#flame resistance tape

[artsninspo]

Penname: Delta Wise [Sinners]

「 ✦ mbj's charcter archive✦ 」

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authors note: a quick concept I thought up after seeing the movie.

summary: 'Knotty' James owns an apothecary by day, by night she's a bestselling author who writes supernatural black novels under the name. Delta Wise. It's her deepest secret but secrets don't last for the living.

word-count: 1.9K

Knotty

I spent the first eight summers of my life next to my grandmother's rocking chair. She was the only person that was rooted enough not to leave. There was nowhere else for her to go. I was helping her cook by six and then cooking for the both of us by eight. I watched as my parents and cousins dismissed her stories, warnings and tales for nonsense but they always felt true to me where it counted. I wrote down all her stories of life in Chicago and then recorded the rest when I was old enough to have a tape recorder. I was at the retirement community just as much as I was at school. She spoke life over me and she loved me hard. By the time she died I was fifteen and ready for the world with the wisdom of two lifetimes. I was different and people could tell.

What grandma always told me was that a good woman knew how to keep a secret. I have more than my fare share. What my family doesn’t know is that granny’s stories have made me rich. While they think I’m an oddball apothecary owner with peculiar habits. Truth is I’ll never have to make another sale to survive. The doctors and the lawyers look down on me but pride isn’t safe. Neither is the glory of recognition. Grandma's stories were real, so it’s very likely the monsters in my stories are too. 

I search through my closet for something that won’t make them all look down on me too much. I make sure my figure is on display to give them something to talk about as I set my locks free from their braids. The waves cascade to my mid back. I opt for more discrete protections today slipping on pure silver rings and cuffs. Every major artery is adorned with silver from my head to my toes. I slip on a pair of boots. I pull on a light jacket to cover my back. I look at the sun setting and finish my garlic tea with a colonial silver supplement before grabbing my bag and getting into the car.

I don’t make being out after sunset a habit. But Uncle Larry is sick and it’s imperative we party before he goes. He’s grandma's younger brother from her father’s second wife. A proud man that’s done everything to leave Mississippi behind him. When I arrive at the venue there’s a cascade of cars out front. Luxury vehicles that tell the tale of triumph and resistance. When I enter, Kaya is playing the piano and I instantly feel underdressed.

“Come on Knotty, I got you” Carmen smiles, meeting me at the door. We’re equal outsiders because people don’t quite know what to think of me. They think she’s a whore like our great grandmother Pearl who ran off one evening and never came back. Only I know what a blessing that was to everyone that she went up in flames at sunrise. Grandma said she never forgot the man with the scar who’d come by to tell her daddy Pearl was gone and the fantastic tale.

“So how are sales going at the shop?” She asks.

“Good” I smile as she fusses with my hair.

“Well I have a steady trick I don’t have to do anything for now so if you need anything ask.” She says and I smile.

“Thanks Carmen,” I tell her.

“I swear it’s good money,” she says, misreading my smile.

“I believe you” I nod. I do believe her because I’m the trick. Carmen has always been kind so instead of whispering about the onlyfans link in a group chat like everyone else I made an account. I send her money and bible verses because she’s never taken the money from me otherwise. Because to ‘trick’ like I do I’d need more than apothecary. 

“I think I’m gonna quit soon. I almost have enough saved up to make a record. I’ve been taking lessons and my voice is ready. And I have enough to make a really nice music video.” She says, making me smile.

“You were ready before those lessons but I’m happy to hear and if you need anything don’t hesitate to reach out” I tell her.

“What about you and writing? Haven’t seen you with a dreamy eye gleam in front of a computer in a long time” she says and I smile.

“I wrote a herbology and healing book” I remember.

“No no, knotty. Like the big stories you used to tell when we were kids.” She says starting on my makeup.

“What about them?”

“Remember? It’s singing and you’d dream up these amazing ideas for music videos or backgrounds?” She asks like I could forget.

“I do but the apothecary and my garden takes a lot of time” I remind her and she nods.

“Well I think you should take it seriously. If you were that good then. I can imagine about now” she smiles.

“What are you not saying Carmen?” I ask, sensing there’s more to it. She sighs, taking a kindle from her purse. I see my book cover as the Home Screen.

“When someone spends fifty grand on me in a year I investigate.” She says without saying. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you Knotty you’re incredibly successful and you let everyone look down on you. You pay me a salary and never ask for a thank you” she says, far smarter than the rest of them.

“How do the tips trace back?” I ask.

“They didn't. I read the first book a few years ago and it felt like one of Grandma's stories. This last one. That was confirmation. Who could forget the twins?” She whispers.

“Carmen”

“I won’t tell,” she says, swallowing hard. “I won’t” she repeats showing me a silver necklace from Grandma.  “But they’re as excellent as everyone says they are. The minute you let me brag on you I will.” She says but I shake my head.

“Not while they’re still out there”

“But Grandma said they all died” Carmen says.

“She did but you never know” I nod, keeping the rest of the truth from her. The letter I found dated October 17th 1992. From Sammy Scarface himself stating he saw Stack and he didn’t look a day older than the night he died. That Mary was by his side. Mary who was partially to blame for how that night went. Otherwise they would’ve been inside until sunrise.

“Okay miss mystery, we’ll reconvene this later. Just wear this dress and shoes I got you.” She says and I relent slippering into a silver number that better matches the occasion with matching shoes. My clothes are folded and I follow her out of the room and back into the party room.

I’m showered with compliments about my dress and presentation all thanks to Carmen. I take pictures with uncle Larry. When the party’s over I get to my car when I hear someone call me but I don’t listen. I start my engine and head home. When I do I head in backwards like grandma said I should and run a bath before going to bed.

———

I clean up the apothecary after hours knowing I have extra protections in my veins for a little longer. I head to my car as the sunsets and hear someone calling again.

“Hey now! Did I just see you lock up the apothecary. My granny told me I need to get her some fresh dandelion and camomile.” A man says and I step into a sunstreak before looking back to where he stands under the shade of the shops. Brown skin, minimal facial hair, full lips with a hint of a smirk and sunglasses to cover his eyes. He makes me feel uneasy. But I something in me makes me walk towards him. The protection bag tucked in my chest tugs at me. As my silver feels like it starts to hum. But as I get closer it’s like my aura pushes him back. His chain and rings are gold. I open the door stepping in and he does too. No doubt he’s probably already charmed a member of my staff.

“Chamomile and Dandelion? How much?” I ask.

“Eight ounces each” he says and I grab the bags.

“Who’s your grandmother, I don’t think I’d hear the end of a grandson so handsome. The elders are proud people” I smile, flirting.

“Just passing through, she’s out and has a nightly tea ritual” he lies like they all do.

“That’ll be $100” I tell him and he gets a money clip from his pocket instead of pulling out a phone or credit card to pay. He fails my final test when he can’t place the money in my hand. I close the till and grab my key when a woman enters the doorway. She sashays in glaring at me. 

“What’s taking so long baby?” She asks and I should be shitting myself but I’m not. She’s wearing sunglasses too.

“Nothing. I got the goods for Granny” he says holding up the bags to her.

“Heard her flirting” she says making no effort to conceal the impossible. I pretend not to hear from behind the counter and fasten the crossbow around my arm. My belled sleeves cover it and I move from the counter.

“Thanks for your help.” The man smirks.

“Hope your grandmother enjoys her tea” I respond as they file out. I make it to my car fine but I don’t head home. Instead I head to Momma Meringue and she’s standing on her porch when she sees me. Old habit causes her to head into her home. The door is left open as a test and I walk right in after cutting my car off. Her home is full of skylights.

“I think I met Stack and Mary an hour ago,” I confess.

“You did,” she says, showing me a severely patina’d silver cuff. She raises my sleeve and I see my twin pair look just the same. She removes it from me, dropping it into a jewelry cleaner.

“What do they look like?” She asks. And I tell her until there are two perfect pencil sketches. Momma M blinks in rapid succession.

“An unrequited love spell” she says. “The girl's heart was pure until …” her eyes close and she pauses. “He didn’t come back and she learned her husband's bed couldn’t compare to him. She asked for forever and got her wish - not in any way she would have predicted though” Momma finishes.

“Hmm, she was jealous today,” I share.

“Careful he likes a chase. Love spells don’t change men. He misses his brother but is too much of a survivor to consider anything else”

“Any advice? “

“Close the store for a week. Request a new deed, resign and tell your employee’s not to engage with anyone unless they’re inside the store upon reopening.” She says.

“Here’s some silver lotion for the moonlight” she says and I obey because the elders have never steered me wrong. I wash up and sleep at Mama Meringues house but before I go to bed I commit to writing in my journal like my grandmother would have - continuing her story. Then I take photos uploading the pages to the cloud so they can be with hers.

————

If you like it you know what to do, Reblog, comment and like. The girls are asking for sinners so I thought I’d deliver a quickie.

PT 2

_______

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[buriedpentacles]

Hi there! So I have this crush, and I don't see him too often except at work. But we've spoken, he's works in the back of the theater and I work the box. We are on the same email chains and phone number directory. Do you know any spells that could influence him to want to contact me?

That sort of spellwork isn't really my expertise, but here's a few simple charms I've used in the past:

Enchanted Glamour Lipgloss:

Sketch out a sigil with your desired glamour - e.g. mine was "when I speak, people listen" but yours might be "my words draw in [crush's name] like a siren song". Find a lipgloss/lipstick/lipbalm/whatever that makes you feel confident. Softly trace over the sigil with the lipgloss/stick (gently of course so not to damage it), as you do visualise your desire, feel confident and empowered, command the energy you want to show to the world. Keep or dispose of the sigil however you want (I kept mine taped to my mirror for a while!)

This could be a good spell to help you attract interest during your conversations.

Simple Come to Me Spell

This is actually a small spell I used that landed me my current partner! We weren't in contact but both liked each other and I was desperate for him to reach out again, and he did the next day after casting ;)

Find something to represent yourself (I used photo of myself), on the back (if you can) draw a sigil of your desired intention (can you tell that I *really* like sigils). Place a fire safe dish on top of the image and add a small (I used a birthday candle so it wouldn't burn for long) pink candle, carve the person's name into your candle if you can (birthday candles are thin so this is hard). You can also surround this spell with crystals, rocks, heart doodles etc, anything you feel will enhance it. Now, as you light your candle, imagine the person you desire - they are that flame and as it melts down the candle they are drawing closer and closer to you. Imagine how you'll feel when you get that text from him, or how the butterflies in your stomach will flutter when he asks you out.

Pay attention to how the candle reacts - e.g. if the candle doesn't burn all the way down (and you've ruled out mundane reasons) that may be a sign of resistance and a message to disregard the spell.

Let me know if you try either of these and how it goes!! Good luck <3

[lunarw0rks]

can we get a little more of firefighter soap-

firefighter!soap not having a date to one of the fundraisers at the firehouse, so he invites you!!

definitely didn't sneak into his captain's files to find your contact information — that would be silly. but luckily, you find it amusing, and sitting in that hospital bed for days was agonizing.

you'd be daft to pass this up.

showing up to the firehouse, seeing families of the other firefighters, civilians and their children, tables of food, and prizes for the raffles. it's not packed full of people, however a higher turnout than you expected.

and then, most importantly, soap.

wearing his uniform; black slacks that hugged his thighs tight, and polished black boots that gave him a clean-cut look. a fresh shave on his face, still emanating aftershave. and his shirt with the sleeves rolled, to expose his biceps. and over his heart, displaying his badge and the three digits on the outside of the firehouse.

"look at ye, up and walking." he'd say, giving you a friendly side hug while clasping one of your hands. twirls you around slightly, as if to examine how well you've healed.

still, there are small bandages on your body, bruises that finally started to fade, and the soft cast on your wrist. but none of it diminished your beauty.

spending the entire fundraiser at his side, introduced to everyone on his team, and their families. you were out of your element but buzzing with nerves — and as cliché as it was, butterflies. every time you look at him, you remember the relief of seeing his face for the first time; how he cradled you in his arms and pulled you from the flames.

by nightfall, it was mainly the younger crowd left or the older couples without children needing to sleep. through the speaker, top hits played faintly, echoing off the tall walls of the firehouse. there were string lights lining the industrial staircase, attempting and succeeding to give the space an inviting feeling.

each time you looked at the banners and homemade signs, you imagined which ones johnny worked on. picturing him up on one of the ladders, making sure his strips of tape were straight. most of the raffle prizes had been claimed already, leaving miscellaneous home items, or overpriced bath kits.

"are they supposed to be drinking? aren't they on duty?" you chuckled, pointing a finger at two of his fellows, trying their best to hide the beer they smuggled into the party.

johhny shook his head, flashing the whites of his teeth warmly, "aye, they're in for it once all the guests leave."

"oh, is that what i am? just a guest?" you cocked a brow, taking another sip of the punch. he shakes his head, refusing to take his eyes off of you as you walk side by side through the firehouse as if giving you a silent tour of the place. as if he wanted you to show up more, which you wouldn't mind.

"don't do tha' sad face," he finished off his own red cup, tossing it into one of the trash bins. of course, you couldn't resist exaggerating your frown, just to prove your point.

you both made your rounds again, reaching the nearly cleared raffle table. "you know what, i'll get you a prize. how about that?"

intrigued, you tilted your head and nodded, waiting to witness his offer. "lay it on me then."

"let's see..." his fingers roamed along the slim pickings. beer-themed socks? you weren't in a frat. a fuzzy throw blanket? hm, slightly better.

he picked up one of the promising prizes. "oh, what about this? something to add to your beauty routine, eh?" he held up one of the cheap sample kits, sure to irritate your skin more than help it, so you scoffed and acted more unimpressed than you actually felt.

his effort was endearing, and frankly, it was entertaining to watch a tough guy scramble to appease you.

he mumbled a hm, extending out another box to you, which only resulted in more faux disappointment.

"a pressure cooker?" you chuckled. "a fundraiser at a firehouse, and they're giving away pressure cookers..."

he contemplates, clicking his tongue in agreement. he hadn't thought of how hypocritical that was until now. "it's good business, besides, putting out fires is good for the ego." he set the box back down, meeting your gaze for a few seconds.

a small grin appears on his face, "especially if something beautiful comes from the flames." he adds, waiting for the inevitable hitch in your breathing that you try to hard to conceal.

you do just that but end up giving his toned arm a light smack, reminding yourself that there are indeed still people around. and that flirt was as cheesy as the dip bowl you were standing next to.

"what? too soon for that joke, love?"

[misssparklingpaws]

Shadow in the Flame

Chapter 15: The Weight of Command

The mission had gone sideways.

A simple retrieval, intel extraction in a supposedly quiet Hydra remnant base. It wasn’t supposed to be a warzone.

But it became one.

Explosions. Chaos. Ava nearly didn’t phase in time. Yelena was grazed. Alexei took a hit that shattered half his armor. Bob had to go full Void for thirty seconds just to protect the evac zone and even that left scorched concrete and terrified screams in its wake.

And Aria…

Aria had been the one to call the op green.

The mission was a disaster.

It was supposed to be a clean infiltration. In and out. No casualties, no major resistance. But things escalated fast, unexpected tech, backup arriving too quickly, and an ambush that turned the clean op into a scramble for survival.

Yelena limped to her room after muttering something about needing vodka and a bath. Alexei grumbled his way down the hall with ice packs taped to his ribs. Even Ava looked visibly shaken. Bucky gave Aria a long look at the elevator doors, but said nothing before heading to the infirmary.

Silence hung heavy.

Aria stood alone in the mission room. Blood crusted at her temple. Her right shoulder ached from the fall. Her jaw was clenched like a trap.

The screens still glowed with the mission feed. Red alerts. Flashes of chaos.

She hated failure. But worse, she hated risking the people she’d sworn to lead.

She could still hear Yelena's cry through comms, the moment things went sideways.

Her fist curled, and she slammed it against the console. “Fuck.”

She stood in the center of the room, still in her tactical suit, smudged with ash, blood and regret. One arm wrapped across her ribs, bruised. The rest of the team had long since limped off to medbay or their rooms.

But not Bob.

He leaned against the door frame, watching her like he could feel her soul curling inward.

“You should be resting,” she said, voice flat, hollow.

“So should you.”

Aria turned her back to him. “I misjudged. I failed. People got hurt, this was my strategy. My call. They got hurt because of me.”

“Because we got outnumbered. Because the intel was wrong. Not because of you.”

“I’m supposed to know better.”

He stepped closer. “You do. But sometimes things go sideways, and it’s no one’s fault.”

She whipped around then, eyes flashing. “Don’t, don’t do that. Don’t try to coddle me. I don’t need someone standing there saying it’s fine when it’s not.”

He touched her shoulder, and she flinched.

“Don’t,” she said, voice cracking. “Don’t try to fix it. I’m not broken. I don’t need to be held.”

“I’m not here to fix you,” he said softly. “I’m here to stand with you. Even when you hate yourself.”

She stayed frozen. A breath caught in her throat.

“I know what you're doing,” he said, quieter. “You’re trying to shoulder it all. Like always. But not this time.”

Her gaze flicked up. “Why?”

“Because I love you,” Bob said. “And I’m not letting you bury yourself again.”

For a beat, she said nothing. Her throat tightened.

She hated this. Hated how he saw her, really saw her and didn’t flinch. Most people looked at her and saw the Stark name, the armor, the walls she’d built so precisely. He looked past all of it. Straight into the mess. The grief. The rage. The part of her that had never fully come back from the Snap.

And he didn’t run. He stayed.

That terrified her more than anything.

Because maybe, just maybe, if she let herself believe him, she’d start hoping. And hope was dangerous. It made you soft. It made you vulnerable.

It made you human.

Her fingers clenched around the glass. She wanted to speak, to deflect, to laugh it off with some snide remark but nothing came. Just the echo of his words, reverberating in the fragile place she thought she’d buried for good.

When she spoke, her voice was thin, almost breaking.

“They almost died,” she whispered. “I could’ve come back home without you.”

“But they didn’t,” Robert said gently. “And I’m here.”

“I” Her lip trembled, just barely. She bit it to keep it steady. “I can't lose people again, Bob. I won’t survive it.”

The words slipped out like a confession she hadn’t meant to make, raw and trembling at the edges. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, as if bracing for impact for rejection, or pity, or the silence that usually followed when she cracked.

But he didn’t recoil. He didn’t run.

He stepped closer, cupping her face carefully, his touch grounding. “Then don’t push them away. Don’t push me away.”

She inhaled sharply, blinking fast. He leaned forward, resting his forehead gently against hers.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Even when it’s not clean. Even when you’re breaking.”

“I don’t know how to let it go,” she said. “I feel like if I do… if I stop blaming myself… I won’t care enough the next time. And someone will die.”

Bob stepped in closer, gently tilting her face up with his hand.

“You care so much it’s eating you alive. But you don’t have to do that alone.”

Her eyes were glassy now, and her mask slipping, exhaustion, fear, guilt.

And maybe… hope.

When he wrapped his arms around her, she didn’t pull away. She rested her bruised forehead against his chest and let herself finally… breathe.

They stood there in silence for a long time, two soldiers broken in different ways.

Until she whispered, “Stay.”

He kissed the top of her head.

“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

---

The door to Aria’s master suite clicked shut behind them.

She moved like she always did after a mission gone wrong composed on the outside, but clenched so tightly inside she might snap. Her fingers went to unzip her blouse.

“Leave it,” Bob said, voice low firmer than usual.

She paused, eyes narrowing curiously.

He stepped in close, closing the space between them with slow, deliberate energy. “You’re not getting in of your own head tonight. I won’t let you.”

“Oh?” Her brows lifted in challenge.

He didn’t flinch. He gripped her wrist not harsh, but decisive and walked her backward until her thighs hit the bed.

“You keep thinking you have to control everything, everyone, me,” he murmured, his hand tracing up her waist to her jaw. “But you don’t.”

“And who does?” she whispered, voice low and charged.

“I do. Tonight, I do.” He said and pushed her to the bed.

Then he kissed her nothing like his usual gentle touches. It was deep, claiming, a growl of emotion let loose in the shape of a kiss. His hands stripped the shirt off her before she could react, tossing it aside with one motion.

Aria gasped, surprised but not resisting.

He pulled off his shirt with one hard tug, his lean body toned, defined, the hint of his abs catching making her mouth water.

“Close your mouth, Stark,” he smirked. “You’ll need it in a minute.”

Her eyes darkened. “Oh, so you’re that kind of man now?”

“I’m your kind.”

He dragged her to the edge of the bed, tearing at her clothes, spreading her legs with a firm grip. Then he kissed a path down her throat like he was marking territory. She arched into him, eyes closed, her usual biting wit dissolving into soft, ragged sighs.

"Oh god" Aria said breathless "You're amazing".

“Open your eyes Stark, I want you to see who is in charge tonight” Bob said as he pressed in her, hard, thick.

Later tangled, breathless, flushed she was quiet, her hand resting on his chest as he held her from behind.

She didn’t speak often after sex. Usually just laid there, back up, breathing even.

But tonight was different.

“Move in here,” she murmured, her voice small in the dark.

He froze.

“In my suite.”

He turned her gently so she faced him, eyes searching hers. “You want that?”

“I don’t ask for things,” she admitted. “But I’m asking now.”

He brushed hair back from her face, fingers curling behind her neck. “Good. Because I was already planning on staying.”

“And all your things?”

“I’ll move it tomorrow. Or set it on fire. Don’t care. Long as I’m waking up next to you.”

Aria gave the smallest smirk.

“You’re such a simp.”

He rolled on top of her again, pinning her arms. “Yeah? Say it again after I ruin you.”

She didn’t.

She just pulled him down to kiss her again.

[shadowkoo]

seventeen masterlist

wips ☾ updates ☾ ao3 ☾ main m.list ☾ kofi ☾ taglist ☾ tape credit ☾ raven's shadow realm

©shadowkoo 2017-2025. All rights reserved. Disclaimers can be found at the bottom of this post.

𝖑𝖊𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖉:

ongoing - ✎ | completed - ✓

hiatus ✧ | discontinued - ✗

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

Drink It Over ✓ ↠ friends to lovers ↠ 3.1k | estimated reading time 15 minutes

Frustrated after another disastrous date and an uncomfortably long dry spell, you drunkenly confide in your best friend about your dick dilemma, or lack thereof. You need a little help getting off, and to your surprise (and maybe a little amusement) he’s more than willing to step up, turning a simple ‘friendly favor’ into something that just might change everything.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

Up In Flames ✓ ↠ firefighter au, smut, slowburn ↠ 42.7k total | estimated reading time 2 hrs 40 minutes

When your sister calls with an emergency, you drop everything to house-sit while she’s out of town. What she forgets to mention is that her fiancé’s friend, a handsome stranger who might have saved your life earlier, is already expecting to stay there too. Awkwardly sharing the space, you manage to get through two weeks with Seungcheol—only to unexpectedly cross paths again when he saves you from another dangerous situation outside your therapist’s office. Seungcheol, a wildland firefighter, is back in the city taking his leave and debating whether to join Station 17 or return home. While sorting out his own issues, he keeps finding himself in situations where he has to save you—the fiery, stubborn little sister of his best friend’s fiancée who has a terrible habit of calling him the most obnoxious nicknames ever. Despite your resistance to being rescued (and his denial of how much you affect him), the sparks between you two continue to ignite. As you grow closer, it’s only a matter of time before everything goes up in flames.

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

soon…

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

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𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

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𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

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𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

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𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

Bad Influence ✓ ↠ s2l, smut, pwp, nightclub au ↠ 1.6k | estimated reading time 5 minutes

In a dark, pulsing nightclub packed with strangers, you’re just looking for a good time—free drinks, dirty dancing, maybe a hot kiss or two. But when Mingyu finds you on the dance floor, he changes the game entirely. What starts as harmless teasing spirals into a filthy, no-boundaries encounter right there in the crowd. And by the end of it, you're not sure who’s corrupting who.

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

soon…

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

soon…

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

What Friends Are For ✓ ↠ f2l, virgin/first time au ↠ 2.8k | estimated reading time 10 minutes

When your closest friend confides in you with something truly surprising, it’s only natural to step in and offer your assistance, because that’s what true friends do, right?

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

𝖔𝖓𝖊𝖘𝖍𝖔𝖙𝖘

soon…

𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖘

soon…

𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖇 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖘

Station Seventeen ↠ firefighter au, rap line, smut

Introducing Station Seventeen—a sizzling firefighter-themed collaboration that delves into the lives of four fearless friends, united by their relentless devotion to danger, duty, and desire. Each story peels back the layers of one hero, revealing their triumphs on the frontlines, battles within, and the smoldering romances that ignite when they least expect it. From facing the searing heat of blazing infernos to navigating the even hotter trials of betrayal and forbidden love, these stories are a perfect blend of pulse-pounding action and raw, emotional passion. At Station Seventeen, courage burns bright, brotherhood runs deep, and love is the fire they never saw coming.

𝖉𝖎𝖘𝖈𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖒𝖊𝖗𝖘:

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[zoroara]

Okay here's probably a surprise from someone who like Squalo so fucking much. I actually believe Squalo should lose the rain battle as he does(or if one goes about changing it that he should still lose in the end due to how he is). I will go into it below but it is going to be so fucking long. This is both breaking down the "realism" argument and the "Narrative" argument(though, this battle should honestly only be looked through the latter lens due to that being the purpose of it.) Anyway, let's break it down.

First and for most I'm going to attack the idea that because Squalo is more skilled he should not have lost "realistically", important thing to know, in any realistic scenario Squalo almost definitely would not win.

He is only a threat because of the fact that Yamamoto is new, Squalo's sword is literally without a doubt, shit. I have to be level about this because I hate this fucking thing with a passion because from a sword fighting perspective he has done literally everything wrong with this damn thing.

The only type of blade like this that had been intended to be fought with is a Calvary weapon, it isn't made for melee and genuinely just. Sucks when you use it like he is. It severely limits his options, trapping him to only using the exact same arm with the exact same maximum strength behind each swing, with the exact same maximum length. The ability to switch between one handed and two handed is a massively important thing with swords which is why smaller swords that you can do both with were the most common type. It keeps pressure on your opponent and gives you a much bigger variety of options. Not to mention with how it's attached to his hand in the past and future with what is only bandages in the present, and only a few red straps in the future.

This shit is so god damn unstable it's impressive his sword didn't just fly off when he blocked a hit. Do the same thing with some tape and a ruler and you'll know exactly how quick that blade will shift at the smallest amount of resistance that any strike with it would have landed lighter than intended, and I don't mean lighter in terms of strength behind it(though it would be partially). I mean all his cuts would end up shallow, he'd be incredibly ineffective. This is literally the second worst blade of khr and this one unlike that one isn't made of flame so it has no excuse(apologies this sword pisses me off to no end). You have to fundamentally change how this fucking sword is built for it to be even fucking slightly good, this ain't it chief.

Next, here's a major things, there is a reason there is a saying "The first best swordsman doesn't have to to fear the second best, he has to fear the beginner" because it's fundamentally true. Squalo would never fear fighting another master because masters have all become set in their ways, their techniques, you can read them and break into their weaknesses. But, Yamamoto isn't a master, and throughout the battle, he is evolving rapidly. Squalo by the end of the battle relies incredibly on the things that he had seen before, he threw out his caution because he "seen it before" by the point of Yamamoto throwing out the eighth move.

Squalo had grown too used to being able to read his opponent that when he saw Yamamoto going for something new, he instead relied on things he's seen before, things he expected, a surprise attack, which was his downfall, he had stopped taking Yamamoto seriously after the 8th form.

He had prosthetic, to snap backwards in case of sneak attacks, because he expected this move so much. When something wasn't as he expected he defaulted to this and the reflection on the water convinced him of it.

You can't read a newbie and that's what's the most terrifying thing for a master to fight. In fact, it's implied that Squalo beat Tyr the very same way as Yamamoto defeated him. It's stated that in the same battle as Tyr that he perfected his current style, meaning all of his techniques, but notably they say scontro di squalo is in fact what was used to defeat Tyr. It implies the sense that he created it during this battle, but what I find interesting about scontro di squalo, is that it's just flailing his sword around as he runs forward. This would be a move, only someone new and desperate would have come up with in reality.

It would throw off any master because of it's sheer recklessness. But once again, Yamamoto isn't a master and thus it's major advantage, is lost. Regardless, Squalo used to do the same as Yamamoto did and that's how he won there, but he made the mistake of believing his move set as perfect thus stagnating afterwards. His pride in his success and abilities, were his downfall in this match. Additionally Squalo's pride affecting his fighting was evident, in sword fighting you never dodge if possible it's really bad to because typically, you will not fucking succeed. Your legs are last in the orders of operations it's generally better and safer to block, parry and counter your enemy than it is to dodge. The fact that Squalo dodged a strike he knew was coming shows that he was over-estimating his own abilities and understanding of this style.

Finally the argument that Yamamoto would not be as strong as squalo is. Incorrect. In fact baseball actually engages the same muscle as sword fighting, and terrifyingly, there's one difference people do not typically account for when cross examining weapons. Which is, blunt objects naturally need more force behind them to do their work, while blades will typically have less resistance against the body. This means Yamamoto likely has a much higher swing strength than Squalo does with how violently he plays it, Yamamoto is like on, 'exploding a bird with a baseball pitch' level of play, and that WILL go into his swings.

If we were being realistic, should have broken Squalo's bones several times over with his back of the sword hits. It should be noted, the back of the sword while an anime trope of not being as dangerous, is actually just as dangerous or more so especially in the hands of someone used to using a blunt type of weaponry(in this case a baseball bat) the thin metal is heavy and powerful enough that the pressure on it would instead focus all the energy there, causing heavy bruising in the best of cases and something to break in the worst. Yamamoto's final move against Squalo, should it have hit his neck could have completely paralyzed the man from the neck down, or if it hit his skull, could have easily cracked and caved it in, and that's not bringing the additional momentum from it being a a strike with power added to it in the air. It is that bad. Notably, in the manga it appears Yamamoto switches the blade to the flat(not the back, this is the wide part of the blade) halfway through the strike so that it hits like that on the impact.

While this does typically lessen damage, it's mostly because striking like this creates more air resistance and slows down the blade before impact. However switching like Yamamoto does cuts down the slow and it would in fact do a lot of a damage. As even when it has more air resistance, a strike on the head like this is typically at minimum hard enough to stun a person. Which does explain why Squalo wakes up a few seconds after. But regardless, Yamamoto is perfectly capable of wrecking Squalo's shit even without physically training for the sword(which he did in fact do before this too but you know) in fact the fact he didn't kill Squalo in this match is impressive.

I want to additionally note the above, that Yamamoto's sword in the manga after is warping up and down like a door stop with so much energy put into it. Swords do wobble a bit when hit like this they have a bit of bend. But not THIS much typically. With the amount of force you'd need to do this to a sword you're more likely to fucking shatter it, now imagine doing that with solid metal against someone's fucking HEAD. The only thing preventing Squalo from dying from that is well the fact he is a cockroach and can't fucking die.

Now that we got that out of the way, we will now be looking at what type of fight this is. Battle manga focuses on battles it's in the name. But the important thing to know, is that there are several types of fights of which they can be categorized. I usually use 3 types(Narrative, Show, and Goal), though they can be mixed and matched but they cannot replace each other. They have different purposes and replacing one with another can in fact incredibly negatively impact how the story flows and character arcs grow, especially if you replace it with a show fight(one that focuses on a. character skills or b. entertainment value). But fundamentally what's important to know, is that the above that I've picked apart doesn't actually matter due to the type of fight it is.

You see, this is what I call a narrative fight(it is also mixed with a "goal" fight.) A narrative fight is something that explores the character and teaches them something that changes their character. It also is set to show something to the audience about the two characters fighting. Not their strength and their abilities, it's about their personalities, beliefs so on, things that can't actually be quantified. Almost all of the Varia arc fights are narrative fights. Fundamentally, in order to achieve what needed to be achieved, Squalo would and should never be able to get his hands on that ring.

Aside from the fact that Squalo would just kill any opponent he wins against if he doesn't have a reason not to(and in the case of the rain battle there's nothing there protecting Yamamoto). The rain battle is a battle of a lot of things. It is to teach Yamamoto humility, it is to show Yamamoto's progress from when he got his ass beat by squalo, it's to show the intense flaws of Squalo's pride, it's to show that insurmountable odds are possible to beat. Remember they're going 1 - 3(due to tsuna losing the sky ring) they're at an intense low point if yamamoto loses it's 1 - 4, which is more than half of the rings. But it's also about change. Yamamoto's entire style is about change. Squalo's isn't. Squalo's is incredibly ridged and stuck as it is.

For Squalo to win is to deny change is important, to say he is completely correct in being a prideful dick. To teach Yamamoto that this is correct, is very bad, because if Yamamoto were to fully follow Squalo in this? He would also stagnate the same way Squalo had. By breaking free of the competitive nature and seeing past the boxes of most sword styles with one that continues to evolve and encourages this. It's a battle of self reflection, and Yamamoto does this looking back over the battle, his last statements of it being flawless and invincible, is not a statement made to genuine belief that it will never change, but is a statement that because it changes it can always become something that will never truly be killed. But it's also something that pisses Squalo off, and Yamamoto is purposely saying it as a response, to goad Squalo into attacking. To blind him with his own pride and rage, to the new changes to the style, for Squalo to not see that Yamamoto has figured something out and isn't just being stubborn.

It never mattered who was truly better, because this fight is to double as a lesson. Should Squalo win cleanly or not punished for his pride, for being blinded by it, Yamamoto will not learn to grow. The battle is tailored to this, and changing it without understanding the narrative reasons as to why it ended up this way would ruin it's impact. It's not perfect it needs to be cleaned up a little with some dialogue changes and such, but honestly, the only thing that changing it would succeed in at best is a side grade should you make it so Squalo still loses. Or it loses it's impact should Squalo win.

I love the man I truly do, but this? This is one of the only fights where I will say he should lose. Other fights with him are much more arguably loose on which way they should go, but this? This one is a narrative battle that had complete purpose to his loss through and through. Squalo losing here serves a great purpose. He didn't even learn from it much which is a shame, but not surprisingly due to his character and what he represents. Which may be why he doesn't win any further up, because he does refuse to self reflect in any capacity.

[darkmaga-returns]

Palisades Fire ‘Crime Scene’. MAUI 2.0. Trump Plans to End the IRS. Trump’s going to WEF Davos 2025. S. Korea’s president detained. Pezeshkian: Iran never plotted to kill Trump. Mark Zuckerberg Lied.

Lioness of Judah Ministry

Jan 15, 2025

Return Of Strong Winds Spark "Dangerous Situation" Across Fire-Ravaged Palisades

One week after the fires in Los Angeles County began, the blazes remain out of control, scorching nearly 40,000 acres and leveling entire neighborhoods.

On Tuesday, winds are expected to gust between 45 and 70 mph, accompanied by dry air, significantly increasing the risk of fire spread. The National Weather Service has issued "Particularly Dangerous Situation Red Flag Warnings" for L.A. and Ventura counties through Wednesday evening, warning that "this setup is about as bad as it gets." Strong gusts could derail any progress made by firefighters early this week across two of the main fires, the Palisades and Eaton fires. The blazes have burned upwards of 40,000 and leveled entire neighborhoods and burned more than 12,000 structures. At least 24 people have died, with the death toll expected to rise.

Palisades Fire ‘Crime Scene’ Gives Clues to Inferno’s Origin

Investigators trying to trace the origin of a Los Angeles County wildfire that is devastating parts of America’s second-largest city believe it may have originated in a known hiking area.

Authorities have taped off a ridge overlooking Los Angeles as they investigate the origin of the Palisades Fire, describing the area as a “crime scene.” The wildfire, which caused the destruction of thousands of homes and businesses and claimed at least eight lives, remains uncertain. However, investigators are scrutinizing the site for clues, as evidenced by the police tape. Dominic Choi, the assistant Los Angeles police chief, says “there has been no definitive determination that it is arson”—but he has not ruled it out.

Wildfire Woes: California Regulators Halted Palisades Fire Prevention Project to Save Rare Shrub

Nearly 24,000 acres - including much of Topanga Canyon - have gone up in smoke...

California’s eco-regulators halted a critical wildfire prevention project near Pacific Palisades to protect an endangered shrub - only for that same area to be engulfed in flames during the Palisades Fire, the most destructive blaze in Los Angeles history. In 2019, the LA Department of Water and Power (LADWP) set out to replace aging wooden power poles - some nearly a century old - with fire-resistant steel poles and widen fire-access lanes in the wildfire-prone Topanga State Park. The $2 million project was designed to bolster fire safety after the area was deemed an "elevated fire risk."

MAUI 2.0: They just admitted LA Fires are a carbon copy of Lahaina

Trump Announces Plan to End the IRS

President-elect Donald J. Trump announced he intends to create a new revenue agency that will effectively end the need for the Internal Revenue Service (IRS), which oversees the federal taxation of Americans.

Instead, the President-elect proposes an External Revenue Service (ERS), which will serve as the central point for collecting tariffs, duties, and other taxes and fees on foreign goods. This revenue source, he believes, will supplant the need for the federal income tax. “For far too long, we have relied on taxing our Great People using the Internal Revenue Service (IRS). Through soft and pathetically weak Trade agreements, the American Economy has delivered growth and prosperity to the World, while taxing ourselves.

[nara2032]

TAKE A BITE CHAPTER TWO: RECALL

[The younger]

I woke to grey and silence deep,

A lullaby that stings into sleep.

But wrongness curled around my skin,

A shadow scratching soft within.

I saw the words, they’re not to choose,

A medical term: the thoughts I lose.

I read it once. I read again.

My breath began to stutter then.

Each time I sleep, it’s all just new.

The pain erased. The lies come true.

Who was I when I wasn’t scared?

Who is he when he says he cared?

There he was.. my brother, still.

His smile like glass, too calm, too chill.

He held a plate. “You must be weak.

Here something sweet. Just eat don’t speak.”

His voice was silk, too loving, too kind,

And something coiled inside my spine.

“No,” I said. “I don’t want this.”

His gaze darkened behind the bliss.

He stepped in close. I stepped behind,

The fog hissed low “you cannot hide.”

“You used to thank me,” he began,

“Here take a bite.” A different man.

I snapped. “No!” My hands rose high,

The plate he held went flying by.

It left his hand, it hit the floor,

A splatter sweet that masked the gore.

And he? He laughed, he laughed like frost,

A perfect thing that knows it’s lost.

Then sudden hands, a viper’s dart,

Clamped on the back beneath my heart.

He grabbed my neck just where it bends.

With love that howls, with grace that ends.

Then swept a piece from off the floor,

The filth, the rot, his hands want more.

The taste.. defeat. The scent.. deceit.

Loneliness clothed in something so sweet.

And all the while, the term is mine,

the only proof I was not fine.

The hint that I was always caught..

a beast of habit, a man forgot.

CHAPTER THREE: STRUGGLE

[the younger]

It waited silent on the shelf,

a book of us. A younger self.

I reached. My hands did not resist.

The past, it begged me to exist.

Page after page, two boys in sun,

laughing like time had just begun.

But then… a photo. Wrong. Not right.

His eyes too wide. His face too white.

And scrawled beneath black ink ran:

“Do not. Do not believe that man.”

My breath caught sharp. My knees gave in.

The truth had pierced my fragile skin.

A scream erupted in my head,

A buried past, long thought as dead.

He was no angel. He was the plague.

He fed me lies then bent my leg.

I ran. I ran. I searched for light,

For something real to grip that night.

A tape recorder, metal, gray,

A voice to hold my truth at bay.

“To me,” I said, “remember this:

He bruises through the gentlest hiss.”

But just as truth was set to save,

He came.. so calm, so soft, so grave.

“It’s better gone, you see? My dear.”

“just stay with me, forever near.”

The photo burned between his hands.

He smiled like one who understands.

“Let’s not be cruel,” he said, amused.

“I only took what you abused.”

The fire devoured. The ink was dust.

Fell on my back. Flames swallowed rust.

And in the ash, I saw him grin..

He who remains beneath my skin.

I reached to scream. The world turned black.

I felt myself. Undone.. then back.

—Nara’s Lines.

—————————————————

[Next chapter: return to zero]

“The drawer is open. The novel is gone. The room is silent. The fire is on.”

[light-speed-saint]

The door to Ashley’s building is locked, but I have runes to fix that. I keep a hold of the knob to make sure that it doesn’t slam as I step silently over the threshold. I put my weight slowly on to each of the steps that lead up to Ashley’s apartment, so that their creaking doesn’t betray my presence as I climb. Another quick set of runes undoes the lock on the door to her unit, and lets me slip silently inside. 

The living room is a mess. It has Soft pink walls cast in the unsteady glow of candlelight, with all Ashley’s furniture and belongings shoved against the wall or piled on to her desk, making space for a circle of salt. Within the circle are four candles, one for each cardinal direction. Only three are lit. Ashley is on her knees, setting her lighter to the fourth, the west candle, when she catches sight of me. “Already come to beg for this pussy?” She stands slowly, showing off the way her too small tank-top and the linen of her long skirt cling to her lovely curves. Her eyes sparkle in the half light, luminous with arrogance and triumph as she brags “I hoped you would last a little bit longer, the spell I put on you must be more—” 

Ashley’s words are cut off as I grab her throat, keeping my grip just tight enough to make her fight for each breath. I push her backwards; forcing her into the middle of the ring of salt and flame. She yelps as I spin her around and starts to struggle as I gather her wrists at the small of her back. She fights with a wild and desperate abandon, but I am strong enough that its not even an inconvenience. When she settles down, I wrap the tape, slowly and carefully, around her wrists. Even in the heat of my ire I don’t want to cause any lasting harm. 

Only when she is bound do I let my hands start to explore Ashley’s body. I pull her close so she can feel the solidness of my body against hers, and the slow powerful movement of my sinews when my hand slip under the hem of her tank top. I savour the soft skin of her belly against my fingertips, the supple weight of her breasts in my palms. My thumb passing over her nipple is all it takes to make Ashley squirm and whimper. 

“This will be easier for both of us if you’re a good girl who doesn’t resist.” I whisper into her ear. Ashley believes me. She trembles but sinks compliantly as I guide her onto her knees and then lay her gently on her back, right in the middle of her casting circle. My knife flicks out, its blade flashes orange, red, and silver in the candlelight. I cut slowly through Ashleys tank top, listening to the low tearing sound of the threads like it’s a sonata, then slide her skirt and her panties down from her hips with one smooth motion, feeling her shake as I do. 

Lying naked and bound, Ashley is helpless to stop me from indulging my most animalistic desires. But my stealth and my spells serve a deeper purpose. Ashley’s lip shakes as I touch the point of my knife to her collar bone. I am careful not to draw blood as I let it drift slowly down her chest, letting Ashley feel the bite of steel on her tender skin as I tell her “You tried to put a love spell on me.” 

She doesn’t speak as the knife moves between her breasts. When she finally gathers the courage to say anything Ashley says “I’m sorry, okay! let me go and I’ll—” 

“Do you know how to break a love spell?” I ask, as my knife flows down Ashley’s belly in a lazy zig zag. 

She struggles a little then moans in frustration. “No.” She admits. “I just cast them.” 

“There are two ways.” Ashley’s eyes glitter as I slide my fingers past her lips, into her mouth. “The oldest one is called ‘pricking the witch.’ Essentially you draw blood until all the casters magic is gone.” I stay silent a few seconds, letting Ashley feel my knife against her skin and the pressure of my fingers in her mouth; the swift beating of her heart. I look into her eyes as I flip the blade away. “But I don’t like such messy and outdated methods. There’s a newer, less gory way to handle the situation you’ve put us in.” I pause again, run a hand down from Ashley’s throat. I explore, caressing and groping. Playing with her breasts as she trembles. Then my hand glides down Ashley’s stomach and along the curve of her hip. My fingertips reach the edge of her vulva where I move them up and down in a slow, teasing motion. In a gentle whisper I tell Ashley that “You got us into this predicament, so I am going to let you choose how we get out. What will it be pretty girl? The new way, or the old?” I flash the knife out once more, its edge glinting in the half light. 

“The new.” Ashleys voice is soft and breathy as she begs. “Please please please the new.” 

“I hoped you would say that.” I smile down at my helpless captive. 

I roll Ashley onto her back, taking the opportunity to squeeze possessive fingers into the vulnerable flesh of her ass and pulling the cuffs from my bag before carefully cutting through the tape. The floor is hard, I don’t want my victim injuring herself as she squirms. There are four cuffs, each one connected to a ring of steel by a leather strap. It all forms an X that will hold Ashley in place while I work my spell. Because she is compliant and stays still, I can take my time with the cuffs; making sure that each one will restrain my beautiful captive while allowing for blood flow. When I am satisfied with my work, I turn Ashley on to her back once more. “Now pretty girl, the real fun starts.” I take out the jar of ink and place it on the floor, keeping it within easy reach but far enough away that Ashley won’t knock it over when she struggles. And she will struggle. 

The ink itself is cold and viscus, Ashley shivers when I touch it to her skin. “What are you going to do? Torture me until I recant my spell?” Her voice is defiant, but I can feel Ashley’s heart galloping with fear as I draw a circle over her chest. Within the circle I draw four diagonal lines, adding a fifth horizontal line would complete the star and make a pentagram, but its not yet time for that. Outside the circle at each point of the unfinished star a draw sigil. One each for Hekate, Athena, Aphrodite, Hades, and Dionysus. 

I wipe the excess ink from my fingers onto Ashley’s thigh and take a vibrator from my bag. I set it on low and make a slow circuit around Ashley’s clit as I tell her that “Pain can be a useful tool in magic, but its clumsy and doesn’t suit my purpose.” Ashley shivers as the first sparks of pleasure flash in her nervous system. “You can break people more profoundly using ecstasy.” I say, keeping the vibrator in place but leaning in close to whisper “And I am going to break you, Ashley Jennifer Williams.” The vibrator slides easily into her soaked cunt. “You’re so wet pretty girl. You’re not enjoying this are you?” 

The embers of pleasure burning in Ashley’s brain keep her from answering. She just lies there, chest heaving and mouth open. She can’t do anything but squirm. As the sensation of being fucked gets more intense the unfocused gleam in her eyes tells me all that I need to know. I stand up, placing my foot on Ashley’s stomach, above the vibrator but below the pentagram. I look down, taking in the whole image of her beautiful helplessness as I tell Ashley “Before I let you come you are going to tell me, tell the world, what a pathetic little whore you are. You’re going to tell us that your purpose, your only purpose, is to serve [Light Speed Saint]. That you exist to be my little fuck doll. That I own you body, mind, and soul. Do you understand?” 

“That’s not fair.” Ashley complains. “You can’t expect—” She recovers her bravery only until I use my phone to turn up the intensity of the vibrator and melt her thoughts away. She lies bound beneath my feet as bliss illuminates every nerve fibre. It shines out from between her thighs to reach the tips of her toes and depths of her brain. Just when an orgasm is ready to flash through her body like wildfire, I take it all away. 

Ashley can do nothing but moan petulantly. “I’m sorry okay.” She whines, pulling at her restraints. “I didn’t mean to—” 

I turn the power of the vibrator back up. The sudden shock of pleasure catches Ashley off guard; leaves her jaw gaping. “You know what you have to say.” I watch the helpless little twitches she makes as the pleasure builds again. Her toes curl and uncurl. Her leg shakes as her desperation grows. “Fuck” Ahsley squeaks “Fuck fuck fuck.” 

Ashley’s quivers get quicker and deeper as the heat of her need rises. I pull her back from the edge. She whimpers, all her defiance is gone, in its place is a helpless and animalistic desire. I crouch beside her, keeping my touch soft as my hand moves up and down her body. Instead of turning the power of the vibrator back up, I tease her nipples. Sending small, targeted jolts of stimulation instead of a shock of pleasure. “You’re fighting so hard.” I observe. “But you know how good it would feel to give in. Think of it. Bliss exploding through your body like a fire work. All your heavy, cumbersome thoughts disappearing in a rain of glorious sparkle. You’d be a little slave doll, free of worry and strife.” 

“I won’t.” Ashley manages to gasp. “I can’t—" She’s cut off by her own whimper as I turn the vibrator back up. “I can’t- I- I- I’m a pathetic little whore. My only purpose is to serve [Light Speed Saint]. I exist to be his, to be your, good little fuck doll. Your obedient little toy. I surrender my body, my mind, my soul to [Light Speed Saint].” 

At long last I turn the vibrator to high and leave it there. Ashley’s stomach moves up and down like waves on the sea. The quivers in her legs spread to her whole body, and her jaw hangs open as she gives a high, lilting moan. Bliss flashes like lightning; burns through every synapse in her body. The heat and light of ecstasy evaporate her thoughts and her words, leave Ashley in a pleasant daze of submission, just as I promised. 

I don’t turn down the intensity of the vibrator right away, so the pleasure is still burning; keeping Ashley a twitching, whimpering mess as I draw the last line of the pentagram and accept her surrender. “Hear O spirits.” I command. “Hear that I claim this girl, Ashley Jennifer Williams. With the power of Athena, I claim her mind. With the power of Aphrodite, I claim her body.” I watch the steady up and down movements of my new slave girl’s breasts and the steady sparkle in her eyes and say “With the power of Hekate, I claim her soul.” Ashley doesn’t say anything, just whimpers and arches her back; the flame of pleasure growing under my spell. 

Ashley moans softly as I pull the vibrator from her pussy. Her eyes are bright but empty, shining with the last embers of her thoughts. I undo the cuffs on her ankles, bring Ashley up to her knees. I brush stray hairs from her face as she smiles up at me in peaceful adoration. I run my fingers through her hair and ask “Are you ready to worship your master, like a good fuck doll?” 

“Yes master.” She says softly “please let me worship you.” 

I touch Ashley’s lip as I instruct her to “Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.” She obeys with out thinking, parting her lips to let her tongue slide out. I keep her this way for a few seconds; a naked, mind broken whore, offering her mouth for my use. I open the fly on my jeans, revealing my cock, and grab Ashley by the back of her head. I run her tongue back and forth along the sides of my cock before I use her to make a single long lick along the bottom, from the base all the way to the tip. 

I plunge into Ashley’s mouth, fucking it slowly for the first few strokes. Savouring the warmth and wetness and submission. But pleasure lights in me as well. The soft mmph mmph mmph of her gags get louder and their rhythm faster as I quicken my pace. The pleasure of my slave doll’s body builds. Its most intense at the tip of my cock but radiates out, reaching my extremities. Soon my nervous system flashes with it. My hot cum spills onto Ashley’s tongue and I withdraw. 

For a few seconds I close my eyes and let myself float. The world and its cares have been banished to some unreachable and intangible place. I know that they will return. I open my eyes to look down at Ashley again, just as she says “Thank you, master.” A little of my cum spills on to her now irrevocably peaceful smile, and I cannot help wondering who got the best of my spell.

[fangirlingfromdownunder]

24th Day of Christmas

Newspaper & Duct Tape

Summary/Prompt: The reader receives a gift wrapped in newspaper and duct tape.

Pairing - Dean Winchester x Reader

A/N: Merry Christmas Day to those in Australia and surrounding countries who are celebrating today. I know I have been! Will have one final part tomorrow on our Boxing Day. I hope you have enjoyed these imagines throughout the month :)

Christmas Masterlist | Masterlist

You watch as the flames flicker below you in the grave you and Dean had just painstakingly dug. Having been thrown all around a decrepit house by the restless spirit, you don’t even feel bad for using the flames to heat your freezing and aching body. 

“Welp, Merry Christmas…” Dean says as he starts to cover the flames with the dirt to refill the grave. 

You let out a silent laugh as you pick up your shovel and help. An hour later you’re finally back in the motel. Dean offers for you to go first. Honestly, you’re a little surprised he didn’t make some joke about joining you, but you brush it off and rush into the bathroom. You strip off your sweaty, dirt and blood-covered clothes and stand under the warm water. You scrub every inch of your body until you finally feel clean. You wrap a towel around your body and return to the living area to let Dean use the bathroom. When you come out you notice a small pot plant covered in twinkling lights with a few oddly shaped items covered in newspaper and duct tape underneath the branches. 

Dean watches you admiring it from the doorway of the bathroom. He smiles, seeing how impressed you look and then rushes in to get clean. You restrain yourself from touching anything and focusing on getting dressed instead. You pull on a pair of underwear and one of Dean’s old shirts. You dig into the bottom of your bag and pull out the hastily wrapped box you bought ages ago. You place it next to the other messily wrapped objects, pull a beer out of the fridge and sit on the couch. You flick on the TV and scroll through the channels while you wait for Dean. Thankfully, he doesn’t take long. He comes out with just a towel wrapped around his lower half and you can’t help but stare. Of course, Dean notices you.

He winks at you and says, “Like what you see, Sweetheart?”

You blush and try to focus back on the TV. You and Dean have been on a few hunts alone over the years and have ended up in bed together on a few of those hunts. But it’s nothing more than fooling around. You know hunters don’t get relationships. So you push down the bubbling feelings. With the way he treats you and looks at you, you’re fairly certain he feels the same but neither of you is game to say anything out loud. 

After putting on a pair of boxers and a shirt Dean joins you on the couch. He rests one arm on the couch behind your head encouraging you to lean on him but you try to resist. You don’t want to have sex with him again knowing he’ll be in bed with another woman next week. Noticing your apprehension, Dean gets up and collects the newspaper and duct tape-covered items from under the makeshift Christmas tree. He eyes the new item with a smile and brings it over to the couch as well. He places his gifts on your lap and holds yours as he sits down.

“Merry Christmas, Sweetheart. For real this time.”

“You didn’t have to do this, Dean. I know the holidays are hard for you.”

“It’s not much. Just a little something to show how much you mean to me. Or at least try to.” He holds up my messily wrapped box. “And I’m guessing this is from you?”

“Yeah…I got it a while ago but if you don’t like it you can just pawn it off…”

“Come on, it’s from you, why wouldn’t I like it?”

You shake your head and pick at the duct tape. Trying to bring the mood up, Dean rips open the wrapping to reveal a simple yet attractive black watch. He takes his old, slightly broken watch off and puts the new one on. 

“It fits perfectly. Thank you, Sweetheart.”

Your heart warms a little at knowing he’s wearing something that you bought him. But then the thought of him touching another woman while wearing it flutters through your mind and you internally cringe. To distract yourself, you open his gifts to you. The first reveals a bag of your favourite gummies; the ones you always ask him to buy for hunts. The second is much more impressive. It’s a small black, velvet jewellery box. You hold it and stroke the soft velvet for a few seconds before finally opening it. Inside is a simple pure silver chain with a car pendant that resembles Baby almost perfectly. You tilt your head curiously.

“It’s your car?” You say confused.

“It’s my Baby,” he says matter-of-factly. He takes the necklace out of the box and fastens it around your neck before placing a soft kiss on your neck near the clasp. “The only thing that has ever truly been mine.” He takes your hands in his as he looks into your eyes. “But I’m hoping you’ll be mine as well.”

You stare at him in shock, unsure whether to cry or kiss him. “Dean…”

“I’m not asking you to marry me…not yet at least…just that you’ll give us a shot. No more running. No more meaningless sex with other people to fill a void; none of it’s ever as good as it is with you anyway.”

Unable to form a coherent sentence in your brain you lean forward and kiss him instead. He instantly wraps you in his arms, pulling you into his lap as he deepens the kiss. When you both pull back for air he says, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

You nod and peck him again before saying, “You do that. 

[chronicallyclem]

How big are the stickers going to be (+ do you have any suggestions on where to put stickers)?

Im working on sizing right now actually! Im going to try and keep all of them the same size in width (Minus the betty sticker), but the height will vary.

Heres my Flame Princess test sticker! Shes 2.5 inches wide and 4.5 inches tall. I feel like she may be too big so I may shrink her down a bit. Let me know what yall want/think!

As far as where to place stickers, i get this question a TON when im at events, as someone who always gets so scared placing stickers somewhere knowing i cant move them, I always always always recommend putting a double sided piece of tape on the back and putting them on your wall! i do this above my desk with other mini prints and it looks so nice :)

I would NOT recommend putting these on a car, they will get sunbleached. They are laminated so they can resist Some water, but if you put them on your water bottle please Do Not dishwash it!!! it will get ruined 😭

Other good sticker spots i enjoy include ipads, art tablets, sketchbooks, or you can get a sticker book!

[madhatterbri]

Cheater | J.P.

Summary: Ashley cheating on HOOK with Jack Perry.

Author's Note: 🤣🤣 All jokes with @99hook. Side note I do miss him though.

HOOK stared at the Tumblr post in confusion. His girlfriend, Ashley, made another silly post about him. One tag in particular caused him some confusion. She missed Jack Perry. The very guy that was suspended for starting some shit with CM Punk. Jack and Ashley had a past but he thought it was long over. He knew he had to see her that night. He booked the first flight to her city.

Ashley had been feeling neglected and unappreciated by HOOK. Their frequent arguments about him not having any time for her left her feeling lonely and unloved. One fateful evening, as Ashley was drowning her sorrows at her apartment, Jack Perry paid a visit.

Jack was still broken about being suspended. He was a wounded soul which drew Ashley in like a moth to a flame. She started to think about their past relationship. He was a contrast to Hook in every way. Where Hook was more devoted to the gym, Jack had always been devoted to her. They spent hours talking and laughing, and as the night wore on, they found themselves questioning why they ever broke up.

After a few more drinks they were kissing on her couch. Her fingers snaked in his curly hair. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn't resist.

They didn't hear the key in the lock or the footsteps walking towards them. HOOK spoke her name. His voice breaking at what he was witnessing. Ashley tried to explain but HOOK didn't stick around to listen. Their relationship was broken beyond repair.

During the next few AEW tapings, Ashley and HOOK tried to remain professional. Hook threw himself into work and partying, while Ashley was left with the guilt and regret of her actions.

Months passed, and despite the pain, neither Ashley nor Hook attempted to reconcile. The damage was done, and the love they once shared was lost forever.

[just-horrible-things]

'Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 2

Riot, pt2 [Prev | Next]

There are breaks from the noise. Whether that means anything’s changed, or it’s just that even the cops have gotten sick of the continuous wailing and turned their sirens off, it’s hard to know.

It’s a welcome reprieve, regardless. 

The news focuses on the police response, and sometimes on the damages. Once a shot of a witch or warlock throwing fire – followed by the familiar rhetoric. Lawless, reckless, dangerous magic users, out to harm anyone who crosses their path.

Ariadne understands why the focus is what it is, what the objectives are. But the lack of actual information is deeply frustrating.

The acts of vandalism are spreading. Anger is catching like a flame, drawing more and more people into the streets. Anger at landlords, at big business, at everyone who has enough. Warlocks angry at regular folk, the poor angry at the rich, young people angry at everyone and everything.

Somewhere, most likely, a mob is forming. When the numbers in the street hit a critical threshold, more people start to pour out from the cracks to join them, drawn in by the allure of a large enough group to feel invincible.

They don’t show that on the news. It would be counterproductive.

They do show a police line, which implies a crowd – or the threat of one. But it’s a tidy, by-the-books line without a rioter in sight, almost certainly drawn up specifically for the cameras. No one’s yet thrown paint at them.

Ariadne makes eggs for lunch, and spends a while contemplating the contents of the cupboards. They have cans that they almost never use, bought on the vague gut feeling that a kitchen should have cans. It’s unlikely they’ll be stuck inside for days, but she still wishes she’d paid more attention when mom used to stretch the food out to make it last.

She works out again, because there isn’t much else to do indoors. Then, driven by boredom, she fixes up the torn hem on that one pair of pants, and a t-shirt with a seam that’s coming undone, even though the only thread she has is black.

Alex watches her with something like fascination, but he doesn’t comment.

There’s another gunshot in the middle of the afternoon. Just one. Alex and Ariadne are silent and still for long minutes listening for more.

Ari checks the news again, but apparently the weather segment is higher priority than the ongoing situation. She leaves it playing, and returns from the bathroom to find Alex scowling at the newsreader’s plastic smile.

“Have they used the r-word yet?” He shakes his head. “No surprise.” They hate admitting that anything is out of control.

It gets worse as evening draws in – or nearer, which is functionally the same from their limited perspective. Sirens again, and beneath them through the cracked-open windows the noise of the crowd, the swell of raised voices, shouting, chanting.

Ari closes the windows, and pushes down the irrational urge to tape over the cracks. It’s unlikely to keep any more noise out anyway. Alex watches, and winces a little at how hard she slams the sash closed.

“This is why I didn’t want to live here,” she grouches, unwisely. “Because of too many warlocks?” Alex snaps back with surprising vehemence. “No. Because of the violence.” “Because warlocks are violent.” “It’s not just warlocks –” she exhales sharply in frustration, and Alex’s tiny flinch makes her wince too. “All I mean is, I’m thinking about our safety. I just want us to be safe.”

“We can’t afford to be safe. Just like they can’t.” A gesture at the TV, currently off. “Yes we can,” Ari insists. “There are quieter neighborhoods.” I grew up poor, she almost says, but she bites it back. She probably had more than Alex did.

Alex glowers at the closed window. “I should be out there,” he says. Ariadne blinks at him. “What, rioting?” “No.” A flat look. “Helping injured people.” “Alex, no.”

If there’s something of a challenge in his stare, it’s a little wide-eyed too. Guilt rises like bile in the back of Ariadne’s throat.

“Haven’t you given enough?” she asks. “Don’t risk getting caught by the cops.” She feels like an asshole for saying it, because she knows before the words are out it will make him wince like that. Her tone turns pleading. “Let’s just stay inside and be safe. I’m sorry I said the wrong things, again. I’m sorry. Can we just try to stay safe?”

There are more raised voices in the street. Not fighting, not here. Not yet. Just calling one to another, back and forth – but with an electric, slightly wild energy. Are they on their way to break something? To look for the mob?

“Okay,” Alex says, voice small and defeated. “I’m sorry,” Ari repeats. “I won’t say any more stupid shit. Let’s put a movie on?” “Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay, let’s do that.”

Ari has a couple of packs of popcorn in the back of a cupboard. The price is ridiculous for the scant handful of calories, but sometimes you need a treat. She lets Alex pick a film while she watches the paper bag inflate in the microwave. When it’s done, she tips it into a bowl.

Alex accepts her offering with a quiet “thank you”. And when she settles at the other end of the sofa, he says “c’mere?”

She scoots over, and he puts an arm over her shoulders and pulls her in in an almost possessive gesture. 

It’s all kinds of fucked up, but some of the tension in her eases just from the physical contact. They’re still okay. This still works.

He’s picked an action movie, and the soundtrack masks the noise from outside, and Ari doesn’t quite forget but for a while she can put it to the back of her mind.

Alex invites himself into her bed that night. He’s welcome. His arm across her ribs and the weight of his head on her shoulder force her not to toss and turn, but she doesn’t sleep. The rioters quiet down in the small hours, but she keeps thinking she still hears their voices, just on the edge of perception.

She isn’t sure how much Alex sleeps either, but it’s more than she does. He twitches with dreams, on and off, and once wakes with a start, grip tightening around Ari’s ribcage.

He lifts his head in the dark, and asks, “Ari?” “Yeah,” she answers, soft as she can manage. “It’s me.” Sorry. A pause. “Not interrogator?” “No, just Ari.”

Gradually, hesitantly, he settles back onto her shoulder.

“I can go, if you want,” she offers. His bed is vacant. Or she could find something better to do than fail to sleep. “No,” he says, “stay.”

Morning brings no respite. Ari almost throws the remote at the TV in frustration. 

She looks round to see Alex staring.

She puts the remote down carefully, inhales slowly, and forces her shoulders to relax. He looks away, but she sees his hands go to the edge of his sweater to fidget at the hems. Irritation and guilt itch across her skin.

She can control herself. She has to. She has no right to be annoyed.

He doesn’t join her in exercise this time. So Ari does angry push-ups until her wrists hurt too bad to carry on. When she showers she sets the water as cold as it will go. 

A neighbour knocks on their door to ask if they’re going out. She has a duffel bag over her shoulder, a ski scarf round her neck ready to pull up over her face, and a pair of heavy duty goggles on her forehead. She has enough goggles to spare, she says.

Alex looks tempted. Ari says no firmly and closes the door in the woman’s face.

“Idiot,” she grumbles. “What if we reported her?” “Are you going to?” “Fuck no. We don’t –” We don’t want any contact with the cops. “I don’t – want to do that kind of thing anymore.”

Sirens roll past, loud enough to be in their street. Ari laces her fingers together and squeezes until the bones threaten to snap, because otherwise she’s going to punch a wall. And that really might break something.

Somewhere in the distance, the mob is singing in that godawful, bone-thrumming way that crowds do, where everyone is out of tune but the melody still somehow rises like a spectre from the averaging of their mistakes.

She longs for a treadmill.

“Are you… okay?” Alex asks, with the wary edge that suggests he might half-want to append a sir. “Yeah.” “Your wrists…” She looks. They’re a little swollen. She hadn’t noticed. “May I?” “No.” It comes out too short. “I mean – save it. I’m okay.”

He retreats to the kitchen, looking hurt.

They have canned soup for lunch. It’s not bad, but Ari isn’t tasting it.

“I’m sorry,” she tells Alex. “I’m sorry I’m on edge. I’m not mad at you.” “It’s fine,” he says, but she doesn’t believe him.

And then the rattle of automatic gunfire has them both leaping out of their seats.

It’s over in a second or less, but the screaming lasts longer. They stand, wild-eyed and frozen, until it ebbs out of earshot again.

Less than a km. But not so close as their own street.

“I-I have to,” Alex says, breathless, just as Ari starts to move again. “Alex, no.” He shakes his head, backing away from her. “Don’t tell me no,” he says, and turns, and almost runs toward the door.

“Alex! Wait! Wait for me, I’ll come with you, wait – we’ll stick together, I’ll bring the first aid kit.”

He hesitates just long enough to look at her, and whatever that is in his eyes, it makes the risk they’re about to take worth it. 

He nods just once, and then they’re both in motion.

Guns, one each, in the hastily-buckled concealed holsters she insisted they splash out on rather than tuck pistols into waistbands. Alex ties a scarf round his face like he’s done it a thousand times, and tosses another to Ariadne. She grabs the first aid kit, and he only needs to bring himself.

She’s first out the door, wishing for the neighbour’s goggles as it closes behind them.

[Next]

[blueringbeetle]

Loving comes easily to me and I’m honestly seething with rage that it is a piece of me that was almost completely killed. I know I would’ve gone with it.

I love picking flowers and taping them into my sketchbook, I love drawing things I’ll never think about again purely because I love the act of drawing, I love creating things that become massive projects and things that never pass the stage of notes in the borders, I love my dogs, I love it when they annoy the shit out of me because it means they’re here. I love clear skies and rainy ones. I love watching movies. I love going swimming. I love doing a good job and doing a bad job. I love doing a middle-of-the-road job. I love starting, I love ending. I love day dreaming. I love music. I love eating from the pan before the meal is even finished because I love what I’m cooking so much, it all ends up in the same place anyway. I love failing. Miserably, even. So horribly it feels like I’ll never recover but I always do. I let myself feel that feeling till it passes because all things do pass eventually. I love how I feel grief and I love how I feel hope.

My spark, the thing that keeps you warm when nothing else does, it was dead for I don’t know how long and now that I’m gently bringing it back to life I am genuinely awestruck that I survived how long I did completely without it. The inertia and muscle memory could only take me so far and I’m glad I collapsed into a heap when I did.

I think the scariest part was that it came so slowly and carefully that by the time I realised where I was, it felt so close to the end I didn’t know what to do. I think smothered is close to the right word, like my innate brightness could only be met with ‘why are you doing that? You shouldn’t do that?’ I’m only sort of beginning to understand what happened, it was slow, nit picky, and near disgust. A quiet ‘oh’ and then I made myself smaller. It was a cutting and minimising act pretending to be refinement and discernment.

I seethe. And I seethe and I seethe and I seethe. It’s a kind of seething that builds and erupts into laughter because I can’t believe how stupid it all is at the end of the day. I’m allowed to play my favourite songs and dance in the kitchen, more than that, I should play my favourite songs and dance in the kitchen. Each time I scrape together the energy to do something purely for fun I am rewarded tenfold with the energy to do it again and something else too.

If someone sees me dancing or laughing, or picking flowers, or being joyful, digging out happiness from between the cracks in the pavement and enjoying my limited time here, and their first act is to point, scoff, sneer, and say ‘wrong.’ I will burn them to the ground with how much I love being myself. I don’t want people who enjoy picking at the happiness of others like a scab to find me easy to be around.

It’s not been easy to recover. It hurts to pick myself up when I am an engine with no fuel but I’m lucky and have people around me who know how to fan my flames. That’s what makes it so easy, even when it’s not easy, is if you have people who know how help works for you. Luck is part of it too, a good breeze can carry you far, and I’ve learnt that to get a good breeze you need to be in places where there is wind. So I dragged myself, at times kicking and screaming, into the tree tops and valleys and I let preparation meet opportunity.

I’m relearning to trust myself. Not in a blind way, importantly. In the way that when I feel internal resistance and terror I’m able to hold myself and move in the direction that I know in my heart and mind is the right direction. Failure and success are both big changes and I need about the same level of self care to deal with either.

I am a warm person because I seek joy like I’m starving and now I find it everywhere. I am hard to kill because all things give me life. I will never let someone leer down at me and my uncomplicated contentment and scoff at me for it. Never again. My sketchbook is full of flowers, my belly is full of food, my heart is full of love and anger and grief. I am alive and learning how to be. All I am is a human, and my god, what a thing that is to be.

[dorn-queen-of-thorns]

"The power in me"

Arriving with obstacle

13. Chapter

A young girl sits alone in the prison cell blindfolded, both hands with heavy steel chains and additionally fingers and wrists encased in heavy steel. In addition, she has her eyes blindfolded without resistance. Her father's coat is taken from her as evidence. proof of what?

She understands the reason for the precautionary measures, but not the background of the cloak.

Karin has warned her earlier and asked her to throw the coat away. Sarada didn't understand it until the incident in the desert. She defiantly refused. She could never have thrown away a memento from Papa. If she has only heeded Karin's warning, she might not be in this position. Stupid girl!, she scolds herself.

Now they are separated and on top of that she is in a prison cell.

Well she's an Uchiha and it's no wonder this treatment, she's often felt the disgusted sight of local residents in Konoha. Unfortunately, she already knew the feeling of being disgusted behind a false friendly facade all too often.

Now this is not Konoha, but Sunagakure as she recognized from the international shinobi tapes when a chaotic incident ensued.

Fragments of memories appear in front of her about what happened three days ago. Sarada tried to protect her last family, albeit not by blood, in the ominous chaos of the new age. It reminds her of the time in Kirigakure when she admitted her connection to Boruto. Why aren't blood relatives closer to her than her own father, who left her alone?

Is she still alive? She is not sure. The last thing she remembers is Karin lying unconscious beneath her while she was still on her hands and knees desperately trying to protect Karin.

Four unfamiliar dolls with an unfamiliar sign on their backs; it looked like a crescent moon with a dot. Despite their old and already broken appearance, they were dangerous and persistent. Were they war dolls from Suna?

No, she doesn't think so. Hell, all she wants is to protect Karin. I'm good for nothing, are her thoughts.

It all happened so quickly: she would attack her opponents, but they would always disappear before she could land a hit. Sarada realized that she could not achieve anything and her hope left her when the next moment she found herself in a strange room with these dolls. This place was cold and disturbing. It was both bad luck and a blessing that Karin wasn't there.

Disappear! Leave us alone! Papa? Why aren't you with me? she wondered desperately. Mama …

It all happened so fast... Her eyes hurt so much and all she saw was those dolls erupting into black flames. She had seen those flames before. Her father could use this destructive power. She looked for him hopefully. "Dad?" she called in, but all she saw again was that a stranger stood protectively in front of her and Karin.

Someone foolishly underestimated her and in her delusion. They tried to overwhelm her, who had paid for trying to have control over her and putting their own people at risk.

"Wait Caleb!" (that must have been the name of this shinobi), she heard a familiar female voice calling the shinobi. But it was already too late for the young shinobi, by all appearances an underexperienced young chunnin, who was being overwhelmed before her eyes.

All Sarada wanted is to protect Karin. Besides her, who else has an important bond with her? She has already lost almost everyone in her young life:

Her father, who seems to have lost interest in her and has nothing more than a few lines for her. Her mother, who disappeared without a trace from the new world without a word, without an explanation. Her team, which is broken, starting with her self-chosen brother, who has changed drastically as she painfully realized a few months ago. Her best friend and adviser who let her go without a word of goodbye.

And kawaki? In the end, it's just a memory of a teammate she's known too briefly, from whom she would have liked to learn more and is now only part of her assignment. To protect him. If he dies, her world will have to die in which all life. Well, now she can't really care if none of her family and friends aren't there for her anymore? What's the point of fighting? Then she remembers Karin, who collapsed, deprived of her strength, and touched her belly in panic. Sarada immediately understood what this must mean when they were attacked by Sunagakure and what appeared to be Sunagakure's puppets in Sandstorm and Chaos. If not for her own sake, she must save the home of the lost children of this world.

In the end, exhausted and unconscious, she must have collapsed when it was all over and now she's back in that predicament.

She hears footsteps approaching. There must be three people... A numeric code is entered on a keypad and the door opens.

One of the people approaches her exactly on the opposite. She is uncomfortable with someone stranger getting so close to her.

"We've been expecting you, Sarada Uchiha. Daughter of Sasuke's Uchiha and Sakura Uchiha, formerly Haruno. We didn't expect you to cause so much trouble and chaos when you arrived though. We only knew something like that from Boruto until now! The son of the 7th Hokage,” says a calm, admonishing voice.

It's the voice of the Kazekage! , Sarada states calmly.

"Wait Gaara! Be careful!” warns a familiar female voice.

Aunt Temari! how much she missed well-known people. Then Shikadai must be here too!

Hope grows in Sarada to be able to see an old friend again or at least to receive a visit in this cell.

"Don't worry, dear sister. We all know now , following Tsunade's investigation, that Sarada was only trying to protect her companion, who carries a child. We all knew we were dealing with an Uchiha and took that risk," explains the Kazekage. Then he turns back to Sarada.

"I place great trust in you now, Sarada. Will you betray us and attack or will you behave cooperatively?", the Kazekage asks her carefully, "if you should resist. I warn you . Next to me are also my big sister, who you already know, and my big brother. All three of us fought your father and are not afraid of you..."

Sarada lifts her face in irritation, what does she have to hear? It sounds to her like her father is a monster.

She can only guess that the precautionary measures must be related to previous events. She remembers Gaara's comment about Karin's condition. She still has it? she notes in shock. Why did she expose herself to this danger?

Sarada hopes to see Karin again soon.

" Please! I will do whatever you ask dear Kazekage! I just want to see Aunt Karin again,” she pleads.

From a distance are hurrying, no! Running footsteps coming towards the small group. Surprised, Temari, Gaara and another strange Jonin look in the direction. Sarada tilts her face in that direction.

A young, heavily and strong built girl of Sarada's age, with tanned skin, fiery red wild hair, and golden eyes, looks excitedly through the armored glass of Sarada's cell. With both hands she supports herself in front of the cell and her face is so close that the glass fogs up from her breath,

"Sarada? Are you that? It's me, Chocho!” she exclaims excitedly.

Surprised and joyful to see a true friend again; to hear in her case; gives Sarada new courage, " Chocho?! I'm so glad you're still alive"

Her joy knows no bounds and she almost has to cry. Her emotions take on a life of their own and a deep reassurance and hope germinates within her; the first time in months.

On the one hand, Karin and apparently her unborn have survived everything, on the other hand, her best friend is probably up. Chocho and Sarada have never really been apart for long and she sincerely hopes that she will be released soon.

" Chocho! What are you doing here? Didn't I forbid you to come here?!” an angry Temari shouts.

Sarada hears a clear bitterness in Shikadai's mother's words. Why is she like this?

"My god, Temari! Now come down. It's not like anyone got hurt. On the contrary: Sarada helped us to destroy the last puppets of the Ootsutsuki clan,” a new voice interjects. Sarada remembers that it must be the voice of Lord Kazekage's second brother, Kankuro. The three true siblings of Sunagakure who once formed an alliance with Konoha and both regions have worked closely together ever since.

"How did the girl get in here anyway?" Gaara asks calmly and observes the restless scenery.

"Shinki helped me with that," she says innocently, answering Gaara's question. His foster son and future successor has found a friend in Chocho and shows disobedience when it comes to this girl.

Of course ! , the Kazekage thinks and turns back to the argument between his siblings.

"Have you forgotten that her clan has always been a threat?" Temari asks angrily while arguing with Kankuro, "I don't trust this... situation in any way!"

Sarada assumes that Shikadai's mother must have been trying to find the right words. And shit, what new things does she have to learn? A whole clan that she and her father belong to??? In addition, her family must have represented a danger.

Sarada is so shocked and disappointed at having to hear everything. What's more, she doesn't have to find out all this from her father.

It's like the whole world is conspiring against her. It hurts so bad. That pain is back, which has been tormenting her for weeks and months and has become a constant companion. Having to go through everything alone. She feels her eyes starting to burn.

She remembers the pain a few days and months ago? A brief memory fragment reappears. That pain... She wanted to protect someone... Her glasses shattered, followed by a shattering pain and then everything went black for a very brief moment... Sarada brings her chained hands to her forehead, trying to mimic the Uchiha's farewell. A kind of declaration of love and deep connection to people who are very close to you.

Sarada is wondering if she's ever passed that greeting on to anyone in particular other than her father? Yes, she had given Boruto something similar before, but more like flicking away a morsel of guild, with thumb and forefinger and with more power. With her learned chakra control on the battlefield, she could have done considerable damage to Boruto, which of course she didn't.

No, the Uchiha's farewell is more tender and careful. With index and middle fingers. Like giving a kiss someone's forehead to say goodbye.

Was her father there when she had her accident, or maybe her mother? It must have been one of those two, right?

Damned! I want answers! Why did you all leave me alone?

Father! Mummy! Boruto and Mitsuki! And damn Kawaki too!

As the pain in her eyes takes hold of her, Chocho's angry voice speaks up: "Never would Sarada harm us! I've known her since I was little. We grew up together. She is polite and friendly to everyone. She stands up for the children and the old ones and is not afraid to welcome strangers to Konoha. After all, she wants to become the future Hokage!” Chocho screams the last sentence angrily and finds it unfair how her best friend is being talked about.

A Hokage of ruin and decay, Sarada thinks morbidly. Great!

Sarada realizes through Chocho's interference that the pain in her eyes is easing again. She thanks her friend from the bottom of her heart for Chocho relieving her of these dark thoughts, albeit briefly.

" Chocho seems to have great faith in you and believes in you and evidence on the last battlefield has shown us that you were on our side. I will now free you from your chains and remove your blindfold. Finally, the venerable 5th Hokage awaits you. And in chains you will not be able to continue your future education. But be sure. My sister Temari will stay close to you and watch you”, Gaara explains to her.

Sarada hears the heavy chains being removed from her. Her skin and nails are dry and cracked. Finally, the blindfold is removed from her.

The sight of the emaciated Uchiha girl makes Temari gasp. Her face no longer shows the happiness of the girl who was once so ambitious.

A dark socket with a very dark grey, almost black eye looks bitterly into the world that has been destroyed for them. The other eye area is covered by a shaggy head of hair. It's like a dark spirit has risen and Temari gasps in shock. She has to remind herself that this innocent girl cannot help her origins and comes from a family of warmongers and mass murderers.

Her cheeks are sunken and her lips are dry and cracked. Sarada has grown a little, her stature slim and gaunt. Who knows how long she and her companion had been wandering around the desert of Sunagakure. The climate here is drier and hotter than in Konoha.

"What is it?" asks the girl who seems to have aged by years.

Temari just shakes her head as if to dismiss an uncomfortable memory. , " Oh nothing. Don't worry! Just come with me first!”, and Sarada is led out of the high-security cell.

An exuberant Chocho greets her and throws herself into her arms, "Sarada!" She hears her sob her name and it's the first time she's had a friend and mate around in months.

Sarada is crushed by Chocho's power and her bones ache at the loving gesture.

"I thought all my friends had died..." Sarada hears Chocho cry.

Shikadai and Inojin too? Sarada realizes sadly. But her tears dry up... She just looks exhausted and tired that she was among the few who survived the catastrophe.

Sarada realizes why Aunt Temari was so dismissive of her. Losing her son is a hard blow for any mother, and Shikadai was her only child by Sensei Shikamaru. And Shikamaru? Probably buried under the ruins of Konoha too, otherwise he would be here and not Aunt Temari.

" Aunt... I'm sorry for your losses! I didn't mean to…”, Sarada doesn't find the right words.

"It's okay, Sarada! Let's not talk about this any further,” the Sunagakure Jonin has resumed her cool personality and looks absent-minded.

The small group is escorted out of the high-security wing for serious criminals. A guilty-looking Shinki is waiting for them outside.

"Dear Kazekage! It's my fault that Shinki asked the jonin to let me in to visit Sarada. It's not his fault!” Chocho tries to apologize for her boyfriend.

"Well, Shinki needs to learn to take responsibility. That he brought you to this potentially dangerous place shows me how immature he is. For the time being, no missions will be given to either of you and you are both immediately under arrest with Sarada!” Gaara says sternly to the adolescents who are growing up.

"But!" Chocho tries to contradict.

"Enough!" the Kazekage raises his voice.

Sarada watches the couple exchange glances, Shinki's cheeks clearly flushed. This observation could be interesting for Sarada and she decides to find out something new about the two in her free time and notices how an old part of her is back after a long time.

"At least we can pass the time with your girlfriend," Shinki tries to cheer up a sad chocho.

"Where are we going?" asks Sarada.

"We'll take you to Lady Tsunade," Gaara answers calmly and, together with his siblings, accompanies the young people through Sunagakure, which has now grown into a big city. Sunagakure has taken advantage of the mountains that surround Sunagakure. Since the climate is very hot here and living space in the desert is very limited, living space has been created directly in the mountain rock with the help of technology from Konoha.

Ever since the 7th was a child her age, Konoha and Sunagakure have maintained a close, friendly alliance. Thanks to the 7th and the Kazekage.

Sarada casts an interested glance at the mountains, beads of sweat beading her face.

"The rock is a natural air conditioning system against the immense heat here," Shinki explains to her, "you will move into a small accommodation with your companion."

"I will see Aunt Karin again?" Sarada asks happily.

" Yes. She too will have to undergo an interview, as will you once her physical exam is over. She's been unconscious the whole time and we hope she's woken up now,” Temari explains soberly.

"Why do you have to ask Karin? She’s didn’t do anything bad! If I locked myself up for her, I would understand, but not Aunt Karin!” Sarada objects.

Temari turns to her in a flash, " Sarada! It is enough! We have our reasons for doing this!”

Startled, Sarada looks at Temari and notices a coldness about her that she didn't know about her.

"Sarada, don't be angry with my sister for her tone. It's just...", the Kazekage has to think for a moment, "complicated memories caught up with us when we and your companion met you." He remembers the red-haired young woman who, together with Sasuke's troupe, had the Kage meeting at that time, before the 4th Ninja World War, and had infiltrated. Sarada's father was able to wreak vengance to Danzo Shimura . He doesn't take offense at Temari's skepticism about the red-haired woman.

Sarada gets the uneasy feeling that a lot of bad things must have happened in the past and that her father and aunt Karin were a part of it.

The Kazekage takes the group through the central and oldest district, which also features the largest and most impressive marketplace Sarada has ever seen. People in wide, light robes walk around busy.

"In Konoha, there aren't such big markets. You have to understand that our social life has always been here most of the time. Konoha's markets cannot compete with ours. Many markets in Konoha have been converted into small supermarkets. We don't have that here. We'll be there soon too. We only have to cross our bazaar and then we are at the whereabouts of the 5th Hokage," explains Gaara, "by the way, you can get everything you need here. Prepare to be here with us for a longer period of time. The 5th told me that your education needs time."

This reminds Sarada of uncomfortable hours of medical chakra control. Half a year ago she was sitting with Mitsuki in front of her burnt fish, which she considered to be an exercise in resuscitation. At that time, the world was fine for her and everyone else. Melancholy rises in her and looks towards Konoha.

"Everything okay?", Chocho addresses her from the side.

"It's nothing," Sarada answers more to herself. Before Chocho can say anything more, both are interrupted by the Kaazekage.

"We've arrived," he says.

The group stands in front of a large building that combines old and modern architecture. A large sign reads "Sunagakure Central Hospital".

Sarada looks visibly surprised. Sarada swallows at the thought.

Gaara correctly interprets Sarada's concern: "Don't worry! Your aunt is in the best of hands in her condition. The 5th takes care of her. Come on let's go in", Gaara cheers her up. He turns to the others, "Kankuro, please bring Shinki and Chocho to their quarters. Temari, please wait in front of the hospital.”

The siblings say goodbye briefly, then Gaara leads her through the hospital to the gynecology department.

"You must know Sarada. Among the shinobi you accidentally attacked was Lady Tsunade's niece Shizune."

Shocked, Sarada turns to him. But the young man can calm her down immediately, "You only stunned a chunnin with your genjutsu and his mission has changed from a normal B-mission: Your safe escort to an S-rank mission. After 4 remaining Ootsuki dolls attacked both of you. They had assumed Boruto had destroyed everyone on his last visit. We've been taught better."

More and more uncomfortable information comes to light for Sarada.

"Why didn't he tell me about it?" she asks the Kazekage. How close were we really? she thinks, not liking the possible answer.

Gaara thinks for a moment: "Maybe he wanted to protect you and his loved ones and not worry you further."

Sarada ponders the Kazekagen's comment and hopes that's the case.

Both walk past several corridors. The fluorescent light of the neon tubes is reflected on the ceiling and walls. A typical hospital. When Sarada and Gaara reach the last room in the gynecology department, they stop in front of a locked door.

Sarada knows this area all too well and remembers earlier times. At any moment, Sarada thinks she will see Sakura again and she will hug her and say that she is glad that her mother is okay.

Reality is catching up again. From outside, the 5th can be heard ranting, "She is my patient and I will determine when my patient is stable enough for questioning. AND NOW GET OUT!!! You're contaminating the patient's room with your dusty clothes!"

Gaara knocks politely on the door. A loud "COME IN!!!" greets the two, and two high-ranking and experienced Jonin storm out of the room, as if a teacher has rung two disobedient students.

" Ready?" Gaara asks her encouragingly. Sarada nods silently.

The door opens slowly. You can see the 5th and Karin. Sarada has finally arrived in Sunagakure along with Karin after an arduous journey.

[crystallinecardinal]

Hypothermic

There was a time before everything went wrong, back before the Unknowing, where Martin felt the gentle warmth of flame inside him. Nowadays, he wasn’t quite sure if it was still there or not. You get used to your own temperature after a while.

—

Or, in which Martin Blackwood gets tied too heavily to the Lonely, and his body temperature abnormally drops.

AO3 link:

Pairing: Jonathan “Jon” Sims/Martin Blackwood

There was a time before everything went wrong, back before the Unknowing, where Martin felt the gentle warmth of flame inside him. Nowadays, he wasn’t quite sure if it was still there or not. You get used to your own temperature after a while.

Now, he sits in the new office he’s been given, secluded away from anyone in the Archives. It makes his job a bit easier, he’ll admit. It isn’t like anyone comes in and out of his workspace anymore. At least, no one other than the new Head of the Institute. Even then, though, that’s tentative. He only ever really shows up if he needs to tell his assistant something. Luckily, he isn’t here now, so Martin continues to type away at his keyboard as a cup of tea rests on the tabletop.

The work is simple, monotonous. It’s the closest to infinite boredom Martin gets, but at least it’s something to do. Half the time, he doesn’t even realize how deep he’s gotten into the same thing over and over again, to the point everything is a haze, even with the ginger locks of hair that fall over his eyes momentarily obstructing his vision.

Such is the same today, just the same routine. Although, something decides to intrude on his space. A click cuts through the empty air, and Martin momentarily stops his typing.

“Oh, hello,” he greets the sound. He doesn’t need to do much to know what it is, he recognizes the hiss, he wouldn’t ever be able to erase it from his mind. Still, he glances over to a clearer part of his desk, and lo and behold, there’s a tape recorder, already running without anyone ever touching it. They always show up at times like this, and, quite honestly, Martin’s given up trying to resist them.

“There isn’t much to hear right now, I’m afraid,” he rambles off to the tape, before focusing his gaze back on the screen in front of him. “I mean, unless you want to hear just work, but that’s not why you’re here, is it?”

He types out a few more words before he stops again, and picks up the tape recorder. “..Fine. I don’t have a statement on hand, there isn’t really a reason for you to be listening.”

The tape stubbornly continues to run in Martin’s grasp, spooling away. Of course, he muses, it isn’t going to stop that easily. “Okay,” he mutters, half sighing. If only it could be easy to get rid of this thing. Stopping the recorder won’t do anything, though, and he doesn’t think he wants to check the batteries.

So, the old fashioned way it is, then. Martin glances around, and listens to his surroundings. All he hears is the ticking of a clock, and the hiss of the demanding tape. Testing the waters, he calls for Peter, but there’s no sound of familiar static marking his arrival. Still, Martin is alone, the slow tick tick tick filling the room starting to lodge itself in his mind.

“Of course,” Martin remarks, unamused. “You know, I’m not sure why I try at this point, it’s not like anyone’s coming. No one really talks to me anymore in the first place, so I doubt there even would be anyone on their way. I guess that’s my fault, though, isn’t it?”

He laughs, hollowly. “It’s weird. I suddenly get wrapped up in this mess, and can barely find the effort to care. I probably should care about that part, I just—“ Martin sighs, holding his face in his hands. There isn’t a spike of warmth with the first second of contact, just the pressure that comes with the motion. “It’s complicated.”

The tape continues to run, the air hanging empty of any response, any little click to tell him he can get back to what he was doing. Martin glances up at the little object in his hands, and purses his lips. Right. You can’t leave an audience hanging. “You still want more, don’t you? Fine. I’ll say more, but we’re making a deal. I’m not giving you to Jon, or Peter, or anyone. I know it’s probably not a good idea at all, but I’m going to keep you right with me. I really don’t want to have to risk anyone hearing, especially Peter. If he found you—“ He pauses, cutting himself off. “Actually, on second thought, I don’t want to imagine that.”

He does, still, imagine it: the passive aggressive lecture that comes with telling him ‘you’re doing it again, caring too much.’ It isn’t like he wants to. He’d gotten into the habit of it over his life, people-pleasing and thinking far too much about things like these. Even if it’s still there, at least the distance is helping a little. It feels safe, and he’s getting used to it.

“..Anyway,” he begins again, forcing himself out of his internal monologue, “I should probably say something. Just talk, and all. Lay out my thoughts I’ve been having, I guess.”

It’s probably the most he can do, he surmises. As said, still, there’s no one here, and maybe it’ll serve as a good log of things. Or, maybe, he’ll just destroy the tape later. Destroying it sounds good. Even so, he’s starting to understand why Jon used to talk to these things so much. “It’s not like you’ll judge me,” he says, “so I should probably just start from the beginning, shouldn’t I?”

“Things used to be a lot more lively here. And, I know, isn’t that obvious? How could the atmosphere not be dreary after everything we’ve been through? With Jon, Daisy, and Tim appearing to be dead, Peter taking over, all the attacks, and then six months being stuck alone… I guess that’s a rhetorical question. I’m pretty sure all of us know the answer by this point.”

“Working for Peter doesn’t exactly make it better. I mean— It’s okay, I guess? Not entirely bothersome. I never had a problem being alone, it’s a comfort for me. Sometimes the silence feels better than all the noise, and honestly, I’m starting to think that I’d probably take being alone doing work for Peter over sitting in my flat, scared out of my mind over supernatural worms for thirteen days straight.”

He sighs, and slumps over his desk, still holding onto the recorder. “In a way, it does make me miss Jon, though, even with the weird circumstances we were stuck together. Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t want to relive everything with Prentiss. I’m just thinking about those late nights in the Archives.”

An image comes to his mind, the nights he spent staring at the ceiling, familiar loneliness clutching him. At those times, he had usually gone to see Jon, against his better judgment. The Archivist had always been a workaholic, and thus was usually still around, even when it was very late, tending to whatever he hadn’t gotten done throughout the day. Back then, he had only barely allowed Martin to stick around while he continued working, but Martin liked the company, even if it meant sitting in gentle silence.

He quickly pushes the thought away, though. Now, there’s no room for thinking that way, for reminiscencing on the past they lost. Things are different now. “Anyway,” he begins again, “I suppose that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You miss him too. He’s suddenly back, and you keep listening. Feeding? I don’t know. Still. I haven’t seen him in,” he pauses, trying to count the days before giving up, “a long time. However long it’s been since I last had to run from him. I know I’m not supposed to, but I still feel kind of bad about that.”

“I really shouldn’t, but sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind over it. It’s like– get over it, Martin, you have new rules to follow if you’re going to make this work! And most of the time, that’s just fine! I can ignore Melanie’s shouts, I turn away anyone who just wants to talk, and I can pass through the Institute without anyone even noticing me. But when I see him, an entire wave crashes over my head. And that’s both good and bad, because well– One, it means it’s harder to do my job. Two, I can’t breathe, and, in some way, it’s exciting, but I also dread it. Which, thinking about it, that’s probably the most terrifying part of it. They don’t tell you when you sign up for pledging your life to whatever these entities are, especially when pledging your life to Peter’s patron, that even the slightest bit of interaction starts to feel strange. If you’re like me, you start to feel detached from everything. Pushing people away has never been easier. But sometimes, you panic. Sometimes, you want to latch onto that wave of excitement, something you haven’t felt in ages, and other times you don’t want to be anywhere near it, because you don’t want to drown. It burns, and I don’t know how. I just know that things got a lot chillier recently, but I’m starting to like it. If I could stay with Jon, I probably would, I think, at least, but there’s too much in the way of that right now. I barely have the energy to do most things, and I know I can’t stay around him. Not if I want him to live.”

“So,” Martin continues, reaching over to his freshly brewed cup of tea, “I guess I’ll just sink into the fog more, and try not to feel any waves over my head.”

He takes a sip of the beverage, expecting warmth in his throat, but finds it feels like it’s been sitting out on a cool winter morning instead. Martin chokes, coughing until his airways are clear. “Ugh— I swear, I just made this a few minutes ago! It shouldn’t be this cold.”

The mug sits unalarmingly, just its usual faded blue ceramic, but Martin continues to stare at it. Suddenly, he remembers the tape recorder, the soft sound of it still running meeting his ears. “Oh– uhm– sorry. That’s all.”

He quickly stops the tape, falling back into his office chair as the silence returns, only broken by the ever steady ticking of a distant clock. He takes a hold of his cup of tea again, eyeing it suspiciously. Okay, really, it shouldn’t be as cold as it is. It’s not like he made it ages ago, it was just before he came in here to get to work. Still, it feels devoid of warmth in his hands.

Martin opts to just drop the subject. It’s fine! He’ll just make new tea later, or suffer through the cold cup. Probably the latter, he doesn’t feel like getting up, and especially doesn’t feel like potentially running into anyone. Not now. Maybe he would’ve in the past, but he’s far past that.

He sighs. Unknowingly to Martin, his breath comes out like fog that swirls around the room he’s in. It’s not like he noticed it in the first place. As said, you start to get used to your own temperature after a while. So, in the end, he begins his work again, finding no point to do anything else. As for the tape in the recorder: he’d make sure to take it home in his jacket pocket, to deal with it there. It’s not like he’d want anyone listening, after all.

And so, the days continue to pass in the Magnus Institute, tendrils of the Lonely only further rooting themselves in Martin’s mind.

~{☁️}~

Sometimes the fog becomes an indulgence. Martin would know that well, with how heavily his heart became tied to it after so many days playing his game and intentionally isolating himself, so much so that it would transform even his ginger hair into cloudy puffs of fog at the ends. He’d know it well, considering his eyes are clouded, his mind is clouded, and he sees nothing but his failures, nothing but his deepest insecurities.

He’s lost in a vast, open space, where somewhere waves lap at the shore. Where that somewhere is, he doesn’t know. He can’t see it, only faintly hear the sound from some other part of his patron’s domain. Yet, still, he welcomes the silence and solitariness. The fog wraps around him, a gentle embrace, and he drowns in the freeze of Forsaken, barely noticeable to his senses. It’s a type of drowning he welcomes, the type where a voice whispers from deeper in the water, “stay here, stay where you don’t hurt, stay where you won’t be a nuisance ever again, stay, stay, stay.” Martin obliges. Maybe he was always meant to be in this place, alone where no one can hear him. That’s what his mind convinces him of.

But then, there’s Jon.

And then, Martin isn’t alone anymore.

When they finally meet again, in some empty part of the landscape, Jon’s touch feels like fire to his skin, warm, unpredictable, and yet, familiar. Even in the distant state of mind Martin finds himself in, where he barely senses a thing anymore, he finds himself gently leaning into the contact, basking in the way it burns. Maybe, if it burns, then some part of him is still alive behind his clouded blue eyes.

Jon doesn’t stagger or falter in the way he holds Martin’s face in his hands, like he’ll never see him again if he retracts his touch. “Martin, look at me,” the Archivist pleads, staring back at him with desperation in his unnaturally green eyes, “Look at me, and tell me what you see.”

And there it is: that familiar wave crashing over Martin’s mind. The wave that drowns him, and yet he welcomes with open arms.

“I see…” He pauses, his voice quivering as something cuts through the fog in his mind. Maybe it’s the burning, maybe it’s the way he’s shivering in the chill. “I see you, Jon.”

He chuckles softly, the burning singeing his skin, reminding him of life. Martin’s clearing gaze meets that of Jon’s, watery sky blue peering into verdant expanses of green, and a smile creeps its way onto Martin’s lips. “I see you!”

When he collapses into Jon’s embrace, it’s a feeling Martin’s been waiting to lean into for the longest time. The idea that he can let go, that he can feel again. “I was on my own,” he whimpers, tears welling in his eyes as his body is scorched by the heat of another. “I was all on my own.”

“Not anymore,” says the Archivist. When he lets go of Martin, allowing him to stand, it’s all too soon. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

“How?”

“Don’t worry. I know the way.”

When Martin takes Jon’s hand and starts walking with him, it feels like touching flame again. He’s too tired and scared to do anything but go along with it. Maybe if he were more aware, he’d do something. Move his hand away? It burns. It’s unpredictable. But still— it’s Jon. And Jon being here means it’ll be okay, right?

As they walk across the vacant landscape, Martin’s mind stays hazy in the empty spaces. At least it’s clearer than it has been, but that’s not saying it’s completely restored. When you get used to the way the fog holds you, the way your mind falls back on it, it’s hard to sense anything else. Maybe he’s able to see now, able to think for himself, but that doesn’t mean he’ll escape unscathed. He knew that since he started to be tied to this place, and he knows it now, even in the half-haze.

Still, at least he’s going somewhere. And somewhere is better than here, because it means he won’t be tempted to stay. Even now, walking at a pace that feels almost routine, part of the Lonely whispers to his deepest fears: stay here, you can’t hurt him here.

Martin simply hangs his head, and continues walking, counting each step and trembling breath he takes. He doesn’t look up, and tries not to think too hard. Maybe that’ll do. He’ll be outside of the Lonely’s hold soon enough, at least, left to try to make do, and find a way to build a new reality.

And when Jon shivers by Martin’s side, a feeling that travels into their interlocked hands, Martin doesn’t even notice it. It’s cold out here in the fog. That’s all it could be.

~{☁️}~

When they finally make it out, it isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. They never can have a good ending like that, can they? That would be too easy, and in their little horror tragedy, easy is never the answer to these things.

They drive up to a safehouse after it all. Their coworker Daisy’s safehouse, to be exact, all the way up in the Scottish Highlands. There, they can rest, and hide away from prying eyes. They can learn to be human again, if that’s worth anything at this point.

Martin doesn’t exactly think there’s any “being human” anymore, but he won’t say that to Jon. Not when he knows he’s thinking the exact same thing. He doesn’t need supernatural powers to see that, Jon’s gaze straight forward throughout the long and silent car ride as well as his reluctance to mention the terrors following them says it clear enough.

And yet, despite the way they’ve run from the Institute, the fog follows them under the door.

Martin often finds it’s the worst in the nights. It’s always the worst then, but to be fair, Martin’s had his fair share of sleepless nights. Back then, the cycle had even started to become routine. Lay down, try to sleep, find that he can’t sleep, try to sleep again, and then lie awake.

The loneliness would hit hard in those times, and he’d always find himself doing something he’d regret come morning, most notably calling someone in the middle of the night just to hear another person’s voice, or writing a particularly heavy-hearted poem. He still wishes he could make it up to Tim and Sasha for all the times they picked up when he was too scared to call Jon. Not that the Archivist would’ve picked up back then, anyway.

You’d think the problem would be fixed by the fact that he now lives with the man who was always on his mind both those nights and now, but that notion is only half-correct. Rather, those impulses to reach out have been replaced with staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but apathy and the ambient chill of the night, even when covered in what are supposed to be comforting blankets.

He and Jon have avoided talking about the Lonely these first few days, so they’ve actively found themselves separated. It’s not that they don’t want to talk about it. It’s not that Martin especially doesn’t want to. It’s just that it’s hard. They’ve finally gotten somewhere safe, and Martin’s been finding it increasingly difficult to return to feeling. He looks at Jon, feels like his heart is drowning, and half of him wants to kiss him until he can’t remember his name. The other part of him simply doesn’t have the energy to move, nor make the conversation that stunt would call for. That’s the part of him that keeps winning as of late.

And thus, every night, when the moonlight shines through the windows, Martin only sighs, watching the way his breath briefly appears in the open air. The cold seeps in from outside the cabin into his bones, and he’s left in a haze of remembrance, that of who he is now, and how he still feels as if there’s nothing left in him. Maybe there’s nothing he can do about that. Maybe the Lonely will always have a hold on him. Alas, he stares up again, another night alone. He’ll sleep when it finally takes him.

The first few nights after they eventually address the things they’ve wanted to say for forever, Martin flinches from Jon’s touch. It feels like burning, it feels almost dangerous, and when they’re stuck like this, it means it’s not going anywhere. Still, the Archivist is patient, and lets Martin slowly crawl to him, where it’s warmer. Martin isn’t used to the warmth, after all, not when it’s been noticeably absent from his life. Even his own body has become one with its absence, each tentative touch like ice. But if patience and a rare, yet soft smile is what it takes to comfort Martin, then Jon continues to play the role. Sometimes, Martin’s mind wants to tell him it’s a lie, but he pushes it away. With time, he learns to welcome some of the touch again, as it fades into gentle heat.

Such is the case one morning, yet another day alone together. Before the lit fireplace, Martin sits wrapped in a soft blanket, an attempt to warm himself up. Jon sits with him, taking Martin’s hand into his, resting in a gentle hold. It’s a routine of theirs, an effort to try to keep each other comfortable despite the hunger that comes from separation from their respective entities.

“You’re so cold,” Jon murmurs, half to himself, gently brushing his thumbs over the skin of his partner’s palm. It feels like fire, and Martin flinches, but lets him continue.

“I don’t feel it,” Martin says. “Everything just feels… normal. Except hot or warm things just feel hotter. A side-effect of being tied to the Lonely, I guess?”

Jon hums. “Not anymore,” he says, but Martin can’t bring himself to repeat it. The way his palm is cold to the touch should say enough, and the way the tips of his hair have become an icy white should confirm it. Instead, he moves his hand to bring one of Jon’s own up to his lips, where he places a gentle kiss to the knuckles. The warmth prickles, and he can see the Archivist shiver.

“Maybe someday, I still, uhm– feel the impulses, I suppose. That, and I still know that I’m a bit chilly.”

Jon chuckles. “Yes, I… I know the feeling. And for the record, I don’t mind the cold.”

Martin smiles, one of the few times he’s been able to in the recent days. A thought appears in his mind, and for the first time in a while, he actually lets himself give into the want to let it pour. “If you ever want to know when it started,” he begins, “because I feel you would probably know the timeline a lot better than I know myself, then– uhm– there’s a tape in my bag.” He glances away, softly laughing to himself. “Although, I do talk about you in it, I remember that.”

“I’ll listen,” Jon says, a little too hastily, and Martin can see the way his partner’s eyes spark from brown to unnatural green for a moment. Quickly, realizing his mistake, the Archivist reels himself back in. “My apologies,” he clears his throat, “Yes, I’ll listen. I won’t deny, I’m a little curious–”

“Hungry,” Martin teases, watching in amusement at the way his Archivist quickly shuts up. “It’s okay. I don’t know if you can really do anything to me by listening to that one. It’s not like you’re digging into my head if I’ve actively told you to listen. I’ll be happy after you’ve heard it, though.”

Jon smiles again, one of those little rare ones that are slowly becoming more common for Martin to see. He savors each and every one. For a second, the room feels a little less cold, especially with the way that within a few moments, Martin’s lips tingle with the sudden heat of a gentle kiss, and his Archivist has gone off to find the tape.

For now, Martin muses, he’ll allow himself a little bit of warmth.

~{☁️}~

Even after what should have been peace, the world is ending. Both Jon and Martin know that well. They were its end, after all, and that’s something that’s just made the days worse and worse. But Martin had long since given up mourning a world that never cared for him, and tried to help his Archivist along the way.

Finally, they’re going to leave soon, and venture across whatever’s left of their wasted world, a horror show for them to find a solution to. The cabin isn’t safe anymore, but really, nowhere is. Nowhere but the place at Jon’s side, somewhere Martin has found ever more familiar and comforting.

And so, Martin grows more accustomed to the warmth. He stands now with a smile on his lips, bag slung around his shoulders and a dull jacket over his torso.

“We’ll do this together,” he tells his Archivist, extending a chilled hand out to him. When Jon takes it, pulling himself up, it doesn’t sting Martin anymore. Rather, it feels like sunbeams.

“Right, together,” says his Archivist, and the two face the open door. The sky may be looking back, but Martin Blackwood isn’t lonely anymore. Slowly but surely, the fog and frigidity will turn back to life-giving heat in his blood, starting with today.

Starting with hand in unlovable hand, standing at the end of the world.