eaten a thing since eleven.

dinner is clothed in embarrassment, food almost completely untouched. she picks at a loose thread on the napkin draped across her lap, listens wordlessly as her mother talks about sumin from ballet.

“she had the most beautiful form, darling. perfectly toned legs and arms. her mother tells me her diet is almost completely meat free now. amazing, honestly. and she’s a year younger than our danbi.”

“now, now. let’s not forget that our danbi is top of the class. our daughter is probably the most beautiful student at the academy.”

“well, yes. of course she is, darling.”

danbi tries to ignore the way her mother’s words seem like nothing but an afterthought.

SLOTH.

“sangmin-ah. grab that book for me, will you?”

she’s mastered her smile by the time her senior year of high school has come around, somewhere between flirtatious and cheeky. she hears words whispered in the halls, but barely hears them over the sound of shoes hitting the linoleum floor, frantic, as admirers strive to catch up to her, to catch a glimpse of the way her hips swing with every step.

her desk is surrounded by a ring of eighteen year old boys with acne-scarred cheeks and crooked teeth. none of them take her fancy, but she’s long learned how to pretend they do.

“taejoonie… this is too hard. can you help me? pretty please?”

how could the guy resist when she swivelled around to look at the boy behind her, lower lip jutted out, the hem of her skirt sitting too high up her thigh to comply to standard uniform regulations?

(the girls in her class sneer in her direction, roll their eyes, and scoff. they’re just jealous.)

high school teaches you a lot; that much is true. but she’s not concerned about long division and photosynthesis, not when she knows that what’s important is knowing how high to hike up her skirt, and how much gloss should be applied to her lips to have heads turning and eyes doing double takes. there are some brief twinges of satisfaction, knowing some of her teachers are part of her crew of admirers.

her classmates do all her work for her, leaving nothing but the task of writing her name at the top of page to claim it as her own. grades don’t matter. social status matters.

LUST.

danbi falls in love once, and only once.

it’s every bit as intense as she’d anticipated it to be. he sees right through her bullshit, is completely unfazed by her sharp tongue and flirty eyes. in fact, he’s really not phased by anything, and it’s disgusting cliché, the way she pines for the one boy who doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anything she does.

it’s a wonder why he even reciprocated in the first place.

they’re young, they’re messy, and the entire nine months is a culmination of more emotion than she’s ever experienced thus far. it’s tangled sheets, amusement parks, greasy fast food, and dancing in the rain. it’s linked fingers, chapped lips, half-lidded eyes, and quiet whispers in dark rooms.

she’s never felt more free and alive.

ENVY.

“more, danbi. tilt your head more.”

her mother shows her the ropes, and directs every single move of hers in front of the camera. college applications are a distant thought, barely even considered, but no one bats an eye. it would be more surprising, really, for her to not follow in her mother’s footsteps the way the country expects her to.

she’s barely made it out of high school before she’s being whisked away from one set to the other. she’s no stranger to all the clothes and jewellery, but everything is happening so fast. people are running past her from every direction, pulling her hair, tugging at her arms and legs, angling her head, and calling out directions like drill sergeants.

a stylist almost pokes her eye out, fixing her eyeliner, when she’s sat down for an interview, her mother hovering off to the side to monitor.

what’s it like, being the daughter of a world-renowned photographer and a top class model?

she tries to smile, biting back a wince, because whoever is brushing her hair is pulling too hard.

“it’s the best thing ever. i love it. couldn’t have asked for a better family,” she says; she casts a glance over to her mother, waiting for approval on her answer. she already knows what she’ll say on the ride back home: don’t sound so juvenile next time, please. try to sound like an adult. no one wants to talk to a model who sounds like a fifteen year old. next question.

were pushed to be a model? did you want to be one yourself?

she knows this question, expects this question, and she knows how to answer this.

“no, of course not. i’ve always admired my mother — and my father. even if they weren’t my parents, their work ethic would’ve been enough to make me strive to be just like them. i don’t know if i can be half as successful as my mother wa— is, because i’m not as beautiful and talented as she is, but i’ll definitely try my best to live up to everyone’s expectations.”

her stomach churns with contempt at the way the lies just spill from her lips as easy as her breaths.

“my daughter is too humble,” she hears her mother cut in, laughter ringing throughout the room, sending a chill down her spine. she knows that laugh. an assistant is about to walk their way with a tray of snacks. he turns on his heels immediately at the look her mother gives him. “danbi is beautiful. she is my daughter, after all.”

she’s quick to zone out when the interview shifts from herself to her mother. she really shouldn’t be jealous of the way she easily roll answers off her tongue, but she can’t help but feel that stab of envy at the way her mother is so at ease during the talk. it comes with years of experience, of course, but it’s still frustrating to know that she can’t even lie comfortably.

WRATH.

“danbi. get rid of him.”

“what?”

“you heard me. get rid of him. he’s worthless, and plain. a little pathetic, actually, if you ask me. certainly not fit to be dating my daughter.”

“what the fuck? no way!”

“don’t speak to me like that. i’m your mother. and you will do as i say. i let you do as you please before, but you’re growing up now. you’re making a name for yourself, a reputation. you are the daughter of the best fashion photographer in the nation and the greatest model to ever walk the runway in this country. you will not be running around galavanting with some boring boy who is ill-suited for a life of fame and fortune. your face is plastered all over magazines; your face will not be plastered all over the covers of tabloids because of some boy. not if i can help it.”

her favourite colour is purple, but all she sees now is red.

“i hate you. you… you witch. i don’t have to listen to you.”

“it doesn’t matter what you think of me. but you are getting rid of him. or would you rather i do something about him, hmm?”

it’s scary, the way her mother barely flinches when she throws a glass vase at the wall, rips the covers of magazines strewn across the coffee table off, watches both their faces be torn in half.

“ihateyouihateyouihateyouihateyou!”

“tell the maids to clean this up when you’re done.”

GREED.

sunglasses that cover half her face shield her from the bright flashing lights. everyone wants her to look their way, but… whatever. she’s great from every angle.

danbi! danbi! how was paris fashion week?

“spectacular.”

danbi! danbi! those photos of you with those italian models…

red lips part to expose pearly white teeth.

danbi! have you heard abou—

“nope.” the clicking of stiletto heels on the airport floor almost drown out the sound of multiple camera shutters going off, guards roughly shoving away eager camera men.

danbi! would you say you’re doing better than your mother did when she was your age?

her laughter is sharp, loud, almost mocking. it sounds eerily like her mother’s, but she won’t comment on that.

“definitely.”