#;;footsteps through fog (thread).

[gurokiitty]

Three words here me out:

Strade

Wedding

Angst

a/n: i'm listening, anon !! 👂 👂 👂 ren is here too becoz why not

JUST THE THREE OF US

{ strade x ren hana x f! reader }

word count: 1.4k

warnings/tags: angst, forced "marriage", physical and psychological abuse, tongue mutilation, blood, forced intimacy (kissing), may be kinda ooc for strade?

As the morning dawned, a single ray of light sneaked through the boarded-up window, casting a thin strip of illumination across the dusty floor. It travelled slowly, like a silent, ethereal intruder in the otherwise shadowed space. You watched it crawl up to your legs, highlighting the bruises and scars marking your skin, as well as the bandages wrapped around your foot— a mocking beacon of faint hope in the dim room.

Beside you, Ren sat stiffly. His usual poise was marred by anxiety, evident by the way his ears flattened against his head each time his gaze darted to the heavy door.

Soon, the sound of footsteps approached and the door creaked open. Strade entered with a twisted smile, holding two garments. For you, a faded white dress— obviously a thrift store find— yet it held a semblance of what could have been a bride’s traditional attire. For Ren, one of Strade's old suits, dusty and unworn.

"Time to get ready," he announced, his voice echoing slightly in the cramped space. "Don’t take too long. We wouldn’t want to keep the big day waiting." His smile widened as he tossed the garments onto the bed, pausing briefly at the doorway to give one last look before turning to leave.

As the door clicked shut behind him, you exchanged a brief, fraught glance with Ren, his eyes mirroring your turmoil. The preparations were mechanical; the simple acts of bathing and dressing became an attempt to maintain a shred of normalcy.

In the small bathroom, you sat in the tub and cleaned yourself carefully below the neck. Each stroke on your skin felt like an attempt to erase the gruelling memories of the past days. The water ran pink, mingling dust and sweat with blood— a stark reminder of the reality you couldn't completely wash away.

The ordeal felt more surreal as you dried yourself and slipped the dress over your head. It hung loose on your frame, the soft material grazing your skin in unfamiliar, almost comforting touches. You looked into the fogged mirror, wiping away the condensation to see yourself. Your reflection was simple yet transformative, and for a fleeting moment, you recognized a shadow of the person you once were.

Stepping back into the room, you noticed Ren standing before a full-length mirror, smoothing his hair. He turned his head slightly as you approached, his suit hanging loosely on his frame. The mismatched fit would have been almost comical if not for the gravity of the situation. You caught his eye through the mirror and his ears perked up slightly.

His gaze lingered before he forced a smile and turned to adjust the collar of his ill-fitting suit. "It doesn't quite feel like a celebration, does it?"

You approached him slowly, the fabric of the white dress whispering against the floor. "No, but we'll get through this. Just like we've gotten through everything else." You replied, your voice steadier than you felt.

"I know we will. It's just..." His voice trailed off as he met your eyes in the mirror again, searching for an assurance neither of you could truly provide.

You reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder, feeling the coarse fabric under your fingertips. "We'll find a way out. Together." It was a promise, a thin thread of hope you both clung to, even as doubt whispered in the back of your minds.

The ceremony that awaited you was nothing short of a macabre performance, orchestrated by Strade for his twisted enjoyment. As you descended the stairs, the ceremonial charade Strade had set up in the living room revealed itself. A crude altar stood at the end, draped in an old tablecloth and surrounded by a few flickering candles.

Strade's presence, polished yet sinister in a crisp, red suit, only heightened the surrealism of the moment. His hair was neatly styled, transforming him into a figure vastly different from the one you knew. Yet, as the candlelight danced across his face, it illuminated his familiar smile while he puffed on a cigar; the smoke curling around him like a visible sneer.

"You two clean up nice," he mused, a sinister melody in his voice. "My beautiful bride and my handsome groom, all dolled up for our big day." His smirk widened as he exhaled, the cigar's scent mingling with the stale air.

Then, Strade stepped forward, positioning himself by the makeshift altar. "Let’s begin, shall we?" He said, taking the cigar between his fingers and clearing his throat.

“Während manche sagen, dass es zwei braucht, um eine Ehe zu schließen, / While some say it takes two to make a marriage,” he began, "Wir drei sind ein Leben lang verbunden. / The three of us are bound together for a lifetime."

His smile twisted further as he concluded in a chilling tone, "In life and death, our fates are forever intertwined."

As you stood there, facing Strade in his unnervingly handsome guise, a mixture of dread and despair settled heavily in your stomach. His eyes, sharp and calculating, skimmed over you and Ren, taking in every detail of your forced readiness.

“Now let's get to the good part, huh?” his voice dropped to a husky whisper as he closed the distance between you; his movements poised yet predatory. He reached out suddenly, gripping your chin with a firmness that made your heart skip.

“A little token to commemorate our day,” he murmured before his lips pressed briefly against yours. His touch was cold, his fingers clamping your jaw as he pulled away.

Before you could react, Strade's hand moved to your mouth, prying it open, his fingers pressing against your lips. Dread washed over you as he withdrew a small knife from his suit pocket. The sheen of the blade caught the flickering candlelight as he unsheathed it, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel Ren's gaze burning into you, a silent plea for mercy mirrored in his expression.

Strade's grip on your chin tightened as he brought the blade closer to your trembling lips, positioning it at the center of your tongue. Without hesitation, he made a long, deliberate cut down the median sulcus, the cold steel slicing through the soft flesh. Pain seared through you as blood began to pool in your mouth, spilling down your chin in thick rivulets, and staining the white of your dress.

You could hear Ren's sharp intake of breath, his own fate mirrored in the cruel twist of Strade's lips. The room seemed to spin, the weight of your shared agony pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

Strade then turned to Ren, who had watched the ordeal with horror etched deeply into his features. Ren’s attempts to protest were muffled by Strade’s swift and brutal actions, repeating the gruesome act. The immediate flow of blood now tied your pains together in the most visceral way possible.

With a monstrous grin, he forced you and Ren to face each other, pushing you two into a proximity that felt both intrusive and intimate. "Now, kiss," he commanded, his voice low.

You reached up, your hands trembling as they framed Ren's face, your thumbs brushing against his cheeks. You could feel his muscles tense under your touch.

Reluctantly, painfully, you leaned towards him, the coppery taste of blood mingling as your lips met. The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but you pressed closer and your wounded tongues touched. The pain sparked again, more intensely, as you both stifled a groan. Blood mixed with saliva, creating a bond that was as real as it was enforced, painting your lips and trickling down in a slow, warm drip that met the front of your dress.

You could feel Ren's breath hitch, his hands coming up to rest hesitantly on your hips, his touch light, as if afraid to cause more pain— or perhaps more connection. The kiss deepened slightly, not out of desire but out of a desperate need to find solace in your shared suffering.

“This is what binds us together,” Strade remarked, “Not just some vows or rings, but blood, pain, and fear. You two are mine, in every way that counts.”

Finally, you pulled away, and the string of blood that had connected you broke, leaving only a sticky residue on your lips.

[illumins]

𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐞—𝑙. 𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑘 (#⁰³)

✦trope: fluff, spidey-mark, spiderman

✧first pov

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It’s the kind of morning where the sunlight seems to perform, glittering through the leaves of the trees lining our school’s front walk like something alive. The bus, dented and smelling faintly of rubber and stale lunches, sits idling at the curb, and I am hyper-aware of my own heartbeat, the tap-tap-tapping against my ribcage as I shuffle in line to board.

I find a seat by the window, sticking my backpack onto the empty space beside me. I tell myself it’s to save the spot for Jenna, but she’s decided to sit up front, leaving me an island in a sea of noise. The other students buzz with the sort of aimless energy only a field trip can inspire. I watch them, trying to imagine how it would feel to be as light-hearted, their thoughts not tangled in a net of impossible hopes.

Mark climbs onto the bus last, his hair a tousled mess from the wind, a grin playing on his lips as he jokes with his friends. They’re talking about the new exhibit at the science museum, something about rare minerals, but all I can see is the way his shoulders ease back in laughter, the effortless orbit of his friends around him. He’s got this gravity, and I feel caught in it, helpless.

He doesn’t notice me, not yet. He’s recounting some anecdote that has them all leaning in, their expressions lit with shared amusement. I watch his hands as he speaks, animated and sure, the way I imagine Spider-Man’s might be when he’s scaling a skyscraper or swinging between the canyons of New York’s avenues. I try to picture telling him, confessing everything right there in the vibrating hull of the school bus. But the words knot in my throat, unspoken.

We arrive under a sky scrubbed clean by the wind, the museum rising before us like a monument to all things curious and unknown. Our teachers herd us toward the entrance, their voices raised over the clamor. I stay a few steps behind Mark, watching as he squints up at the banners flapping above the entrance, his profile sharp against the pale morning light.

Inside, the museum is a cavern of shadows and echoes, the air cool and tinged with the scent of metal and glass. We wander through the exhibits, the teachers giving us time to explore while they discuss logistics at the front desk. My friends cluster around a display of meteorites, their surfaces pocked and scarred like moons. I drift away, my sneakers silent on the polished floor.

I find him by the Foucault pendulum, standing so close to the barrier that his breath must be fogging the brass plaque explaining the physics of it all. His concentration is a tangible thing, and I watch the way his eyes track the slow, hypnotic swing of the pendulum.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” I say, my voice softer than I intend, barely threading through the hum of distant conversations and the distant echo of footsteps.

He turns, his smile quick and surprised, as if he hadn’t expected anyone to break his private communion with the exhibit. “Hey,” he says. “Yeah, it really is. Did you know—”

But I’m barely listening, too caught up in the way his hair curls just behind his ears, the earnestness of his gaze. I shuffle my feet, feeling suddenly clumsy, the words I’ve rehearsed slipping away like water through fingers.

“So, I was thinking,” I start, but my voice trembles and I have to start again. “I was wondering if—”

An explosion shatters the moment, the sound so loud it seems to consume the air. Screams slice through the museum as people start running, a stampede of fear. Mark’s hand shoots out, grabbing my arm, pulling me close. His body shields mine as the sound reverberates, the ground beneath us shivering with the violence of the blast.

“Are you okay?” he shouts over the noise, his eyes scanning the chaos, always looking for how he can help. I nod, words lost in the tumult.

We move together, his hand firm on my elbow, guiding me towards what I assume is safety. My heart is a wild thing inside my chest, not just from the blast, but from him, from the heat of his hand through the fabric of my shirt.

As we reach a quieter corner, his friends gathering around us, his face is inches from mine, his brow furrowed with concern. The chaos around us blurs into a backdrop as I’m suddenly, acutely aware of his closeness, the faint smell of his cologne mixed with the metallic tang of fear.

“Seriously, are you all right?” His voice is steady, a contrast to the trembling of my own limbs.

I manage a nod, my throat tight. “Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks to you.” The words tumble out awkwardly, carried more by relief than by courage. The truth is, I want to say so much more, to rewind to the moment before the explosion, to the question I had been about to ask.

He smiles, a quick, reflexive thing that doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he scans the area, still in protector mode. His gaze is everywhere, taking in exits, assessing threats, so unlike the carefree high school student he plays in the daylight of ordinary afternoons.

Mark turns back to me, his hand still gripping my arm lightly. “We should keep moving. It’s not safe here.”

As we walk, I can hear the sirens in the distance, the sound growing steadily louder. The museum staff are directing visitors toward emergency exits, their voices calm but urgent over handheld radios.

We reach a side exit, the cool air outside a slap after the stifling fear inside. Police cars and fire trucks are converging on the scene, their lights painting the world in harsh strokes of red and blue. Mark's friends cluster together, everyone speaking at once, trying to make sense of the chaos.

I stand slightly apart, the weight of my unasked question heavier than ever. Just as I gather the remnants of my scattered courage, ready to reach out and touch his arm, to pull him aside and finally speak my truth, he looks over, his expression shifting as he sees something beyond my shoulder.

“Stay here,” he says abruptly, and then he’s gone, melting into the crowd with a swiftness that speaks of more than just urgency—it speaks of necessity, of duty.

The others don’t notice his departure, not at first, caught up in their own relief and recounting of the event. I watch where he disappeared, the cold knot of disappointment settling in my stomach. Not because of the missed chance to confess, but because I know, with a sinking certainty, where he’s gone.

To change, to swing into action as someone else entirely. As Spider-Man.

I wrap my arms around myself, watching as the first responders begin to corral us further away from the building. The sound of distant thuds and muffled shouts suggests that the danger isn’t over, that whatever caused the explosion might still be unfolding inside.

And there, under the relentless sweep of emergency lights, I realize the truth isn’t just in the words I’d failed to say. It’s in this moment, in the pulse of fear and the clarity it brings. It’s in the understanding that my confession wouldn’t just be about a crush; it would be an acknowledgment of his double life, a step into his world of constant peril and masked identities.

As I watch, poised on the edge of something vast and terrifying, a new resolve forms. When this is over, when he comes back, I’ll be waiting. Not just to confess, but to stand by him. Maybe then, he’ll see me not just as a classmate, but as someone who knows the weight of his secrets and chooses to stay.

But for now, I wait, the sirens wailing a lament, the flashing lights casting shadows where I stand—alone but undeterred, ready for whatever comes next.

[miasmaghoul]

miasma hiiii 💜 how’s about prompt 6 with mountaindew?

-mars (waywardsamaritan)

“shh. do you want them to hear? i bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

"Dew," Mountain hisses through grit teeth, fingers threaded through golden hair, "Dew - shit, slow down, oh -"

Dewdrop peers up at him with a hungry glint in those molten copper eyes. He's nuzzling the obvious bulge in Mountain's pajama pants, mouthing at the outline of his growing chubby. The little ghoul raises an eyebrow, pulling back to rub at him through damp flannel.

"Slow down?" A callused finger traces the ridge of his tip and Mountain shivers. "I haven't even gotten started."

That may be true, but Mountain's still half asleep and trying to get his bearings on the swaying bus. He'd rolled out of his bunk and stumbled to the bathroom without even opening his eyes. Hadn't noticed soft footsteps behind him until skinny arms had wrapped around his waist while he was washing his hands.

Dew had wasted no time in bullying Mountain's sluggish body against the door, hadn't so much as whispered a good morning before he'd dropped to his knees and pressed his face to Mountain's crotch. Before he had taken a deep breath and let out a satisfied groan, dragging a hot tongue over the lump of his soft cock to make it twitch.

Mountain thinks he can be forgiven for being just a touch out of sorts.

Dew's hair feels so soft between his fingers, most of it pulled back in a messy bun but with a few wispy strands framing his angular face. His cheek still holds the indents of his pillowcase, subtle creases near his eye. Something about them is oddly mesmerizing, and Mountain mindlessly strokes one with his thumb.

Then Dew gives him a nice squeeze, and Mountain lets out a truly pathetic whine.

"Oh, that's a pretty sound," the little ghoul coos, wide mouth curling into a devilish grin. "Do it again."

It's no trouble for Mountain to obey. Dew knows just how to touch him, always. Knows right where to press, to stroke, to tease - even the barrier of his pajamas offers no protection from those skilled fingers. Dew massages him with an ease that makes his knees weak, makes him whimper and groan into the silence surrounding them.

The little ghoul pulls Mountain's waistband down just enough to free his half hard cock, wraps an elegant hand around him, and when Dew gives a slow stroke Mountain's head thuds against the flimsy bathroom door.

"Fuuuuck."

He moans it long, low and much louder than he means to. He feels Dew's responding chuckle in the form of a puff of warm air against his swelling shaft.

"Shh," he says quietly, twisting his hand in a way that makes Mountain gurgle. "Do you want them to hear?"

Mountain stiffens, hands tightening in Dew's hair. The little ghoul makes a pleased sound, which really doesn't help the little frission of anxiety that crawls up Mountain's spine. It's easy to blame the early hour for his brain fog, for him forgetting that maybe an inch of plastic is all that separates them from the rest of their still-sleeping pack.

It's harder to explain the way Dew's soft words make his cock throb.

The little ghoul chuckles again, and Mountain rolls his neck. Lets his chin hit his chest. Dew's eyes glow up at him, filled with mirth and mischief. He's smiling again, and it's so very sharp at the edges.

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Mountain shakes his head, but the pretty pearl of fluid that beads up in his slit betrays him. Dew purrs deep in his chest at the sight, looking him straight in the eye when he swipes that sinful tongue over the tip and laps it right up. Mountain feels his ears go hot.

"Don't lie," Dew teases, his other hand sneaking up Mountain's sleep shirt, fingertips slipping through the fine dusting of hair on his belly. "You'd love it. Bet you're hoping we open that door and find the new kid listening in again."

Mountain makes a noise he doesn't have a name for, an embarrassing cross between a moan, a sob and a hiccup. His hips twitch forward of their own accord, into the tight channel of Dew's fist, and Mountain quails under the shit-eating grin on the little ghoul's face.

"That's what I thought," he lilts, pressing a sweet little baby kiss to Mountain's pretty pink mushroom tip. "Can't hide from me, big guy."

It shouldn't feel as good as it does, it really shouldn't. He's so hard, so fat in Dew's slight hand. Mountain whines when a larger blurt of pre leaks out, and doesn't miss the way Dew's eyes sparkle. The little ghoul smears the slick head over his lips, gets them all shiny, sticky, and Mountain's lucky he doesn't blow immediately.

"Guess we should give 'em a reason to listen."

Dew wraps those lovely lips around him, gives a firm suck, and all Mountain can do is offer an unholy prayer for mercy.

[chokedraven]

"What are you fighting for?"

The words broke through the thick layer of fog in Whumpee's head, wandering and finding their way to Whumpee's mind, despite the fact that they had long lost the thread of what was happening around them. They could barely muster the remnants of consciousness to understand their own predicament —however, the words sounded surprisingly clear in their head.

"Do you have a goal?"

They caressed the edges of Whumpee's consciousness, the soft echoes of the outside world, beckoning, wanting to pull them out of the secluded dark corner of their mind, into which they had crept in a stupid (you can't blame them for their little sanity, when they were barely able to think without loading their brain to boiling), stupid and pathetic attempt to hide from the painful reality.

But now they were finally here, curled up in this very corner and slowly withering away, only to be pushed back to the surface?

Back into this endless agony of torture?

"Some reason... Lord, any reason to be so nasty, huh?"

Whumpee whined, a soft sound burst into a small red bubble, inflated with a thin film of blood between their lips. The taste of copper tickled the walls of their throat unpleasantly. They took one quiet moment worrying about it before slipping back into unconsciousness. A blissfully empty cinema with a single occupied seat, occasionally buggy screen with echoes of their overly dramatic interlocutor (even barely conscious, they could get tired of these monologues).

Soft footsteps echoed through the small room, accompanied by a barely audible soft chuckle. And then — a smiling face appeared in front of Whumpee's half-closed eyes, making them spend the rest of their strength into flinch.

The raised thin eyebrows, the wide smile, the wide-open eyes and the dark pupils dilated from the faded lighting. They were willing to bet that this face would keep them awake at night if they got the chance to grab a quiet moment or two of a slumber.

Whumper's eyes ran over Whumpee's face, as if scanning, trying to memorize every detail: half-closed unfocused eyes, lightly parted lips and frozen blood like a cherry on a cake.

And this is probably what will make Whumper sleep sweetly at night.

"It's just... I'm really interested." They chuckled, their voice clearer now that they were much closer to Whumpee, almost inches from their own face. "A beautiful wife/husband waiting you home? A couple of toddlers? A cute golden retriever?"

It was barely possible to discern mockery in their words, it really sounded like simple interest, undisguised curiosity. Or just so exposed to the background that it was impossible to hear anything behind it.

Whumpee whimpered softly again, no more than a wheeze, and closed their eyes. The darkness continued to creep into their mind...

They flinched again when they felt a cold pressure on their eyelids. Whumper carefully, almost gently, opened Whumpee's eyes again, lifting the eyelids with the tips of their thumbs, and forcing Whumpee to face them again.

"C’mon, tell me, will you?"

Whumpee couldn't. Their tongue felt heavy in their mouth, their mind barely caught Whumper's words, not to digest them and give a reasonable answer.

However, Whumper didn't seem to be waiting for it. Their face softened as they moved their fingers to the sides of Whumpee's head, edges of their fingers gently stroking hair above their victim's ears. Thumbs never left their eyelids.

Whumpee tried their best not to enjoy the gentle touch after so many hours of torture.

"I know so little about you... Yet," Whumper chuckled softly and leaned just a bit closer, hot breath touching Whumpee's face when they spoke again: "I guess we'll have a plenty of time to get to know each other better, don't you think?"

Taking a last quiet look at their face with, Whumper allowed their hands to pull away, and Whumpee's freed eyelids finally fell, plunging their world into solid darkness.

[heli0s-writes]

You’re Toxic, I’m Slipping Under

Summary: He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it. “See you next week,” he hums.

A/n: To celebrate Glass Onion coming out, here’s ol’ boy Ransom because I hate him so much :) 4.1k words. Warnings: Smut; mild degradation, spitting, daddy kink; classism; Mind Games with Ransom Hour etc. etc. Please stop reading if you’re not 18+

Your whole apartment building seems to rattle when he arrives thirty minutes late. Like raucous fanfare to announce his appearance, the door slams shut, the latch clicks loudly, and then you hear his heavy footsteps pounding up the stairs.

His shoes are still on—of course they are—stomping your floorboards and dragging in dirt. You can practically see them, the usual suede loafers switched out for leather boots with the late fall chill, and probably mud-caked because he’s thankless like that.

With your attention still on your laptop, already irritated because you’ve been attempting a paper that’s only chased its tail for the last three hours, you ask, “Did you misplace your watch, Ransom?”

Turning, you show him you’re the screen reading 8:32 and blink pointedly, “Is that a yes?”

“Don’t be smart,” he snaps back. “You know I don’t like that.”

Your head’s been a mess of fog, body tense and frustrated for days, and although you’ve always prided yourself on tact and grace—patient like a saint—Ransom manages to bring out the worst. You hiss, “Take your damn shoes off, you know I don’t like that.”

You watch mutely as he does so, not without a sneer here, a shitty comment there. He takes three long steps and plops himself on your bed, hands curling into the quilt, thumbs brushing over the patchwork fabric disparagingly. He pinches a loose thread and begins to pull, tugging slowly at first, and then finding joy in unraveling a line of stitching until nearly three inches rip apart.

“I always thought you needed to replace this thing.” He twirls the string disdainfully, “It’s ugly as sin.”

He pretends he doesn’t know how you obviously love this quilt—handstitched and affectionately made, your damn initials are embroidered into the corner, after all. He’s made a game of testing your patience, gleefully punching at every button as he tries to get you to snap.

Ransom Drysdale Thrombey. You’d met him at one of the Thrombey’s family… functions. Dysfunction, you’d muttered under your breath when Walt beat his cane against the floor in a drunken tirade and Meg ran out back to wolf down a pot cookie that she was supposed to be saving for later.

She was on the cusp of a panic attack, words tumbling out like a car crash, her hand in her beret, then hair, then trembling over her maroon-painted lips.

“God, I’m so sorry— I thought we could just make a pit stop before heading out. The food’s always catered and really good— god… it’s a fucking mess.”

You waved her off because it’s not like you haven’t witnessed at least one aunt having a meltdown during holiday dinner before— family’s just like that—and tried to placate her with, “Can’t be worse than the cousin who asked if we’d be scissoring later.”

Meg’s face twisted in disgust. “Ugh, ew! Fucking Jacob! He’s a skeezy little incel— I swear he’s a moderator on one of those internet forums where they post revenge porn and upskirt vids— honestly, he was adorable two years ago. Then I guess he went through puberty and got radicalized on Youtube.”

You paused as she lit a cigarette and inhaled furiously before realizing that the two of you were thinking of two entirely different cousins.

“I meant the big one, Meg. This one went through puberty twenty years ago.”

“Ew, Ransom,” Meg frowned, “That’s even worse.”

“Ransom? What is he, a Disney villain?”

Leaves crunched behind your back and Meg looked up from flicking ash into the yard toward the sound.

“Let’s be honest, I’ve got the face of a leading man.”

Meg blew smoke at him, as if the fumes were enough to threaten his sensibilities. You figured not, he looked like a cigar smoker anyway—one of those guys who’d dedicate a whole room in their house with the humidity just right to keep them fresh. Rich people shit.

“Go away, Ransom,” she said, to clarify.

“I don’t recall addressing you, Megan.” He took a drawn-out look, lips pursing in scrutiny before lifting a brow, making a real goddamn show about it. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll bite. 400 on the dresser for an hour; you can get yourself something nice.”

You’re still not sure what it was about either your attire or attitude that allowed him to conjure up such an offer.

Maybe it was your shitty jeans and your sweater from freshman year orientation. Maybe you looked like an easy mark to tear down.

His audacity shocked out a laugh from you—a loud, abrupt guffaw that eased Meg enough for her to dip back inside to grab more from her stash. And when she was out of sight, focused on rummaging in the old clock, you responded, “Yeah, okay. I’ll bite back.”

Maybe it was an act of rebellion against your background in contrast to all this excess. The bitter aftertaste of eating bottom shelf food out of necessity for weeks at a time—those awful chicken bouillon packets and dried blocks of instant noodles your first year of college. No one paid for your schooling or housing so learning to balance an over-abundance of classes and a job because you needed to graduate early, needed to spend less money on tuition, meant that you were working yourself to death.

If Youtube radicalized Jacob, then habitually sleeping three hours a night in the campus library and skipping meals to afford textbooks while men like Ransom crashed Maserati’s for fun radicalized you.

So, sure. Game on.

He picked you up the following weekend without anyone knowing and took you somewhere expensive. It was a whirlwind of exorbitant dinners and being quietly sneered at down the straight line of his tall nose bridge. The front door to his bachelor pad shutting but not bothered with locking. Falling into the thousand-count Egyptian cotton bedsheets naked, the skylight’s beam spilling like gold-flecked champagne.

You promised yourself it meant nothing. Just an experiment of unbridled spite. If he wanted to throw money at you, hell, that’s his problem. If he wanted to fuck you, well, you’d give him the best fuck of his life— let him see that despite wealth, at the end of the day, he was flesh and blood trembling for the right stroke.

And sure, he trembled, but it was your mistake to pare it down so simply.

Ransom juggled fuck buddies much longer than you’d been fucking at all. He knew it was best with the right amount of emotion involved. Just enough to yearn. If he laid roses at your feet, kissed your knees featherlight and worked his way up to your jaw, cradled the back of your head, nosed the pulse of your wrist, your collarbones, asked for your eyes on him, and panted the lightest breath of your name at the edge of it all—now who’s fucking who over, sweetheart?

You were out of your depth. He was powerful, older, and more experienced. He touched you in ways that emulated affection—that brought fire and danger. His hands were large and callused at the juncture of his fingers. His pretty mouth was pink, wet, kissed greedy. His sharp eyes took everything in.

But, as you predicted, his moods soon volleyed in every direction as consequence of never being told no, and once the novelty of crazy hot—often angry—sex grew stale, you crashed back down to earth burned out. You ghosted.

“You’re, what…” he called through the door the week after you texted that it was both too much and not enough to carry on with, “breaking up with me? Seriously. This is a fucking joke.”

And you could have practically seen it—how his bottom lip would jut out as his incisors crossed, how his brows would sink when he got angry. He was never belligerent, only calculating.

You told him to leave, and he did, after a single loud kick to the frame, because he’s never begged for anything, and he wasn’t going to start.

The guilt came afterwards, with the bouquet of roses on the doormat, petals scattered around because he’d slammed them down after being ignored again and again, and you swept them inside to throw into a vase next to the three other vases with flowers in various degrees of wilted.

“Breaking up” prickled complicatedly in the middle of your chest, because despite the many shows of affection, you knew you weren’t exactly breaking up. You had never really been with him anyway. People aren’t… with Ransom. They’re towed along by Ransom, dragged by their hair by Ransom. Played with by Ransom until he inevitably gets bored.

It devolved into needless melodrama. Weekly episodes of a teen show with grandiose gestures of toxic relationships perceived as romance. Ransom’s habit of whisking you away, fucking you senseless, turning around to fight with you about any-goddamn-thing he pleased. Dropping off flowers and champagne. Restarting the whole process.

It wasn’t healthy—isn’t healthy, probably, according to most therapists—since he’s here, present-day, in your room, beginning to undress.

You fiddle with the sleeves at your elbows, thumbing cool satin before advancing, arms subconsciously crossed.

He’s only in his underwear now. A pair of nondescript gray boxer briefs fitted on his muscular thighs, taut as he leans back on his palms. He slowly spreads his legs, inviting you between them. His lips purse when you stand passively, knee brushing his bulge, hands resting over his shoulders. He’s warm.

One palm caresses your lower back and the other on himself, gliding up and down. His lids are half open, voice low, “You miss this?”

“No,” which is a lie. You missed it when evenings were boring, half-heartedly nodding to some boy’s drivel about campus life, mind wandering to someone who didn’t look freshly 21, didn’t date like it. Didn’t talk themselves up just to get you into bed.

At least Ransom was honest; he always said exactly what he thought, told you exactly when you were pissing him off, how he was going to teach you a lesson—where he wanted you, how he wanted you, and— a chill races up your arms.

He’s downright smug when he notices.

“No? You prefer sloppy frat boys pawing at you like virgins over me? Every time, you think they might fuck right but, well, you’re always disappointed.” He reaches beneath the short hem of the robe, splays his hand out over your thigh and very slowly feels his way up.

Your eyes shutter as he pulls you forward, gripping tightly and massaging up toward your ass. The pit of your belly is tightening, the rest trying to push down being too eager for him all over you, his broad shoulders, his strong hands, how he bends his grasp on your shoulder, fixes you in a perfect curved arch just the way he likes.

Ransom noses the robe out of his path, sinking his teeth lightly down until he scrapes a line over your breastbone, laying his face gently down like a child—like a lover.

“You know,” he begins, taunting again, “You make a… face.” He says it as he trails down beneath the swell of one breast, letting your nipple graze his cheek, before he presses a kiss to your ribcage. Hot like a brand, searing into your belly. And then he bites.

You flinch, hand going to his hair to pull him away. He throws his head back into your grasp, eyes glittering and amused. He quickly works your thighs apart, dipping two fingers between and sinking into your heat.

“There it is,” he chuckles when your eyes flutter, “Yeah... Really gets me off.”

You’re in his lap before you know it, your hold on him fallen off and now scrambling for his wide shoulders to hold yourself steady. He’s got you leaned back on his thighs, hanging off the edge of the bed and perfectly helpless, the only thing planting you even close to secure are your folded knees, your arms around his neck. He’s shushing you, one large hand on the small of your back, the other still working inside your pussy.

He says, “Calm down unless you want to fall,” but it’s goddamn hard when your heart is pounding with equal parts fear and arousal. He’s sucking on your tits, balancing you just precariously enough to thrill, fingering you all the while—like it’s nothing to him, like you’re an object he can manipulate however he pleases.

His cock is erect, flexing against the fabric over his groin, a swell of hard, aching muscle. You want to put your hand around it, feel its girth in your palm, simply hold it because you do fucking miss it. The places he can reach, the ways he spreads you, rocking in and pulling out—how he sometimes settles inside, and then does nothing but watch you squirm.

It’s undeniably gorgeous—and he is too—when you fumble it out after he lays you down and hovers over you with interest. You’re wetting your lips automatically, staring in awe at his thick shaft sprouting from soft, dark, curls, the tip of it smooth and almost purple, swollen up with blood.

“Legs up,” and the way he says it, how he just goes right out and says it, makes you groan.

Boys don’t do that. Too busy in their heads about peacocking and re-enacting the kind of porno where performers wordlessly move into new positions in sync, nothing verbal exchanged but high-pitched shrieking and nasally fuck me’s.

Ransom’s extremely verbal in bed. He easily says, “Look at me. Show me how much you want it,” and flits his eyes between your bodies.  

You do, shivering, sliding two fingers along the sides of your folds, finding yourself aroused and damp, humiliated and incredibly turned on when he grins, simply content with watching. Your thighs are squeezing reflexively, abdomen crunching up trying to keep it together.

But he’s never been patient, and quickly tells you to hold your knees, rock back, make yourself small and exposed, and then he’s delving gently into your hole— thumbs taking turns, coaxing more.

Two fingers tuck in, then another two struggle next to them, and you can’t stop yourself from gasping and crying out at how he pulls apart the walls of your cunt.

The sound of it— sloppy, squelching, a light and hollow kind of noise like a tongue flicking inside an open mouth.

“Look at this pretty pussy.” He tugs a little more, and you wriggle into it, gripping your legs tighter, pulling your knees up, shins toward your burning face to hide.

He descends on your clit, tip of his tongue licking into your stretched hole, purposefully only running against the taut skin around his fingers. “You got a talent, baby,” he murmurs, buzzing. “I could fuck you the whole day, fuck you numb… but give you about half an hour and it’s good as new, tight and perfect.”

There had been marathon rounds of bouncing in his lap between being at each other’s throats, his thighs splitting yours, hands holding you up, nibbling at your ear. Then he’d turn you around, take you to the floor until you collapsed on the bearskin rug, the sweat on your neck and chest rolling into dark furs. Railed you until you were so sensitive anything would make you come; your body unsure if it was considered your own anymore.

Fuck, fight, rinse, and repeat.

“Are you—going to talk all night?” You grunt up to the ceiling, trying to steel yourself from panting or moaning and only barely making it.

“Thought you liked it when I talked.”  His dark head is still between your legs, nose pressed into your skin, licking agonizingly slow with his entire tongue. It’s so warm, and gentle, and assertive. “What, you don’t like being told how good you taste?”

He keeps licking, pushing at the back of your knees when you try to switch positions, holding you in that bent up pose. He’s suckling at your clit when his fingers find their way back inside, easily hooking in three and pumping them smoothly.

“How—” he sucks hard, the shape of his full, plush lips fitted over you making a filthy wet smack, “mmm—I love the taste of your sweet pussy?”

When you come like it’s being ripped out of you, legs shaking around his head, lines of his spit dripping down your ass and onto the sheets, he lets you go with a hard slap on your sex, and you nearly wail.

“That’s my girl,” he says. “Yeah, you missed me, huh? You missed it like this, didn’t you? Tell me.”

“Unnng …” a high whine, “Ransom.”

“I know,” he mumbles, kissing up your belly, your neck, your ear.

He moves into position, entering effortlessly after all his prep work, and the shine of your juice still on his beard is fucking unholy hot. He’s grinning and panting, eyes fluttering briefly as he slides home.

“I know it’s big, baby. But you can take it, you’re gonna take it.” He’s a fraction unfocused, letting himself enjoy how you squeeze around him before he begins to punish.

Jesus, you missed this. Missed the agonizing drag of his shaft that feels like it goes on and on forever. Miss the way you get full of him, miss how it almost hurts.

His hipbones are hitting against yours, a steady fast rhythm because he’s experienced like that. Whereas some others might go faster when you’re close, Ransom stays at the pace that got you there in the first place. If anything, he pushes just a bit harder, makes you listen to the sound of his skin on yours, the choke of your breath he punches out.

You crunch yourself up smaller, toes touching the headboard now. Anything to get him further in.

“Fuck, you’re a slut,” he laughs. “Pretty little slut, god you don’t give it up like this for anyone else, do you?”

There’s not enough sense in you to argue even if you wanted to. The room is swimming, undulating, slipping further and further out of reach as the bed rocks and squeaks in protest. You’re sure you met a very handsome guy at the bar weeks ago but as soon as he started hinting that he was interested and stirred up conversation by asking your major, you left.

It just… wasn’t there. It wasn’t the same. No way in hell.

That boy wouldn’t have done this—wouldn’t be planting one foot on the bed, the other knee still down, enormous hands tight on your hips and crashing in.

You could cry, it feels so goddamn good.

Tears dribble their way out from the corner of your eyes. You turn your face enough to get a breath of fresh air, gulping it in frantically between the drive of Ransom’s cock and the half second he slides out.

You vaguely register his hand moving from your hip to your cheek, knuckles brushing upward.

“Oh,” he sighs, “pretty, pretty girl.” He slows his pace, nearly stilling. You squirm beneath him, inching away from how deep he is inside you, how intimate it feels as he kisses the hollow of your cheek and then toward your brow.

“So sweet for me,” he says, pulsing, making you whine with how he pushes against your sore walls. “Did I make a slut out of you? Huh? Make you stupid for my dick?”

“Make me come,” you say. “Make me—“

“Ask me real nice, baby. Ask daddy to make you come.”

You want to hit him. Kill him.

“No?” He whispers into the sensitive shell of your ear, “You don’t want it?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, embarrassment clawing up your face, but Ransom’s hold is tighter, sharper, and he really is— so fucking right. You want it. And he’s made you a little stupid, so yeah--

“Please make me come, daddy. I wanna come.”

The Cheshire grin that unfurls on his face is more panther than cat. “You wanna come on daddy’s big cock?”

“Yes, daddy,” you admit. “I wanna so bad.”

“Oh, that’s it, baby. You’re a good girl, aren’t you. You put on a little show just for me? Act like you don’t want it but soon as I get in you and you let me lay you out anywhere, make you say anything.”

You turn away but he’s got your fucking number— got you as a boneless, spineless mess beneath him as he begins to fuck you again, and harder, his calculating, beautiful, cruel face hanging above you like a fever dream.

“You gonna come? Gonna cry?”

He’s melting away, he’s everywhere, and the lights behind your eyelids are starting to glare and threaten to explode.

“Gonna come for daddy, huh. That’s it, baby. That’s my girl, let me feel your pussy— ah— there it is— you can’t help it, can you? Mmm, swallow daddy’s cock with your pussy.”

Your orgasm is a wreck of curses and teeth on Ransom’s shoulder when he drops down close enough to make contact. You shake and whimper, struggling to calm yourself through the aftershocks.

When you’re done, still floaty but more aware, the mess of your humming insides less tight around him, he pulls out and shuffles up until his swollen tip is at your chin.  

You obey wordlessly, and afterwards, when the flex of his shaft is tell-tale, and he empties into your mouth, you hold it there, show him the mess.

“Baby,” he says, slowly making his way back down, admiring the come submerging your tongue.

Ransom licks his lips, licks the inside of his cheek, and leans back over again, his eyes liquid darkness and pleased as punch. And he drops a line of spit on top, drools it down over your teeth, into your mouth, and says, “Good girl.”

-

“You need a new laptop.” He’s tugging his belt until the clasp hooks into place.

“I don’t.”

“It looks old.”

“So do you.”

He bristles, offended. And you try, with as much dignity as you can muster after the last two hours of being fucked blind, to not look so smug about it.

“See you next week,” he hums.

You don’t say anything in response, only listening for the same heavy footsteps slam back downstairs—perhaps a fraction lighter—and the clunk of the door swinging shut. A long breath and you stretch slowly, letting your body regain its normal shape before he bent you into a goddamn pretzel. A few minutes pass, and then a few more, and you hear the roar of his car speed out of the parking lot.

Safe now, out of his reach, you amble back up into your computer chair to face the awful white, blank document staring back like a judgmental audience. You slide in and crack your neck, feeling the throb between your thighs yield to a less uncomfortable ache.

The problem, you’ve learned after leaving Ransom’s world, was that you had been ill-equipped to play his game. His game, and by extension, Meg’s game. All the Thrombeys and Drysdales and everyone in-between.

They belonged to a class you couldn’t really understand unless you were making a fucking killing—and graduation was just around the bend, so maybe you would, one day—but you were in the red with 45 grand of student debt and staring down the barrel of a subsequent degree because it was getting hard to make it with just a single bachelor’s in anything.

There was too much to do and not enough time to be jerked around by Ransom—not nearly enough time to feel frustrated about your situation in any sense. No, scraping by taught you to survive. You couldn’t be whisked off to the Caymans for brunch, couldn’t be fucked raw in hotel infinity pools, get lost for days meandering the Pacific on luxury yachts for the fun of it.

Your world was a little more drab, a little less rose-tinted.

So it was back to normal now, back to the grind, back to not wasting any part of your week on shitty dates, shitty sex, and coming home more frustrated than you left it. Because there was Ransom, so eager to make some kind of statement about proving you wrong that he’d be the last to know when he’s being used.

And maybe 4 out of 5 therapists would say that your coping mechanism to a normal sex drive is unhealthy—mind-fucking and regular-fucking your ex/not-ex will do that—but you wouldn’t know. You can’t afford therapy just yet.

You rub your back, patting out the tightness of overworked muscles. It doesn’t feel any worse than the cramp you’d gotten after staying up three nights in a row cramming for finals.

As if your brain has reset, your fingers begin tapping on the keys, and you realize your writer’s block’s been lifted.

[scribbling-dragon]

kiss of not-drowning

summary:

“Ugh, you know what I mean, you dick.” Martyn drags a hand down his face. “I only meant that I’d appreciate you maybe giving me more than a split second to come to terms with everything before I'm inhaling a lungful of water.”

“You're fine.” He waves it off. “A little water never hurt anybody.”

(ao3 link)

(2,967 words)

He twitches slightly as sleep begins to roll off of him, like waves retreating from the shoreline. The very last dregs of sleep cling to him as he stirs, but he fights his way to the surface anyway, shaking those last few clinging threads of dreams away; he blinks, eyes opening to darkness. The sun isn't even beginning to peer over the horizon, the sky above remaining dark.

He glances to the side, ears straining for what might have dared to wake him at an hour like this- it’s ridiculous being awake this early! No one but insane people are awake at this time. Like Joel, because bad boys don't have bedtimes. Frankly, Scott thinks they're all being ridiculous, and Jimmy would have been able to avoid almost drowning if he didn't listen to Joel and Grian as much as he does. Jimmy’s just lucky Tango finds his idiotic tendencies endearing rather than stressful.

Martyn lies in the bed parallel to his, face smushed into his pillow and mouth slightly open. He can hear him snoring, but it’s nowhere near loud enough to have woken him up. He only considered smothering Martyn in his sleep once before he got used to the snoring, anyway. His arm hangs over the edge of the bed, knuckles just barely grazing over the wooden floorboards as it hangs there, with Martyn looking like he’s moments away from sliding out of the bed completely and making the floor his new home.

His ears twitch, mostly human right now, as the sound of footsteps reaches his ears. He doesn't move his head, continuing to lie on his side as he listens. The sound of shifting sugar cane gave them away, probably- was likely what woke him. Unless they walked in through the front door, with its artfully creaky hinges that alert them whenever someone steps foot onto their island. He hardly dares to breathe as he listens, worried he might miss the moment they begin up the steps to where they sleep- maybe they should have chosen a more protective home than the one they currently use, but anything more and it would have been far too warm to sleep and they'd have ended up outside anyway.

There’s the sound of muffled voices - two voices - a small back and forth between them as something is discussed. It’s almost too quiet for him to hear, especially with one ear still pressed into his pillow and mind fogged with sleep; he hears it anyway. He can't hear enough to make out what they're saying, but it’s enough to identify their location.

The sounds of movement stop after several more long and torturous seconds, pausing just below where they're both asleep. He swallows, looking back at Martyn again. His teammate sleeps on, face still pressed deep into his pillow and oblivious to the panic beginning to race through Scott’s system. The intruders- whoever it is, obviously know this island. So it’s someone that has visited them before, which…doesn't actually narrow it down all that much. But they're sheltering just out of sight from where he currently is, so that even if one of them did wake up they certainly wouldn't see them.

He swallows thickly, then freezes, worried that the sound was too loud- carried too far and alerted the intruders that he’s awake and listening. He listens, waits for one, or both, of the intruders to cry out and rush up the steps- too fast for anything to be done except pray for a quick death. 

But nothing happens, and he exhales softly, listening as they begin speaking again. The hurried whispers barely reach his ears, hardly audible over the sound of the crashing waves. The crashing waves. The same crashing waves that are probably too loud, too distracting, for the intruders to hear anything over. A plan forms in his mind, only half-planned and halfway thought through, but it’s enough to get both him and Martyn out of the immediate line of fire- and Martyn’s great at thinking on his feet! Far better than Scott is, but he needs Martyn awake for him to begin thinking, and waking him is another matter entirely.

He slips from his bed, sheets falling back onto the mattress with a muffled thump (too quiet to be heard over the crashing waves, he reminds himself, too quiet). He could wake his teammate, could pull him from the land of dreams and hope that he remains quiet enough that the intruders do not hear him. But that has many, many ways for it to go incredibly wrong (Martyn can be incredibly loud, most often with his laughter, but waking loudly now is the last thing Scott needs- he needs quietness and secrecy, enough for them to escape unscathed).

He avoids the squeaky floorboard as he creeps towards Martyn, ears remaining pricked for any indication that their intruders are on the move once more, that they've ended their hushed conversation and come to a decision (surely it’s a bad idea to approach another base with so little of a plan that they have to stop halfway to discuss what they're going to do- Scott can only thank them for their lack of planning). They are not, their whispered conversation still drifting towards him on the salty breeze as he deliberates, hand hovering over Martyn’s shoulder.

It rises and falls, just slightly, with the motions of sleep. He still doesn't so much as twitch, even as Scott’s shadow falls over him (him and Martyn certainly need to have a conversation after this, if he doesn't so much as wake even if someone looms over him as he sleeps- he could be killed so easily, and then Scott would be alone, again-).

If he wakes Martyn before making another move, it has several ways in which it could go wrong. The largest of those being Martyn making a loud sound- something to alert their intruders. Something which he does quite often when woken from his slumber unexpectedly. He has a habit of waking with a yell, which is probably due to surprise, but Scott can't think of a nicer way to be woken than how he already does it (and, in fairness, he lets Martyn sleep in rather often, even if it means he has to check on the sugar cane alone- the silence whilst also knowing that there is someone else there is almost comforting, and he takes the small comforts where he can in these games).

No, the second option is far easier, even if it will be a far ruder awakening.

He spares a momentary apology to Martyn, offering it up slightly - but it is better to seek forgiveness afterwards rather than ask permission and risk being horribly murdered, he reasons - and grabs Martyn by the shoulders, hands closing around both skin and fabric. He doesn't give Martyn even a moment, hearing his choked-off yell, strangling its way from his throat as Scott begins pulling him- yanking him towards the small balcony.

He only hesitates for a moment, Martyn’s yell still ringing in his ears, faintly registering that Martyn is gripping onto him as well, nails digging into his skin. The sound of a scramble below reaches his ears as well- their intruders obviously realising that they're awake and currently in the process of escaping. He doesn't hesitate a moment longer, hearing footsteps echoing up the steps behind him, slamming over the wooden flooring-

He throws himself over the balcony, thankful that he chose to build so close to the water (for this exact reason, for when people began sneaking in during the night- attempting to strike when the moon is at its highest; underhanded tactics, and not something he can't respect). Martyn resists a little, but Scott can only hope he follows willingly now, because he risks both a dislocated shoulder and death if he doesn't. Resistance does not meet him- his arm is not suddenly jerked back as Martyn fails to follow. Instead, he continues falling, releasing Martyn’s shoulders and hoping the other remembers to hold his breath.

The water swallows them easily, bubbles streaming from his nose as he ducks beneath the water, eyes squinted shut against the salt- against the stinging of his eyes as the water rushes into his nose and attempts to choke him. His hair swirls around him as he darts backwards, reaching out to pull Martyn with him, retreating into the shadow of their island.

An arrow shoots into the water around the same time the numbness in his legs has spread to his knees, steadily climbing higher. The arrow plunges into the water with enough force to send bubbles spiralling upwards- a force that can only ever be achieved with a crossbow. He breathes out, a stream of bubbles leaving his nose, gathering in a small pool below the island, shining faintly in the water.

Martyn continues to hold onto his arm, nails biting into his skin a little less, though his grip is no less tight. He flicks his tail back and forth, shuddering as the last of the transformation washes over him, shutting his eyes against the vertigo that threatens to disorientate him. Only once the dizzying feeling has vanished, does he dare to open them again, squinting for a moment as his eyes readjust to the darkness of the water.

“Aw, c’mon,” a voice from above reaches his ears, distorted by the water and land between them, but it reaches him nonetheless. And with relative clarity. “I thought we had them.”

“We almost did, but you sneezed!” Scott didn't even hear one of them sneeze, he’d been far too focused on leaving and planning their escape route to notice someone sneezing- which is actually a little worrying now that he thinks about it.

“When a man’s gotta sneeze he’s gotta sneeze, Pearl.” Ah. Well, he’s just managed to identify their intruders. Martyn squeezes his arm, where he’s still gripping, but Scott ignores him for a moment longer, following the conversation.

“Your sneezing’s cost us half an hour each.” He can almost hear the frown in Pearl’s voice, though it’s offset a little by the small giggle he hears a moment later, warping oddly with the water. “Aw, I really wanted to kill Scott as well.”

“Yeah, well, they're long gone now- did you know Scott was that fast of a swimmer?”

“Nah,” Pearl pauses for a moment. “He hasn't gone near water for the entirety of this go-around, and then he just jumps in the water immediately! I thought we had him cornered!” And this is why you should never make assumptions! Only ever work on facts and pretty-much-a-fact facts, that’s how you get consistent information and a good idea of how people work.

Martyn yanks at his arm, threatening to pull it from its socket, and he turns to look at him, gills fluttering in annoyance as he’s pulled away from the conversation above- he was waiting to see if one of them would turn on the other. If they turn on each other, there’s one less person to worry about-

Martyn gestures frantically at his face, a few more bubbles spilling from his lips as he gestures, panic written into every feature of his face, and- oh, oh dear. He panics for a moment, brain whiting out as he struggles to come up with any solution- anything that might stop Martyn from drowning in this moment, because it looks like a pretty close thing. How long can humans hold their breath for? He could've sworn it was something like ten minutes- is it not? They've been under for barely two minutes, maybe his facts were wrong?

An idea crashes over him, like a particularly violent wave, and he doesn't stop to consider it for longer than necessary- because letting Martyn drown would actually be really embarrassing, for both him and Martyn.

He brings his hands up carefully, aware that he’s slightly larger than Martyn in this form, allowing his hands to frame his teammates face carefully. Martyn stares back at him, eyes wide, one of his hands coming up to wrap lightly around Scott’s wrist. Pearl and BigB are still talking above them, but it fades into background noise as Scott draws Martyn a little closer, close enough for their noses to brush against each other.

He connects their lips, half-faded memories of short bursts of power being granted by kisses like this one. He doesn't focus on those memories for too long, too caught up in the way Martyn runs that hand - that same hand that had previously encircled his wrist - up his arm, brushing over patches of scales in a way that makes him shudder, a shiver crawling up his spine despite the warm water surrounding them.

He sinks deeper into the kiss, Martyn’s lips warm against his own. His teeth scrape against Martyn’s lips and he exhales, feels Martyn drink the short burst of power in- he can feel the exchange of it, the small shifting beneath his skin. Martyn hardly seems to notice, pulling a hand through Scott’s hair, tugging harshly on the strands before he allows the grip to fall away once more.

Scott pulls back a moment later, bubbles spilling from his own lips as he stares at Martyn. Small patches of scales seem to have appeared around Martyn’s eyes, but he can see several of them already melting back into normal skin once more- not something that lasts then, only enough time for Scott to pull them to safety.

Martyn looks up at him from beneath heavy-lidded eyes- Scott doubts he can actually see anything but he appreciates it anyway, and- nope! Can't get distracted, because they only have a few minutes before Martyn starts drowning again.

He darts down into the water, away from the island- the conversation above had faded several moments ago, so there’s nothing left for him to listen to there. He ducks beneath a large branch of coral, pulling Martyn behind him, then pushing him in front, directing him towards the small gap in the seabed.

It’s unnoticeable unless you view it at this very specific angle, and he watches Martyn struggle to see it for another few moments, eyes squinted shut. He gives him a small nudge closer to the gap, watching as Martyn finally spots it, grabbing onto the rock around the rim of it to pull himself forward, disappearing into the small gap.

He waits a moment before following, fins flattening as he darts through the small tunnel, twisting slightly to move around the bend before surfacing again. He inhales quickly, only coughing slightly as his lungs rid themselves of the residual water.

Martyn is still spluttering, leaned against the edge of the pool, chin resting on the rock beyond. He looks rather miserable, something that is not at all helped by the lacklustre light from the singular lantern (maybe he should have invested in more lanterns for this place), and the way his hair drips over his face.

He looks like a cat that has been given a bath against its will.

He’s shivering as well, despite the warm water they're both still sat in.

“I’d appreciate a warning next time,” Martyn groans, tipping his head to the side so he can look at Scott. He coughs again, though it sounds rather put-upon.

“Ah, right, yes, of course.” He nods, swimming to the small ledge Martyn is currently resting on, leaning an arm against the rock lip. “Sorry, next time I’ll be sure to wake you and give our attempted murderers plenty of warning, so that they can still murder us.”

“Ugh, you know what I mean, you dick.” Martyn drags a hand down his face. “I only meant that I’d appreciate you maybe giving me more than a split second to come to terms with everything before I'm inhaling a lungful of water.”

“You're fine.” He waves it off. “A little water never hurt anybody.”

“I almost drowned.”

“Almost!” Scott grins. “Not did. Come on, Martyn, you think I’d let you drown?”

“You stole my breath away with that kiss,” Martyn grins. “Though I do believe you were trying to do the opposite.”

“And it worked.” He says, then quieter. “Thankfully.”

“I- Scott!” Martyn smacks at him, sending water scattering across the cave. “You did that without knowing if it would work! What if it didn't! What- just, ah well, guess you're gonna die now. But at least you got a good snog out of it?”

“I-” he breaks off into a laugh. “Would that be good enough for you?”

“No!” Martyn’s laughing too. “You're a good kisser and all, totally not complaining, but it was underwater and I was actively drowning for the first half of it!” Martyn pauses for a moment, then he grins- which is not at all worrying at all, the sudden switch from complaining to grinning at him like that does not make something in his stomach swoop. “Though…I could be convinced otherwise.”

“Oh, really?”

“Really. You owe me a little more than one kiss to make up for that. I think that might be worse than when you thought smothering me would be a good way to wake me up.” Scott hadn't actually meant to wake him up with that, it was done because Martyn just continued snoring. Not that he needs to know that.

“How demanding of you,” he swishes his tail in the water behind them as Martyn inches closer, slightly drier than before. He brings a hand up to the side of Martyn’s face, trailing his fingers across the skin there almost reverently. Martyn watches him back.

“How many do you need before it’s enough?” He asks, whispered into the small space between them.

“As many as you can give.”

[idontkillorphans]

A Bard and the Sword

@gayestbardincintra

Sleipnir remained on his seat beside the driver, continuign to haul the couch through the woods. The idiots inside were laughing loudly, unaware of the world around them. The driver complaining about the chosen pathway.

Sleipnir continued to ignore, eyes focused on the dark woods around them. He reached over, taking the reins and pulling them towards him, the coach coming to an abrupt stop. He ignored their arguing, standing up and scanning the forest line.

"Stay here..." Sleipnir stepped off the coach. He slammed into the ground, easing his footing and listening as footsteps were approaching from the fog, fast and messy.

Sleipnir took the handle of his sword, freeing it from it's sheath and swung towards the sound, the feet disappearing and he was hit with something hot and wet across his face. When Sleipnir stood back up the man at his feet was gurgling on the blood in his throat. The women accompanying the lord screamed as Sleipnir took off towards the source of the running, swinging and cutting down only the ones that came his way. The last of the bandits seemed to quickly disperse. Just a small wannabe robbery group it appeared.

Sleipnir stilled, panting as he watched a few missed faces running away before threading his sword back into it's sheath. His face was speckled with so much warm blood he missed the stranger tied to a nearby tree.

[perpetuallylate1890]

Crisis of the Mind

As Ford slipped into his mindscape, he immediately realized something was wrong. Black tendrils threaded through the holographic screens and floating books. A sickly gray haze had overtaken the usual stars and galaxies. Looking at it for too long made him nauseous. If it weren’t for the pervasive sense of dread, the changes would’ve been fascinating.

Ford licked his dry lips and called out. “Bill, are you there?” No answer, but that wasn’t surprising. His muse was fickle, and often left days or even weeks between each visit. Sometimes, being Bill’s protégé felt like trying to hold water in his cupped hands.

Ford made his way to the front portion of his mindscape, where a chess board rested between two armchairs. Pulsing black growths crawled over the furniture. There was no sign of his triangular muse. Briefly, Ford wondered if Bill was playing a prank on him. If he was, Stanford couldn’t discern the punchline. 

“Bill?” he chanced aloud. Only a ringing silence.Now this was a real enigma. Ford frowned, rubbing his chin. Gravity Falls had its fair share of supernatural oddities, though few of them possessed the ability to alter mindscapes. Ford considered the Dream Hipster, but as this dream was decidedly lacking in subpar puns, he highly doubted the specter’s involvement. This must be something new. 

Ford grasped a nearby journal and tugged it from the vines with a snap. Writing always helped him to gather his thoughts. He jotted down his observations: mysterious tendrils, numbing fog, an inescapable feeling of doom. Though it was just a dream, his pulse quickened and his palms grew clammy. Well, nothing a little investigation couldn’t fix.

Ford mustered his courage and set out into the fog. It swirled around him, dulling his senses. His footsteps had a strange echoing quality. Every sound seemed to reverberate unnaturally. 

Soon, he entered the deeper part of his mindscape. Bookshelves loomed on either side of him, shrouded in mist. Soft voices reached out to him. They sounded familiar, but were indistinguishable from a low hum that rose from the fog. Clutching his journal to his chest, Ford attempted to dismiss the sounds as the product of an overactive mind, though with every step he grew less sure. 

He had entirely ruled out Bill as the culprit: his muse lacked the patience to let a joke run this long. The farther he walked the denser and more tangled the tendrils grew. He stepped over them like venomous serpents.

Stopping, he attempted to trace a growth back to its source. It wound through the bookstacks before disappearing off into the mist. How peculiar. Ford adjusted his glasses and continued on. Now, the sounds began to increase in volume. He distinctly heard his ma and pa engaged in a verbal clash, followed by the nasal drawl of Cathy Crenshaw. Six-fingered freak! Grimacing, he attempted to move past the unpleasant memory, but was stilled when he heard the familiar crunch of a toffee peanut bag. His heart plummeted. 

That sound was a symbol of failure, of sabotage, of dreams grinding to a halt. Ford couldn’t stop the bitterness from welling up. A decade later, and he felt the betrayal like it had happened yesterday.

Stanford gripped the journal with white knuckles, clenching his teeth, and soldiered on. No use dwelling on the past. He had a muse who believed in him, who truly saw what he had to offer. Bill looked past his surface-level deficiencies and saw his potential for greatness. Stanford Pines, the man who changed the world. Bill had said it himself, and when had he ever been wrong? 

Still, the doubt was eating him alive. What if he wasn’t enough? What if, in the end, he failed?

Suddenly, the voices doubled in strength. Ford stumbled under the onslaught of doubt. You were always just a freak! sneered the voices of his former bullies. I’m not impressed, commented his father. And worst of all, his own defeated voice, saying, I knew Bill was too good to be true.

Ford dropped the journal, flooded by a surge of inadequacy. His bullies were right, his father was right. How could someone like him deserve someone like Bill? Only a moment of doubt, and already he was losing resolve. Utterly shameful.

A chasm opened at his feet, its edges writhing with noxious tendrils. The voices reached a fever pitch until he couldn’t remember a time without them. Ford sank to his knees. He was outcast, unremarkable save for the extra fingers that marked him as other. Once Bill saw that, he’d abandon Ford and move onto someone more special, more deserving. 

His gaze fell on the yawning abyss. Its call was a gravity he couldn’t escape. Ford climbed to his feet and stared down the gaping maw. It’d be simpler to give in. He swayed on his feet, dizzy, before something shiny caught his eye. The journal he’d dropped, once dull and unassuming, now bore a golden six-fingered hand. 

He stooped to pick it up, matching his hand to the one on the cover. The journals, the portal were his life’s work. How could he ever think to throw them away? He dusted off the cover and stared at his reflection in the gold. Blue eyes, uncertain and afraid, peered back at him. He schooled his features into a semblance of heroism. 

It didn’t matter if he was misfit or alien. He’d seize his destiny by the horns and prove he was worthy. With a shouting cry he clutched the journal tight and leapt into the hole, to follow the tendrils to their source and obliterate them. 

Stanford Pines did not shy away from greatness.

_________________________________________

“So then you leapt into the giant hole?” Bill Cipher, reclined on a plush armchair, stirred sugar into his teacup. When he looked up, his slitted eye gleamed with approval. “Attaboy, Fordsy! I like your style!”

Ford flushed under the praise. He rubbed his neck self-consciously. “Well, it seemed like the right thing to do. I certainly feel better.” He frowned. “Although I never did figure out what caused it.”

Thoughtful, Bill sipped at his tea. “I have an idea,” he said finally.

“What is it?” asked Ford. “A spirit? An ancient curse? Some kind of emotion-sucking vampire?”

“Woah-hoh, hold your horses,” Bill said. “Nothing that exciting. What you experienced was just a stress dream.”

“Oh.” 

Bill laughed at Ford’s disappointed expression. “What, you don’t appreciate the inner workings of your own mind? Geez, IQ, and here I thought you were smart.” He laughed again as Ford opened his mouth to defend his intelligence. “Kidding, I’m kidding!”

Mollified, Ford took a moment to process. “So all that was just… me?”

“Yup.” Bill reached out to ruffle the scientist’s hair. “When you’ve got a mind as brilliant as yours, it doesn’t take much to set it off. One tiny doubt spirals into another, and before you know it, boom!” He waved his hands in the air. “Identity crisis.”

“Identity crisis,” repeated Ford.

“It’s the little things that get you.” Bill poured Stanford a cup of tea and handed it over. “So, what kinds of things were ya stressing about?”

“Some unpleasant memories,” Ford said dismissively. “Family squabbles and the like.”

“Oh, is that all?”

Of course, Bill had seen right through him. Unable to meet his muse’s searching eye, Ford stared into his teacup. “The voices mentioned you,” he admitted.

“And?”

Ford swirled his tea. “I suppose I was worried I’m not… good enough for you. That there’s someone out there more deserving of your guidance.” There, he’d said it. He squeezed his eyes shut, fully expecting Bill to laugh it off. Instead, he felt a tiny hand under his chin.

“Hey, Fordsy, look at me.”

He did so. Bill was hovering directly in front of his nose, his slit pupil burning into Ford’s. Stanford froze, transfixed.

“Listen up,” Bill said, and squished Ford’s face in his hands. “I need to drill this through your thick skull. You are worthy. You’re one of the greatest minds in existence. Just stick with me, and you’ll change the world.” He paused. “No, scratch that. You’ll change the multiverse.”

His muse’s words were a balm to Stanford’s anxieties. He felt the tension leave his body, the tendrils releasing their hold. Confronting his doubts had helped, but having Bill’s full attention, receiving his validation, was something else entirely. Ford released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. 

Bill gave him a little shake. “Better?” he asked.

“Better,” Ford replied, and meant it. 

“Good.” Bill released him and floated over to his armchair. “Now, how ‘bout a game of chess?” 

With a click of his fingers, he summoned the pieces and made the first move. Ford leaned forward, settling into the rhythm of the game. Everything would be alright. He just knew it.

(Spoiler: it wasn't)

[foxcort]

comforter (feyre ver). feyre/tamlin, feyre/cassian au, fluff | ao3

a drabble(ish) series of my favorite feyre ships based off these prompts by @dont-call-my-name-alejandro 💚 / floral banners by saradika.

feyre + tamlin; A waking up because of B getting out of bed to do something. A gets out of bed, finds B, and drags them back to bed.

So distantly it was like being wrapped in a fog, Feyre felt the bed shift, the sheets rustle and the sound of light footsteps retreat from the room with attempted quietness. "Tamlin?" she croaked, some barely risen part of her acknowledging he was gone before she patted the empty space beside her.

With a groan, she rolled from the bed, a flurry of messy hair and barely clad skin, before grabbing her discarded robe from the floor and slipping it on. Feyre sifted her fingers through her hair as she followed the path Tamlin was most likely to take, the cold marble underneath her feet gradually waking her with each step, until she ended up at the threshold of the council room. A fairly new addition to the manor, it was one Lucien had insisted be built to house council for both inner and outer court meetings.

At the moment, only Lucien and Tamlin occupied it, the pair of them standing at the head of a very long, ornately carved table washed in the early morning light spilling from the three large windows framing the eastern wall. Tamlin was dressed similarly to her, which was to say half-dressed at best, in a pair of hastily thrown on pants and a matching dark green, silk robe. A delight to her vision, the robe was left loosely tied and mostly open to expose the muscled, golden skin underneath, accentuated even more by the position of his arms crossed over his chest.

And perhaps she hadn't realized just how much Tamlin's visage was affecting her, for Lucien abruptly stopped talking mid-sentence and took a step back to give the high lord a sharp look of indignation. "I understand I've just pulled you away from your wife, but some decency and decorum would be lovely, Tam."

Tamlin, still half-asleep, gave his emissary a confused look, until whatever Lucien had felt belatedly hit him and his gaze shot to hers like some invisible thread had pulled it. Feyre resisted the urge to kiss him right then and there as he sent her a soft, knowing smile. "Morning, love." His voice was husky, unused and did absolutely terrible things to her self-control.

"No. No, no, no, no." Lucien shoved himself between them even as she stalked closer, her eyes never leaving Tamlin’s. “Just because you—" he pointed an accusing finger in her direction, "—are already prepared for this High Lord meeting, does not mean you can come in here and distract Tamlin when I've finally gotten a chance to prepare him." He folded his arms over his chest, looking every bit a courtier in his formal attire. "Don't forget you are the precise reason I haven't been able to find any time to council him yet, Feyre."

Feyre frowned, her gaze shifting between them, before she declared, "He's hardly dressed for a High Lord meeting."

Tamlin gave a low laugh, his fingers working to tie his robe closed and making her wish she'd chosen a different retort. "Lucien's right. As High Lord of Spring, I'm ill-prepared for this meeting."

"So when the time comes, let the High Lady of Spring take the lead," she challenged, turning her attention to him with a smile that was too predatory to be innocent. "You can sit pretty next to me."

Tamlin's returning smile grew wide, though it seemed he was fighting to control it. He turned to his emissary, a sheepish tinge to his smile now. "I could use the extra rest before they all start arriving."

"Please." Lucien rolled his eyes. "Cauldron knows the two of you don't actually use a bed for its intended purpose."

"A bed can have many purposes, Lucien." Feyre moved closer, looping her hands around Tamlin's neck, who was only too eager to lift her into his arms, one arm slung across the back of her thighs and the other supporting her lower back. "Just because you only use yours for sleeping, doesn't mean the rest of us don't have more creative ideas for it." Lucien gave her an unamused look, but she caught the grin curving Tamlin's mouth as he began to walk them out of the room.

"I'd better see you back in here in an hour, my lady."

Feyre had only a second to shout a replied "Fine!" down the hall, before Tamlin's mouth met hers and everything else was forgotten.

feyre + cassian; A keeping B from getting out of bed by holding them closer, maybe a few kisses here and there. / slightly nsfw!!

"You're terrible."

"Mmhm." Cassian's rumbling response, so close to her ear when he had her trapped in his arms and squeezed against his chest, sent a shiver down Feyre's spine. Cauldron boil him, but he knew exactly how to make her body react. Even when he was half-asleep, and almost as well as she knew how to coax a response from him.

Somehow she managed to remember the reason a sense of urgency had woken her from her sleep, snagging onto it even as the warmth of his arms threatened to envelop her whole. “Emerie’s going to kill me if I show up late again.” She'd promised her friend a morning sparring session with the rest of their training group. Unfortunately, Cassian was Cauldron-bent on making her late to everything nowadays and a tiny, restless part of her couldn't blame him. After all their time skirting around the pull that drew them to each other, after finally admitting what they felt . . . neither could convince the other leaving their bed was worth it.

Feyre froze as he dropped a kiss upon her bare shoulder. “No, she won’t." He sounded like he was smiling. “I told her you'd be training with me today.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, her heart thundering in her chest. “Cassian.”

"Yes, Feyre?" She could feel the teasing smile against her shoulder, her neck, her jaw. Her thoughts were muffled, lost in a collision of a train wreck, the reasonable part of herself drowning in a slew of indecent thoughts just as his fingers curled over her hip. "Should I stop?" He paused his descent and she squeezed his forearm, nails drawing half-moon patterns across his skin. "Would you prefer training with the Valkyries today?"

Frustration flared and Feyre realized he didn't sound so sleepy anymore. No, the bastard was fully awake, tapping those fingers against her hip and refusing to move closer to where she wanted them. "Cassian," she repeated, a growl more than anything.

She felt more than heard his chuckle against her ear, before his fingers dipped lower and she was lost to her pleasure.

[bubblegum-blackwood]

VC Kink Week - Day 2 - Bondage

"Trust Fall"

The house was silent, empty when Marius and Armand entered it upon returning home from the hunt they had taken together; they had the space all to themselves, it seemed. Marius sighed as he shrugged his coat off, his boots making his footsteps sound heavily on the wood floors as he took his short trek to the room he was staying in. The air was cold, untouched, and with one pointed look a crackling fire blazed to life in the hearth, deadly orange and gold flowers blooming beautifully with just a silent command from his piercing eyes. That was all it took, the act of willing the flames to appear, and it occurred instantly in vivid obedience, a wave of invisible warmth spreading over the room like a fog rolling in from the riverbank. He relaxed into it.

Marius had assumed they were done for the night, having done what Armand had invited him to do, so he kicked off his boots wearily and collapsed into his chair, picking up his pen to write, this new modern pen on modern paper, but still the old Latin. Nobody else could read the old Latin, it was comfortable, it was safe, and still so familiar to him even after all this time.

Yet once he had just gotten used to the sound of the pen scratching on the paper almost rhythmically, he felt, heard a presence behind him, Armand’s sturdy hands sliding delicately across his shoulders, blood-warmed lips in his hair.

“Marius, Master,” he breathed, and the scent of blood came with it, hot and salty, with the overwhelming tang of iron. If Marius was any more full he might have found it sickening, the intensity of the blood smell wafting in on Armand’s breath as he kissed him, but as he was just perfectly satiated it reached his nostrils as a pleasant, neutral smell, and he reached a hand up to thread his fingers through Armand’s auburn hair, left long for the night, flowing and free as it was in his youth. Marius hadn’t notised before, Armand’s long black coat had covered it, but the old Coven Master wore a shirt of brilliant blue, as he had worn for Marius in boyhood, and it warmed his ruddy cheeks even further. Always a vision in blue, so tantalising, a little demon tempting Marius to sin.

Read the rest on AO3!

[perhaps-in-anotherdream]

[CN] Victor’s Webbed Heart Date (Eng Translation)

⌚Warning⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 心网之约, that is yet to be released in the global server! ♡

[Translation Under The Cut]

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

[Tidbits]: The lore for the date and Victor and MC’s character are inspired by Qu Yuan’s “山鬼 (The Mountain Spirit),” one of The Nine Songs. It’s actually a Chinese literature gold. It was really fun digging deep into the ancient culture haha~ I have included the crucial references in the date, and analysis at the end for those interested~ 💖

[Fun fact]: There’s like a real language barrier here LOL. Victor talks in old language (ofc), and MC at first finds it hard to comprehend as a modern day person HAHA. I debated going full old English for Victor’s parts at first but then just chose to roll along the middle ground LMAO 🫣

—

✧ [Chapter 1] ✧

The night fog accumulates increasingly densely in the mountains as the twilight closes in, slowly obscuring the distant mountain view from our horizon.

As we keep walking, the outline of an antiquated residence gradually becomes clear. I size it up for a moment and turn my head in high spirits.

MC: This is amazing! It fits the bill perfectly for the location of a supernatural movie!

Friend: Indeed. With this kind of shooting environment, we have a much greater chance of grasping victory within the palm of our hands.

For novice directors, the annual self-made filmmaking competitions organized by some media outlets are an excellent opportunity to showcase. It’s for this reason that we’ve come to the mountains to film the scenes.

Amid our excited conversation, the house with a courtyard is already right in front of our eyes. I take the lead and push open the broken door panel.

A dull noise pierces the quietude. The dark mansion appears gloomy beneath the illumination of the torch. My friend rubs the nape of their neck and speaks in a low voice.

Friend: Why do I feel like it’s too eerie in here...

MC: Don’t scare yourself. We’ll get out of here as soon as we are done with filming!

I retort obstinately, beckoning my companions to set up the camera. But the moment I turn around, I seem to see a glimmer of light flickering in the corner.

MC: Click!

Friend: How about this one?

I shake my head exasperatedly. Despite wearing bizarre makeup and costumes, we appear inharmonious with the house in the camera shots every time.

Seeing how exhausted everyone looks, I hurriedly get up from behind the video camera.

MC: Let’s give it a rest for now. We’ll start over later!

I brief the crowd and walk out into the courtyard myself. Inadvertently, I see that glimmer of light in the corner again.

They shimmer with a strange luster, intermittently visible in the night fog. It’s as though they are enticing me forward.

As I draw nearer, I finally realize they are a few strands of silk threads with a peculiar texture, the end of which extends deeper into the house.

MC: What’s this?

Observing cautiously, I tentatively fiddle with them for a little while. Shivering though the delicate threads are, they are surprisingly pliable and tough.

By some curious coincidence, my interest bubbles forth immensely. I set out and head deeper into the house.

The threads grow increasingly concentrated the deeper I walk. Passing through the dilapidated hall, they finally converge on the single-leafed door of the courtyard.

I gently push it open, holding my breath involuntarily.

Numerous threads dangle from the deserted pavilion, intertwining into a vast web of yarns. Slightly, it quivers as if there were a life within it.

Allured, I move forward, and just as I’m about to touch the silk mesh, I hear a faint sound of footsteps.

A slender figure walks out of the depths of the mist. His chilly gaze falls on me, carrying with it a bit of scrutiny.

?? (Victor): ...human?

?? (Victor): How did you get in here?

Why is this man talking a bit strangely?

Puzzled, I scan his dark gold patterned robe and strange accessories with my gaze. The moment I see his face clearly, my heartbeat suddenly accelerates a little.

This man’s temperament blends in perfectly with the antiquated mansion... could he be a professional cosplayer? Are there other casts and crews around?

I survey the surroundings curiously, but no filming equipment is in sight.

The frown on the man in front of me deepens more and more. I hastily withdraw my gaze.

MC: I came here to shoot a film with my companions. Are... you too?

The receiving end says nothing and just looks at me coldly.

Such an attitude of rejecting people and keeping them a thousand miles away makes me think of the character I need to portray in the film, causing me to speak up subconsciously.

MC: May I ask you to make a guest appearance? We won’t take up much of your time!

?? (Victor): Leave at once. You guys should not have come to this place.

He interrupts me mercilessly, turning to walk deeper into the silk screen. I freeze for a moment, then propose, unwilling to resign myself.

MC: Your appearance is perfectly photogenic! We will pay the remuneration, even above the market price, if needs be!

I step forward as I say this, touching his skin unwittingly. The unusual coolness causes a shiver to run through me. Stunned, I look up and meet the man’s eyes, finding myself unable to decipher the expression in his eyes.

The next second, the silk yarns that were static till now, suddenly rush from all around, wrapping themselves around me violently.

MC: …what’s happening!

I struggle subconsciously, but the seemingly fragile silk threads are incredibly tenacious. I’m tied up tightly in mid-air, akin to a prey that has fallen into a web.

My eyes widen in alarm, but my mouth is swathed with silk yarns, and I’m unable to make any sound.

My brain turns blank in a split second, and I shudder instinctively. A faint voice travels to my ears while I’m on the verge of suffocation.

?? (Victor): You really followed the path to your own doom.

The force tugging at me tightens in response to this voice, and a burning sensation comes from my wrist amid my befuddled state. Gradually, the only thing remaining in my field of vision is blackness.

—

[Tidbits]: Though it will be explained later, just to not leave any blank spots — the force tugging MC’s wrist here is controlled by the demon house (foggy gray rope). Victor’s are the red (silk) threads btw !ofc (the ones in the CG)~ ❤️

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

✧ [Chapter 2] ✧

??: MC? Can you hear me?

An anxious call rings in my ear. I slowly open my eyes.

The sight that greets my eyes is the warm lighting of the homestay. I turn my head, heaving a sigh of relief as I see my friend. It’s as though I’ve had a weight off my mind.

Friend: You scared me to death! We flipped everything upside down in that old mansion, only to find you passed out in the backyard. Are you too tired, or is your blood sugar low?

I clutch my forehead in dizziness, recollecting the last scene I’ve seen.

MC: I-I bumped into a strange man in the backyard, and then a lot of silk threads appeared…

MC: And then they suddenly tied me up, getting tighter and tighter, like they were going to strangle me––!

Fragments of images appear before my eyes at this moment, and I break out in a cold sweat in lingering fear.

Friend: …you are not in a daze, are you?

??: Young lady, you might have run into the evil spirit.

A gruff voice suddenly comes from the doorway. I tilt my head and see the guest house owner walking in with hot water.

Guest House Owner: There have been long-standing rumors about this mountain. It’s said that all that exists on this mountain can transform themselves into demonic spirits. And the one with the strongest demon power among them, The Mountain Spirit, can transform into a human form.

Guest House Owner: Legend has it that he will prey on lives according to his wishes, and he once roamed about the earth under the name “Victor.” You should be afraid if you’ve accidentally agitated him.

Demonic spirit? The Mountain Spirit?

The inconceivable words cause my dizzy head to hum even more, and I stiffly tug at the corners of my lips.

MC: …why would The Mountain Spirit have a human name? …Victor? The legend is quite rich in detail.

The boss, however, doesn’t mean to joke in the slightest. The shadowy lights shine on his face, inexplicably adding more touches of treachery.

My heart stutters, and I straighten up.

MC: So this rumored Mountain Spirit… are there any distinctive features?

Guest House Owner: It seems like he is a dark-haired young man who lives in a house in the depths, and he also bears the patterns of a demon spirit on his body.

Guest House Owner: In the early years, there were still pictures of demon spirits in the booklets. But over the years, the villages in the mountains have been deserted, and the contents have gradually been scattered.

Young man, old residence in the mountains, sorcery… how come every one of these adds up perfectly!? 

A slight chill runs down my back, and my friend has already opened their mouth in bewilderment.

Friend: This place is really strange. MC, let’s leave tomorrow early in the morning!

I nod in residual fear. I look at my wrist as I watch everyone leave in twos and threes.

The tactile sensation of being entangled haunts me, and I can almost see those cold, stern eyes when I close my eyes a little.

MC: That was too close. I had almost handed over my life…

My line of sight inadvertently lands on the camera. When I think of the reason for coming here, I can’t help mumbling to myself.

MC: Can’t let this getting scared go in vain. I’ll change the film’s subject to a pseudo-documentary when we go back and recreate the experience.

The words have barely had the time to leave my mouth, and my wrist feels as if it’s being violently tugged by invisible threads.

—

The lights before my eyes flicker at a fast speed. After a moment’s spiral of my surroundings, I feel a pain in my back, seemingly having landed on solid ground.

At my wit’s end, I raise my head, only to find that I can’t help but stare blankly.

The moonlight streams down the dilapidated window frames, illuminating the dusty beams and drapes… this is clearly that strange, antiquated mansion!

Why am I suddenly back here!?

I hear a faint rustling noise drifting from behind the curtain. Heart in my throat, I hide behind a pillar and peer out, spotting that man again.

He is sitting in the corner of the study, his eyes hanging low on a piece of moon-white silk cloth embroidered with patterns of silk mesh.

His long fingers, wrapped in a black glove, continue to stroke the wine cup intermittently. It seems as though he is contemplating something.

And those pliable threads are lying dormant around him in all directions, displaying a bit of viscous iciness.

I try desperately to breathe lightly and see that his body, which was concealed by the jacket earlier, is densely covered with bizarre interwoven black and gold patterns.

...I really did bump into the rumored Mountain Spirit.

The suffocating feeling of near-death experience resurfaces in my mind. My heart thumps wildly and uncontrollably, my eyes looking for an exit while I’m in a state of panic.

Suddenly, my ankles tighten, and I’m pulled down to the floor. A few threads drag me irresistibly across the slab, as if they are about to cut through my flesh at any time.

To my horror, I see a pair of black boots unhurriedly entering my field of view and open my mouth with fear and trepidation.

MC: Vi-- Lord Victor, thank you for sparing my life just earlier...

The footsteps before me pauses.

Victor: You again?

Victor: And you know my name?

MC: I- I heard your legend from down the mountains... I swear, I had no intention of agitating you!

MC: I don’t know what happened. It’s like I was being pulled by something, and I was already here when I snapped out of it... I- I’ll leave immediately!

Stuttering, I look up and see Victor’s brows knitted into a frown. He seems to have thought of something and moves his fingertips.

The next second, a foggy gray rope suddenly appears on my wrist, the end of which disappears into the depths of the house.

The voice in my ear suddenly becomes a few degrees heavier.

Victor: What did you do before you were transferred here?

MC: I didn’t do anything! I was simply being grateful for your generosity...

As if in answer to my voice, the foggy rope around my wrist tightens, and even yanks me deeper into the house again.

Victor: ...

Victor’s throat stirs as if holding back something. He lifts his hand a little, and the gray rope bound to my wrist suddenly weakens considerably.

I move my wrist in astonishment and hear him speak.

Victor: The house is aiming for your earthbound spirit. Get out of this city right now while the restraint on you is still not too heavy.

Victor: Also, don’t think about anything related to this place again; its restraint will flare up when it perceives what you’re thinking.

Victor: The next time you break into my residence, you won’t have the luck to leave.

–

Accompanying these words, the silk threads bind my body and wrap me into a ball, neatly pulling me out of the antiquated mansion.

The mountain breeze blows on my face in a splattering motion. In the blink of an eye, I’m jolted around and thrown to the foot of the mountain.

Still unable to believe it, I gasp in fright, watching as the silk yarns shed themselves off my body and dissipate into the mountain at lightning speed.

I draw a half step back in a daze. Soon after, I whirl around and run towards the bus stop without looking back, not even giving myself the time to rejoice.

Earthbound spirit, restraint... these various words I’ve heard just now are long beyond my comprehension. The only thought that repeatedly echoes in my mind is: “hurry up, hurry up a bit more.”

It seems as if I were to hesitate even a little, I would be caught and be brought back to that eerie antiquated house at any time.

Soon, I board the latest night bus. The vehicle speeds down the road, and the passengers beside me are fast asleep one after another.

Wearing a tense expression on my face as I watch the outline of the small town gradually recede in the distance, I finally breathe a sigh of relief.

Having traveled such a distance, I should be able to break out of the control range of the demon house.

It’s only now do I send a text message to my friend, informing them that I’m setting off first. Thinking of the wild “run for life” I’ve just made, I lean against the seat, exhausted.

MC: What a haunting luck! I almost had to stay in that mansion and couldn’t get out... thanks to that Mountain Spirit for still having a little bit of human warmth––

Even before the words are out of my mouth, the cold and solid touch of the seat behind me suddenly disappears. Accompanied by an ache in my wrist, the sight before me lapses to darkness again.

–

My heart turns cold. Before I can mull over what’s happening, I feel as if I’ve sunken into a soft fabric, and something is blocking my view.

Gathering my courage, I pull off what is before my eyes, only to realize that it seems to be a bed curtain.

Could it be possible that right now I’m...

My heart thuds, and I lift my head in hindsight.

What greets my eyes is a chest that is rising and falling slightly with each breath, and the crisscrossed demon patterns that fade along the depths of the clothing’s tight ravines. As my gaze moves further up, I’m met with a side profile that is patiently holding back anger.

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

✧ [Chapter 3] ✧

The swaying shadows of the trees filter through the bed curtain and are reflected in my widened eyes.

Probably because he’s been bothered in his sleep, there’s still a faint weariness cresting between Victor’s brows. My heart skips half a beat, remembering what he told me earlier.

The mansion must have sensed my thoughts and captured me back here... but how can it have such a wide control range?!

A few strands of silk threads climb up my neck and tighten mercilessly.

Victor: Did you think I was joking with you?

In a split second, my breathing is restrained, and my head is lifted beyond my control. I don’t have time to part my attention and be shocked as I proceed to explain with difficulty.

MC: When I saw the bus was already far away... it was only then that I thought about you...

My gaze struggles to fall on my wrist. The fog that originally thinned out has become a little denser again. Something suddenly dawns on me, and I gasp for breath as I open my mouth.

MC: I didn’t mean to disregard your words... both times, I was pulled by the wrist by something and brought back by force.

MC: The problem, the problem should be this ring of fog... it’s the restraint you spoke of, right?

MC: I’ve heard that you have the strongest demon power, then it shouldn’t be too difficult for you to resolve this completely. So can you––

Victor casually crosses his arms as if he’s heard an absurd remark, tugging at his thin lips.

Victor: Why should I seek trouble for myself?

Victor: For demon spirits, “take what you give” is the supreme law. It’s an even higher law than “the weak are prey to the strong.”

Victor: If you want to get something, you must offer the corresponding bargaining chip first, not to mention unlocking the restraints set by the other demon spirits on their prey.

Victor: And as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have the value to make the bid.

My lips part in a helpless manner. But when I think of being trapped here forever, I find no other choice but to speak up, panicked.

MC: But if I become an earthbound spirit, I’ll roam about your house every day… y-you wouldn’t wish for that either, am I right?

My frenetic voice is interrupted by a cold one.

Victor: That will indeed be aggravating, but it won’t last a long time.

Victor: Transforming into an earthbound spirit is merely the first step. Eventually, your soul will dissipate here. When that time comes, I will naturally be able to return to peace and quiet.

Victor: Since you didn’t capture the opportunity to escape, you can only wait to turn into nourishment for the house.

Victor lifts a corner of the bed curtain as he speaks, seemingly about to leave.

The survival instinct overrules fear for the moment. I subconsciously fling myself on top of Victor and brace myself on his shoulders with one hand, making a futile attempt to curb his motion of getting up.

Victor: …

His slightly cool body temperature presses against me closely through the fabric, and from the tautness of his body I can feel that he seems to be forbearing something. Victor’s eyes narrow slightly, a hint of incredulity flashing through them.

Before he can say anything, I open my mouth impatiently.

MC: Isn’t it about “take what you give”? I can give you my entire fortune!

Victor: The Mountain Spirit is unable to leave the place of their birth, and the condition you propose is meaningless to me.

How can this person be so immune to both coaxing and coercion! As I keep pondering anxiously, suddenly something comes to my mind.

MC: You can’t get out of this place, so you should have very little contact with the outside world, right?

MC: I… still have a certain amount of freedom of movement now. I can be at your disposal and bring you back anything you want!

Victor: …there’s no need. I’m not interested in the world beyond the mountains.

Perhaps it’s my illusion, but Victor’s voice sinks a little imperceptibly. Soon after, a few strands of silk threads pull me away.

Sensing an opening, my voice takes on a few hints of pleading.

MC: But it’s a bit boring to constantly encounter the same things all the time, isn’t it?

MC: How about just giving it a chance? See what kind of freshness I can bring to your life.

MC: if you aren’t satisfied, it won’t be too late to ignore me!

The room lapses into silence, and I can even hear the indistinct buzzing of insects outside the window. After a moment, the silk threads wrapped around my body slowly shed off me.

I release a breath in exhaustion, then hear Victor speak.

Victor: The condition you proposed is only worth letting me defer the erosion of the house upon you.

Victor: If you want me to undo the restraint, you will have to think of a higher bargaining chip.

—

Using the excuse of collecting material, I inform my friend that I will be staying here for a while. Even though I’ve bought myself time, I seem to have been caught in a puzzle.

In order to find the bargaining chip that can touch Victor, I must grasp his preference; but he is indifferent to everything.

He doesn’t like hunting as he is rumored to be, and he is also weary of the other coming and going demon spirits. After observing him for a long time, I notice that his countenance seems to soften a little when he eats dessert.

Thereupon, I try to bring back desserts every now and then. Victor ignores them at first— until one day, I find that the mung bean cake I’ve brought back is missing a piece.

MC: …?

Staring at Victor’s nonchalant side profile, I can’t help but lift the corners of my lips. With the tacit acquiescence of being welcomed, this little solicitous attention of mine becomes all the more confident and rightful.

—

Autumn is gradually approaching. One day, I’m walking towards the antiquated mansion carrying desserts in my arms when I see Victor sitting on the hillside. I hand him the pudding and speak expectantly.

MC: Today’s pudding has vanilla seeds in it. What do you think of the taste?

Victor: It’s quite good.

Victor’s voice is still unperturbed, but his eyes reveal a bit of softness. I breathe a calming sigh and sit relaxed on the grass.

The sky is crystal clear, and the frolicking silhouettes of the demon spirits flash across the distant mountain and fields. Looking down the hillside, one can just see the path leading to the antiquated mansion.

My eyes descend on the dense gray fog circling my wrist and land back on Victor’s side profile again. Perplexed, I heave a sigh.

The restraint of the ancient house on me has indeed eased as agreed upon. But even so, the range of my movement is still lessening with each passing day.

To the extent that if I take even one step out of the town, I will be instantly pulled back to the house.

I’ve already entered the countdown to becoming an earthbound spirit… but what exactly is the bargaining chip that can move him?

Seemingly not noticing that I’m beside myself, Victor takes a bite of the pudding. His distinct and handsome side profile blends with the beautiful lake and mountain landscape, and he seems to be encased in a soft light.

I subconsciously reach for my phone. The moment I adjust the focus, though, I see Victor faintly looking at me through the camera.

MC: …haha, it’s an occupational disease. Sorry.

I put down the phone in embarrassment, only to hear him speak.

Victor: You seem to really like filming.

Victor: When we first met, you bent over backwards to drag me into making an appearance in a guest character.

Victor’s tone is laid-back, like having a casual, friendly chat. Perhaps because we’ve been together for a long time, I’m a little more frank too.

MC: You can record different stories through the camera lens.

MC: Even if you are in a corner of the earth, you can still discover the world in a million different ways and witness diverse lives through the screen.

MC: Which is why I planned to use the camera to record the places wherever I go.

MC: So that no matter when I look back, I can return to that scenery…

I keep talking in an unceasing torrent. But the moment I lock eyes with Victor, my voice suddenly lurches to a stop.

He once told me that Mountain Spirits can’t leave the place of their birth.

No matter how the years have changed, it’s always been the landscape of the mountain that he has seen. It should be such a regret for him…

I sigh slightly and suddenly think of something, proposing tentatively.

MC: I’ve actually saved a lot of videos documenting the scenery from various places. Would you like to watch them together?

I set down my phone in the gap between us as I speak. The distance that was initially a palm’s width bridges quietly, our shoulders gently touching each other.

Victor freezes almost imperceptibly, but he doesn’t keep away from me.

Various settings flow through the lens one after another. Amidst the clamorous backdrop, I furtively turn my head and stare at Victor.

The breeze softly caresses the black fringes over his forehead, the dark-colored pupils of his eyes reflecting the shifting colors of the scenes.

I know very clearly that he has a power thousands of times greater than mine. Simply with a single thought, he can control my freedom and even my life or death at any time;

But at this moment, staring at his serene side profile, I feel a certain part of my heart vaguely aching.

I purse my lips, then open my mouth to speak by some curious coincidence.

MC: Victor, when we have solved the problem at hand, let’s go to these places together.

The light in Victor’s eyes dims slightly. After keeping quiet for a while, he turns his head to look at me.

Victor: There will be no such opportunity.

Victor: My life is bound to this mountain and fields. The second I step out of this place, my body and soul will dissipate together.

Victor: Perhaps the day I’m weary of this life, I will consider taking that step.

MC: But what we know now necessarily may not be the entire picture. Before I met you, I didn’t believe there were demon spirits in this world either!

MC: There are always methods that have not yet been discovered, and they will be able to get you out of here in one piece.

MC: I’ll help with it too. We will look for it together.

As if to testify my trustworthiness, I curl my pinky finger at Victor.

The breeze from the valley blows toward us, and the grass sparkles like waves, reflecting the luster of the autumn sun.

There seem to be some emotions churning in Victor’s eyes, and he turns his head away after a while.

I deflate my mouth and withdraw my hand helplessly, only to hear him speak.

Victor: I’ll undo the restraint for you.

Victor: In exchange, bring me a sachet of vanilla seeds.

I almost dare not believe my ears when I hear the bargaining chip that I’ve been painstakingly mulling over, turns out to be so simple.

MC: …that’s it?

Victor: Do you want me to add a few more conditions?

MC: Of course not! Wait for me. I’m going down the mountain right now!

Victor smiles softly and averts his gaze, looking towards the twilight sinking in the distant mountain.

I scramble to get up from the grass. As I walk to the end of the path, I can’t resist stealthily looking back.

His figure has become a tiny ball, and I can’t tell whether he is looking at me or not. The autumn breeze picks up again, seeming to melt into the mountainous landscape.

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

[CRUCIAL TIDBITS TIME]:

SOMEONE PLS HOLD MY HEART FIRST ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

The Representation of “Vanilla Seed”:

It’s directly taken from Qu Yuan’s “Nine Songs: The Mountain Spirit”. In the poem, it represents the “protagonist gentleman (i.e. the spirit)”, and basically embodies all things that’s beautiful and pure. Here, it represents Victor.

The meaning of asking for vanilla seed as “bargaining chip”:

Vanilla is the lover’s knot, the Sorceress’ prayer to the God. In one of Qu Yuan’s Nine Song’s, there is a description of widespread ancient Chinese folk culture – couples who had to live away or travel far from their spouses, they would use vanilla and sacred woods to tie concentric knots and pray for their lovers to return to them. It also, naturally, used to be used for crafts and spells during marriage ceremony.

Coming back to the date, Victor is using the ancient method to confess his feelings. But since MC is from modern times, she naturally doesn’t understand what it stands for (and you’ll see it couple more times later too). By asking her to bring him a sachet of vanilla seeds, he is telling her to leave him a part of her heart, which is why he says this is equal enough an exchange. The warmth, love she has given him and made him feel is enough for what comes next—— ༎ຶ⁠‿⁠༎ຶ

—

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

—

✧ [Chapter 4] ✧

The lanterns are gradually lit as the early evening hangs low, and the town’s night market is bustling with activity.

I pick up the vanilla seeds from the flowers and plants merchant. Thinking of the restraint that can be lifted immediately, my pace quickens a few notches.

??: Hey, you haven’t left this town yet?

A familiar voice rings out behind me. I turn around and see the owner of the homestay.

MC: …yes. The legends here are very interesting, so I wanted to collect materials for a while longer.

I beat around the bush perfunctorily. But fortunately, the other party doesn’t detect anything peculiar.

Guest House Owner: When you have time, come again and have a chat with me then! I heard a lot more tales the other day.

My heart stirs, and I open my mouth as I try to sound out.

MC: Then, have you heard any other rumors about the Mountain Spirit? For instance, methods of getting out of the birthplace?

Guest House Owner: I didn’t pay attention to this. I’ll have to search for it again. As for the other things… I’ve heard that the house he lives in is a bit evil too.

My breathing accelerates a few beats.

MC: “A bit evil” means––

Guest House Owner: I heard that the house generates a demonic nature which will trap those who enter by mistake!

MC: And how did those who entered before escape?

Guest House Owner: It’s not that easy! Demon spirits made of wood and stones are brain-dead. When they aim at their prey, they will not give up, unless they can find someone else as a substitute.

Guest House Owner: But where can one find such a squanderer! Legend has it that the souls of two or three of them have scattered in the mountains…

Several urgings drift from a distance, and the guest house owner bids goodbye to me. I lower my gaze, looking at the vanilla seeds in my hands, dazed.

“Take what you give”... substitution… could it be that Victor’s method of undoing the restraint is to become the prey of the antiquated mansion on my behalf?

But he knows what that means even better than I do, so probably not…

I retort to myself while my mind is in chaos, but my palms clench unconsciously.

As if sensing my violent emotions, a sharp pain suddenly travels from my wrist. Immediately afterward, that familiar sky-spinning and earth-revolving feeling strikes.

—

When I open my eyes, I find that I’ve been pulled back into the ancient house, and the fog on my wrist has become incredibly dense.

I struggle instinctively. But to my horror, I feel my strength being consumed little by little.

The loss of control over my body has never been so apparent… could it be that the antiquated mansion is in a great rush to turn me into a part of it?!

The fog drags me deeper into the house like a soul-seeking hook, and I resist in vain. Just at this moment, a few sharp flashes of brilliant light streak across my field of vision, tearing through the fog in an instant.

The heaviness on my wrist suddenly becomes lighter, and I look up blankly. When I see that figure in the distance, my heart, which has been crammed with fear, relaxes instantaneously.

Victor sighs very softly, his tone of voice carrying within it a hint of helplessness.

Victor: Sparked such a violent erosion… what did you think about this time?

MC: I…

I open my lips, but the mist suddenly condenses in front of him as though giving a warning of something. Remaining unmoved, Victor steps forward, the silk threads wrapping me up irresistibly.

As if receiving a sort of provocation, the fog thickens instantly, enveloping the entire courtyard and the sky overhead like a confrontation. The sense of oppression is almost impossible to endure.

With difficulty, I gasp for breaths, and my heart clenches violently as I see the silk threads becoming frail out of the corners of my eyes. It’s as though they have been eroded by the fog.

Before I can say anything, I see Victor’s footsteps. In the next second, countless sharp silk threads spread from Victor’s palm and interweave into a perilous web––

–– akin to a barrier, standing shield between me and the fog, extinguishing all danger.

As though sensing a threat, the gloomy mist stagnates for a moment. Just as I breathe a sigh of relief, I feel the burning heat on my wrist grow increasingly pronounced like a vent of resentment.

My consciousness gradually becomes blurred. In a haze, I’m drawn in by the silk threads, and I’ve fallen into Victor’s arms. I clutch Victor’s sleeve, muttering:

MC: Victor… I’m really not going to turn into an earthbound spirit, am I?

MC: If I had known earlier that it’d be the last time I’d go down the mountain… I shouldn’t have returned with only vanilla seeds…

The hand around my waist pauses, and a helpless sigh resounds in my ear.

Victor: [sighs LONG and HARD]  Truly a dummy.

Like an answer to his voice, countless threads spring up and envelop us completely in a blanket.

—

I seem to have sunken into a dream of heavy colors.

A tidal wave of gray fog surges overhead, reflecting the outline of light.

Transfixed, I reach out for the spec of light, but my body feels as heavy as if I’ve fallen into a mire.

Until a slender arm comes up and firmly clasps my fingers. I seem to have been asked for something, and by doing so, I break free.

My body becomes lighter, reminiscent of a bird that has broken free from its cage. The spec of light in the distance gradually magnifies and occupies my entire field of vision––

I gasp as I wake up from this strange dream, and what greets my eyes is the somewhat familiar canopy roof. I size it up for a moment before I remember that it seems to be the bed curtain I once entered by mistake.

…why am I in Victor’s room?

I lift my hand to knead my dizzy head, only to feel a tug of something. Puzzled, I lower my gaze and see countless red silk threads covering my body.

With a slight movement, they all fall in a flurry, landing silently, one after another, on the bed. And the thick gray fog on my wrist has disappeared without any trace whatsoever.

The last picture I’ve seen flashes before my eyes at this moment, and I open my mouth in bewilderment.

MC: Victor? Are you here?

A faint response drifts from outside the bed curtain. I lift open the curtain of the bed, but can’t help but be rendered speechless.

Victor is leaning against the bed head, and countless silk threads drape over him as if caging him in a soft web.

For what seems like an instant, I seem to see a little bit of fatigue between his eyebrows. But the next second, he stands up as if nothing has happened and looks at me.

Victor: The restraint has been lifted.

Victor: You can leave now. Nothing will block your way anymore.

He takes the lead towards the door as he speaks. The silk threads climb up our wrist and pull me along to follow behind him, not gently but not firmly either.

I look down, only to see that their original vibrant red color has taken on a hint of faint darkness, as if they have lost their vitality.

My anxiety surfaces more and more clearly. Thinking back to that bizarre dream, I hesitantly open my mouth.

MC: …isn’t “take what you give” the principle among demon spirits? What’s the price for swapping me out?

Victor’s pace seems to slow down a few notches. While I’m wondering if it’s an illusion, he raises his hand and pushes open the door to the room, and the valley full of autumn light suddenly floods into the courtyard.

Victor leans against the door, his voice taking on a little more hint of alienation.

Victor: The person who is about to leave doesn’t need to know so much.

The silk threads quietly converge behind me, gently pushing me into the refreshing colors of autumn. Soon after, they swirl back to Victor’s feet, never crossing the border.

At this moment, the low door threshold in front of my eyes seems like an insurmountable barrier.

The question that has been heavily weighing down my heart is now vaguely answered. My nose is a little sore, and I force myself to avert my gaze.

The freedom I’ve been waiting for a long time is close at hand. So long as I turn around, I can leave this antiquated mansion behind forever.

But… I don’t want to leave like this.

I exhale deeply and walk over to Victor. He opens his slender eyes, looking at me with an expression that I’m unable to read.

Victor: What are you still dawdling about?

I open my lips, and only now do I notice a hint of hoarseness in my voice as I begin to speak.

MC: I have heard the intact rumor that the restraint on earthbound spirits can only be transferred. It can’t be lifted.

MC: You have become the prey on my behalf to make it stop devouring me, haven’t you?

The trailing notes of my quivering voice dissipate into the air. After a long time, Victor speaks in an indifferent tone.

Victor: You ask too many questions. You should know, I’m not always soft-hearted.

A few strands of silk threads wrap around my neck in response to his voice. I purse my lips.

MC: …I don’t buy that you’ll actually do it.

He seems to release a soft sigh as the silk threads swirl and tighten threateningly soon after.

MC: It’s not fair to trade a sachet of vanilla seeds for my freedom in the future.

MC: There is no way I can just pretend that nothing has happened and leave.

Almost subconsciously, numerous fragments of images appear before my eyes;

The look of discard I saw on the person before my eyes when I tripped over the silk threads, the way his brows smoothed out slightly when he ate dessert, and that face when he gazed into the distance.

My vision gradually becomes blurred. Amid the haze, I hear a very soft sigh.

Victor: …I had already become familiar with these mountains and woods to the stage of being a little worn out.

Victor: Before you came along, I seldom walked out of this house. Even though staying here is simply a return to the old life.

Victor: So, you don’t need to think so much. Our transaction is sufficiently equal.

The silk threads that bind me drop silently. I sniffle and stare fixedly at Victor.

MC: You don’t need to think too nobly about human beings either.

MC: I- I simply don’t want to think of you remorsefully every time I see a mountain view in the future.

MC: Instead of that, I’d rather stay here and be more at peace.

Victor’s gaze lands on my bloodshot eyes, his voice soft.

Victor: Don’t you still want to capture a lot of scenery with your lens?

Victor: After staying here for so long, I’m afraid there’s nothing left in these mountains worth for you to continue recording.

MC: …that’s not my only wish. I’ve told you this before too. I want to leave this place together with you.

MC: I’ve heard from people down the mountain that there are quite a few legends scattered around the area. Maybe it won’t be long before we find clues.

The profound, warm autumn light filters in from outside the door, looking as if it’s melting into the light of Victor’s eyes. I speak in a quiet voice.

MC: And when together with a special someone, we can always find novelty even if the days are endlessly long.

MC: I can bring more to your life than just dim sums and vanilla seeds.

The rustling of the trees echoes through the courtyard, causing my entire being to shiver. A brief while later, the silk threads hanging over my shoulders suddenly descend lower and tug at my waist.

I stumble and am led into the arms in front of me. A tender, cold breath pours itself into my own. Soon after, I see a slender hand extending before me.

Victor lowers his gaze, curling his pinky finger at me slightly.

Victor: Since you don’t want to leave, stay here then. The courtyard is very empty, and I need someone to accompany me in sowing the seeds.

Victor: By this time next year, perhaps we will be able to harvest the taste of surprise.

-

—

Pretty long rambling, so please feel free to ignore if you wish haha~

I found this beautiful translation of the poem, so for those interested~

—

[achaotichuman]

"What are you thinking about?"

"Walking through a dark forest. Fog surrounds you the deeper you venture the taller the trees become until the trunks are larger than any building you have ever seen. The white, haunting mist is like the long trail of a bride's dress. Moss and dirt is cold underneath your feet. You duck under roots that stick up out of the ground like portal entranceways. Branches reach out, trailing like fingers of the long dead against your skin, pulling at your clothing, snatching away small threads.

Dark greens shrouded in darkness is all you can see. As you go deeper and deeper, it becomes like an ocean, never-ending and vast. No mortal law exists anymore. Nature only heads to the rule of chaos.

You hear laughing in the mist. The sounds of footsteps become like the rhythm of a song you have never heard but know all the same.

Then the distant sound of a fiddle airs through the world. You are not afraid; this place has been nothing but kind to you so far, you trust the trees to not lead you to danger.

Then you pass a small clearing, darkness would make it near impossible to see, but like your eyes have been given their own light, in the midst of the fog you see him. A tall, beautiful creature, with golden hair that spills in waves and curls down his back. A fiddle in hand, melodies filling the chilled air, hauntingly beautiful. Making your body feel stuck in its skin. You should feel afraid, but there is an odd calmness pulsing in waves through your body, perhaps you are afraid, but became numb to it a long time ago.

When he looks over at you, it is with forest green eyes that seem to bore into you. He regards you with indifference, you mean little to him. He looks away, towards the deep forest and continues the song. Chiming laughter from the branches around you ring through the world, like a cascade of bells.

You have stumbled upon a faery's words. You stand and watch."

"You're thinking about Tamlin?"

"Yes, I'm thinking about Tamlin."

[agentbaldwin]

who  :  anyone where  :  bullpen when  :  september 4, 1996 @ 01:17 am

          two mugs filled to the brim with freshly made coffee sit on the lounge countertop.  he stares at the coffee like he's taking personal offence.

          muscle memory is a funny little thing.  a mission objective slips his mind , but he can absently make a length of surgical knots with his laces until the fog in his head lifts.  he would have missed the meeting on the second if it weren't for every agent headed that way , but his hands went through the motion of making two cups of coffee without any input from his brain.  the one on the left has an absrud amount of sugar and a generous pour of cream , while the right is undefiled.  the person he made this for is no longer here.  he wants to pour the coffee down the sink and smash the mug to smithereens.

          he takes a breath and manages to hold on to a thread of calm that threatens to leave him at any given moment.  agent london always took his coffee bitter , and agent baldwin doesn't think the extra caffeine in his system will do him any good right now.  there was a set of footsteps in the bullpen minutes earlier that he follows, carrying both coffees in his hands.

          "     i made too much.     "     he holds the extra one out to them , a mockery of a peace offering in this tense environment.  it's late.  he's pretty sure neither of them are supposed to be here.  he doesn't comment on that topic ; there's no reason to pry into the business of other insomniacs.     "     are you making progress  ?     "

[whatstruthgottodowithit]

The Other Evans Girl [Part Eleven]

Fandom: Harry Potter [Marauder’s Era]

Pairing: Sirius Black x Original Female Character, Sirius Black x Daisy Evans, James Potter x Lily Evans

Characters: Sirius Black, Original Female Character, Daisy Evans, Lily Evans, Remus Lupin, James Potter, Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Minerva McGonagall, Alice Fortescue, Frank Longbottom, Marlene McKinnon, Albus Dumbledore, Voldemort, Peter Pettigrew, Lucius Malfoy, Bellatrix LeStrange, Walburga Black, Orion Black, Jasper Thicknesse, Barty Crouch Jr, Mulciber, Walden McNair

Word Count: 6377

Rating: Mature

Summary: Hogwarts is a safe haven, a home for many, but it’s often a place where heartache, love and complex emotions dwell and none know that better than the Marauders. Lily Evans just wants to make it out as a successful witch though the oncoming war and the ongoing advances of James Potter threaten that. Daisy Evans, her twin, has other goals. Join the Evans sisters as they make their way through Hogwarts, prepare for war and eventually find love.

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Daisy was warm, uncomfortably so, and she felt trapped under something soft yet cumbersome which was making it hard to breathe. She had to escape. As she pried open her eyes and tried to find out where she was she found that the room had a dreadfully high ceiling, but most rooms in the castle did so that wasn’t too telling, and the only light was from the lamps high up on the walls. A quick glance down at her chest revealed the source of her discomfort was several thick blankets that had been laid upon her and so in an attempt to get some relief she moved to pull them away but stopped as she felt a ripple of agony through her abdomen. She squealed and fell back in pain, trying to breathe through it. From somewhere near her she heard a squeak of chair legs moving against the stone floor and then the sound of footsteps and when Daisy managed to open her eyes she found Sirius hovering next to her bed watching her with concern.

‘Are you okay?’ he asked softly, his grey eyes searching hers. ‘Yeah,’ she said through gritted teeth as she tried to sit up, ‘just sore.’

He nodded and held a hand out so she could manoeuvre herself into a comfortable sitting position. Fortunately once she was she had pulled a couple of blankets down she felt better and managed to settle herself in her bed. She was sure she was in the hospital wing even though she couldn’t see much of the room given that her bed had been tucked away behind some hospital screens and though she couldn’t see any windows the lamplight indicated it was quite late. Sirius sat back down in a chair near the foot of her bed which sparked her interest but she said nothing about it and instead opted to ask, ‘what time is it?’ ‘A little after midnight,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it a little late for visiting?’ she chuckled. ‘This isn’t a private ward you know,’ he rebuffed and Daisy instantly blushed. Of course, he was just in the ward himself. Why would he be visiting her? ‘Oh yeah,’ she said, allowing her fingers to fiddle with an errant thread of the only blanket on her now. The fog was clearing now and flashes of events started to come back to her.

‘Remus. How’s Remus?’ she asked anxiously. ‘He’s fine. Worried about you but that’s about it. He got discharged yesterday morning,’ Sirius replied. ‘Yesterday?! How long was I out?’ she asked. ‘Nearly thirty hours,’ he said with a smirk, ‘you had us going there for a while.’ ‘What do you mean?’ she asked. However, before he could answer Madam Pomfrey appeared from behind the screens in a flurry. ‘Miss Evans, I thought I heard you up. You gave us quite a scare there girl,’ she said as she fussed around her, laying several cups on the table in front of her as the girl watched her. ‘Now, how are you feeling? Have you any pain? Nausea? Have you vomited?’ she asked in rapid succession only allowing enough time for Daisy to nod or shake her head. ‘Well, I need you to take these now. Mr Black, go and get Dumbledore. He’ll want to speak with Miss Evans right away and get Professor McGonagall whilst you’re there. No doubt she’ll want to hear her account as well,’ Sirius stood reluctantly watching Daisy warily as he went to follow the teacher’s orders. ‘Actually, Madam Pomfrey,’ the girl said instantly, feeling two sets of eyes on her, ‘can it wait till morning?’ ‘Daisy dear,’ Madam Pomfrey sighed. ‘I know it’s important but I really don’t feel up to it right now. I promise I will do it first thing,’ she said. Madam Pomfrey observed her for a moment before answering reluctantly, ‘fine. But first thing.’ ‘I promise,’ Daisy nodded. As the older witch turned to leave, collecting the now empty vials from which Daisy had downed several putrid potions, she turned to look at Sirius and said, ‘Mr Black? I take it you can tear yourself away from Miss Evans now you have seen she’s okay?’ Sirius did nothing but scowl not that it deterred the nurse as she added, ‘visiting is over.’ ‘Actually, can he stay?’ Daisy blurted out. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was guilt, curiosity, or something she couldn’t fathom in her befuddled state but she wanted Sirius to stay. Even Sirius seemed to be confused by her request though he couldn’t hide the smile on his face as Madam Pomfrey sighed. ‘Very well,’ she relented though the severity didn’t leave her voice as she said, ‘but just until morning. After that he will have to stick to the same visiting hours as everyone else. Even your poor sister had to leave.’

At her words Daisy’s heart twinged but she pushed it away watching as the nurse disappeared behind the screen, her soft footsteps making their way up the ward until they disappeared into her office, the door closing with a click. Once she was gone Daisy released the breath she’d been holding. She hadn’t yet thought about Lily. How was her twin feeling? Did she know what happened? Had she seen her? Sirius could see the questions whizzing behind her eyes and got up and perched on the end of her bed capturing her attention.

‘Go on,’ he said with an inviting smile, ‘hit me with the questions.’ ‘What happened?’ Daisy asked. ‘Do you want the official version or what actually happened?’ he smirked a glint in his grey eyes. ‘Why don’t you tell me what I have to tell Dumbledore first then we can tackle the truth?’ she bargained making Sirius’ smile turn to a grin. ‘Snivellus saw Remus leaving for the shrieking shack and convinced you to tag along. He suspected what Remus was and wanted to out him to the world. We were late to the feast and spotted you leaving which is why we followed you to haul your arse’s back because we know about Remus. He transformed with us inside because Snape refused to leave,’ Sirius stated simply. It was close enough to be the truth and the way he told it left no doubt in her mind that the teachers would lap it up. In fact the more she thought of it the more she realised why he was here. He wasn’t hovering over her bedside because he was worried, he was there to make sure she knew the story before she got put in front of any teachers.

‘Why not tell the truth?’ she asked meekly. Sirius barked a laugh and all of a sudden the image of that shaggy black dog came to her mind. ‘Because I doubt telling McGonagall and Dumbledore that me and my two friends learned to be illegal animagi to help out our werewolf pal would go down too well,’ he said. ‘Yeah sure,’ she nodded but her brain was too hyped up for her to let it go, ‘but don’t you think Severus will tell?’

‘He’s been surprisingly quiet,’ Sirius admitted, ‘of course I don’t know what he said when he was in with Dumbledore and that lot but as far as I know he’s kept his mouth shut about our indiscretions.’

‘Why though?’ she asked uneasily remembering the hatred in his eyes. Not even their safety had mattered to him if it meant getting one over on Potter.

‘I suppose he knows he doesn’t win anything by slinging more mud,’ Sirius shrugged, ‘whatever plan the pair of you concocted he still went in knowing he might have got you killed. And given the way your sister’s been I doubt he wants anyone asking more questions.’

‘Right,’ Daisy said, her heart twinging once more mostly at the thought of Lily but also because knowing he’d put her in harm’s way to hurt Remus like that hurt more than she expected it too. ‘Why didn’t you tell them I was trying to find out what Remus was too?’ she asked, dropping her gaze. ‘Were you?’ he asked watching her quietly. Daisy shook her head. She had had truly no idea what they had been up to and looking back on it now she wondered why she had been so intent in the first place. ‘I really had no idea about Remus. Honestly,’ she murmured. ‘I could tell by the look on your face,’ he chuckled. ‘Does he hate me?’ she asked, dropping her gaze as she fiddled with the bedclothes. ‘Why would he?’ Sirius asked, snapping her gaze back up. ‘He thinks I wanted to out him to the world. To get him expelled,’ she pressed. ‘You wanted us expelled,’ Sirius chuckled. Daisy shoved him lightly though she instantly regretted it as pain rippled through her. ‘I just wanted you in trouble. I was sick of being shit on by your followers when your lot got off scot-free,’ she said earnestly. ‘I admire the cunning,’ Sirius said, ‘we could use a gal like you.’ ‘You wish,’ she smirked. They fell quiet for a moment, neither of them knowing what to say now that their conversation had turned somewhat friendly, well friendlier than they’d ever been. Though as her nerves started to flood back in he found herself asking, ‘will he speak to me?’ ‘Remus?’ Sirius asked. ‘Yeah, and James and Peter,’ she said, ‘I wanna thank them.’ ‘What for the gaping wound in your abdomen for the fifty broken bones?’ he wagered but Daisy bristled past that revelation and replied, ‘for saving me. You didn’t have to. It was my mess.’ ‘Well you can always pay us back by keeping our secrets,’ Sirius said.

Again the idea that he was only here to make sure she wouldn’t talk came back to her mind. Though she supposed she couldn’t blame him and in a way there wasn’t any reason she shouldn’t keep their secrets. After all, it wasn’t as though Remus had asked for any of this and for once the boys seemed to be doing something well, rather noble, in her opinion. So feeling as though it was the right thing to do Daisy nodded though it was betrayed by a yawn. Sirius didn’t even seem to acknowledge her agreement and instead scooted off the bed and back to the chair in a seamless fashion mumbling, ‘you should sleep,’ as he picked up the book that he had left at the foot of the bed and opened it back up. Daisy wanted to protest, she wanted to find out everything but she couldn’t keep her eyes open. So without another word she nodded and lay back down trying to ignore the throbbing in all her joints and the warm ache throughout her stomach.

Morning came slowly after that as Daisy was disturbed throughout the night with an ache or pain arising somewhere new every time she moved, and when she woke properly Sirius was gone though she noticed the book at the end of her bed was still there which was enough to convince her she hadn’t hallucinated it. Yet before she had time to gather her thoughts Madam Pomfrey appeared with a breakfast tray and several medicines for her to take. She pottered around her bedside whilst Daisy ate, talking her through her injuries, of which there were a few, and the projected timeline for recovery. By the time she left Daisy’s tray was empty, the incident seemingly not having affected her appetite.

Full and less achy off the back of whatever Madam Pomfrey had given her she settled back into bed trying to wrap her head around her current state. Her little tumble and collision with a werewolf had left her with a broken ankle, leg, wrist and several ribs and if that wasn’t bad enough she had been sliced so deep in her stomach that Madam Pomfrey had barely been able to get blood replacements in her as fast as it was coming out. The witch had even told her they were five minutes away from taking her to St Mungoes instead, fearing the worst. Daisy shuddered at the thought though she didn’t have time to dwell on it though as she was greeted by a visitor. Or three. Daisy watched as Lily, Marlene and Alice burst through the screens in a frantic mob immediately coming to her bedside whilst flinging questions at her.

‘Oh my god thank god you’re awake!’ Alice said coming to sit on one side of her. ‘Thank god she’s alive!’ Marlene corrected, ‘we thought you had died for a moment there!’ ‘They wouldn’t let us see you,’ Alice said. ‘They were on about taking you to St Mungoes,’ Lily said with worry, ‘they even nearly brought mum and dad into school, that’s how bad it was.’ ‘Mum and Dad know?’ Daisy said, worry flooding her only second to guilt as she realised that in the same way Lily had slipped her mind so had her parents. . ‘Yeah, but Dumbledore smoothed it all over from what I can tell,’ Lily replied, ‘but he wouldn’t tell us anything.’ ‘Yeah no one knows what happened,’ Alice said. ‘I mean there’s speculation-’ Marlene said. ‘But not even Sev would tell us what happened,’ Lily said morosely. Daisy’s ears pricked up at the mention of the boy’s name. Of course, he hadn’t told her what happened. ‘Doesn’t want Lily to think ill of him,’ a little voice inside her said. ‘Maybe he can’t,’ Daisy reasoned. ‘Why?’ Lily started but her words were cut off by the sound of movement behind her as McGonagall and Dumbledore came through the parted screens.

McGonagall’s beady eyes watched the girls for a moment before she said, ‘Miss Evans, Miss McKinnon, Miss Fortescue. What are you doing here?’ ‘Visiting professor. Madam Pomfrey said we could for a minute,’ Marlene said. ‘I don’t doubt she did but it’s nearly time for lessons,’ McGonagall said, her words not an outright command but enough that it suggested they should vacate the ward at once. ‘There’s ten minutes yet,’ Lily said in a tone so unlike her it made everyone pause. After all it wasn’t every day Lily Evans refused the instructions of a teacher. ‘Ten minutes is just enough time for you to get to your lessons on time then, isn’t it?’ McGonagall said with an air of finality. That seemed to be enough to make whatever defiance Lily had been feeling to go and sensing defeat the three girls nodded and clambered off the bed and towards the screens. Though just before she left Lily paused, that fire an ember it seemed as she said firmly, ‘we’ll come back later.’

As she disappeared in search of the others McGonagall’s gaze fell on Daisy as did Dumbledore’s and she felt herself shrink back into the pillow, the story Sirius had told her swirling in her brain though she was sure she was going to mess it up. McGonagall cleared her throat and moved further up the side of the bed throwing Daisy a reassuring smile though it didn’t make the teen feel any better.

‘Miss Evans, I trust you understand why Professor Dumbledore and I have come to speak to you today,’ she said. Daisy nodded. ‘Yes Professor,’ Daisy replied in an almost whisper. ‘And you understand the severity of the situation?’ again Daisy nodded, ‘right then. Now, under… normal circumstances we would want to speak to you somewhere private but seeing as you’re confined to your bed this will have to do. We’re going to ask you about the events of the evening of Halloween first and foremost and then follow up with a few questions, okay?’ ‘Yeah,’ Daisy mumbled. ‘You may begin,’ Dumbledore said, his blue eyes watching her intently over his half-moon spectacles causing nerves to bubble inside her. ‘Well, on Halloween we came downstairs and saw Remus leaving the castle,’ Daisy started. ‘With myself?’ McGonagall asked. ‘Yes,’ Daisy said, ‘and we, Severus and I, wondered where he was going so we followed him and he went to the whomping willow….and then we followed him in there and we ended up in the shrieking shack. James, Sirius and Peter had seen us follow him so had followed us because they knew about Remus’…condition. They knew we were in trouble but it was too late. I got thrown down the stairs and they pulled us out and that’s all I know.’ ‘You had no idea that Mr Lupin was afflicted in the way that he is?’ Dumbledore said. ‘No Professor. Honestly, I think Sev, Snape, knew but he wanted me to come with him to back him up…I just thought they were up to no good,’ she said. ‘Well I hope you understand how meddling doesn’t often get you anywhere good,’ McGonagall said. Daisy nodded guiltily. ‘I hasten to add Miss Evans,’ McGonagall said, ‘that what you have found out about Mr Lupin is a very delicate matter. If it were to be known to the school then-’ ‘I wouldn’t say anything,’ Daisy interrupted, ‘I wouldn’t do that to Remus. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to get him-’ ‘That’s quite understood Miss Evans,’ Dumbledore said, stopping her ranting. Daisy smiled weakly and nodded at the headmaster. ‘Mr Snape also knows to keep the revelation to himself. We ask you to take the same action,’ McGonagall said. ‘Of course Professor,’ Daisy said. McGonagall nodded curtly as did Dumbledore before the pair said their goodbyes and left Daisy alone with her thoughts.

From what she could tell the whole school knew about her Halloween adventure and now she was forbidden to talk about what actually happened which made her groan. It was going to be torture.

✵✵✵

Daisy was exhausted. Throughout the day she had been visited by hordes of people some of which she was happy to see, like Marlene, Alice and Lily who had popped back at lunch, but the rest had been people she hadn’t even considered friends though she figured they were only trying to get intel from her. Yet the only people she truly wanted to speak to hadn’t been by and at that Daisy couldn’t help but feel disappointed. It was eight o’clock and she had yet to see James, Sirius, Remus or Peter appear at her bedside.

‘They’re happy you covered for them, why would they care now,’ the nagging voice in her brain whispered. It was an idea that had been popping up whenever the curtain had twitched and they’d failed to appear from behind it. It came back now as the screens moved though it was Lily this time and she was alone. Whilst it wasn’t who she had been waiting for she wasn’t disappointed and shuffled her legs out of the way so that Lily could perch on the end which she did so gently, her green eyes watching her sister with concern.

‘Hey Lil,’ Daisy said. ‘Hey, Lil?’ Lily said angrily, ‘that’s all you have to say to me?’ ‘What do you want me to say?’ Daisy asked the happiness upon seeing her sister quickly fading as she watched her face and realised this wasn’t like the previous visit. No, Lily was here to give her a piece of her mind. ‘I’ve been worried sick! I’ve hardly slept or eaten for the past two days because I’ve had no idea what’s been going on with you and now you’re greeting me like it’s fine-’ ‘Okay sorry!’ Daisy sighed, hoping that an apology would stop her from steaming ahead. Even with her revolving door of visitors she had managed to do some thinking and was racked with enough guilt about it all without her sister giving her a helping hand. ‘Sorry isn’t good enough! Mum and Dad were frantic! Everyone’s talking about you and Sev won’t tell me anything! All I know is that it has something to do with Potter and his cronies! Well, they’ve gone too far this time almost getting you killed-’ ‘They didn’t do anything. It was my own fault. And Sev’s,’ Daisy said suddenly feeling defensive of the boys even more so as Lily said, ‘how can you blame Sev?’ ‘Because he took me to the danger knowing it was unsafe and I followed him cluelessly! I shouldn’t have even got involved so it’s my fault for going!’ Daisy snapped. ‘Going where?!’ Lily said exasperatedly and at that Daisy faltered. She knew it wasn’t fair to keep her sister in the dark but this whole thing revolved around a secret that wasn’t hers to tell. ‘Look I can’t tell you the logistics of everything, don’t, Dumbledore has told me I can’t,’ she said seeing her sister’s attempt at interjecting, ‘but I can tell you this. If it weren’t for James Potter and Sirius Black I would be dead. And as much as you don’t like them I hope that you can forgive them at least that…because I have.’ ‘Oh so you’re best mates now?’ Lily scoffed. ‘No,’ Daisy said, ‘but I’ve realised that friendship isn’t lying to your friends to get them to do what you want. And that’s what Snape did-’ ‘So you’re not Sev’s friend now?’ Lily asked in disbelief. ‘I’m not the friend of people who would be so cruel to others,’ Daisy said, shivering at the gleeful way he had tried to get them to admit to what Remus was. At how he had known, even before they had gone down to the shrieking shack about what might occur there and he had been too blinded by hatred to see anything wrong with approaching the danger. ‘But you’ll be friends with Potter,’ Lily said. Daisy paused, was she friends with James? She wasn’t sure about that yet but as annoying as he had been the way they had acted to help her, to help Remus, there was no way she could hate him now. And if anything her petty grievances now seemed insignificant in the scheme of things. ‘He’s not as bad as you think trust me,’ Daisy said placing her hand on the back of Lily’s in the hopes she’d at least consider what she was saying. She knew it would be hard, especially without all the facts but she hoped she’d listen. Fortunately for Daisy it looked as though her sister was going to as she nodded curtly, whatever had been bubbling inside her to say disappearing behind her eyes.

‘Okay fine. I’m not saying I’m in love with the idea of you and Potter being pals from now…but if you say he and Black saved your life I suppose I can’t be angry at that,’ Lily conceded. ‘Thank you,’ Daisy said breathing a sigh of relief though she grew tense again as Lily dropped her gaze whatever she had been holding back evidently bubbling back to the surface as she asked, ‘can you really not be friends with Sev?’

Daisy stared at her, watching as she kept her eyes on the stone floor beneath her feet, something Daisy thanked god for as she was sure the look on her face was something to behold. Daisy’s mind went over James’ words. They disliked Snape but he loathed them so much so that he was willing to ruin Remus’ life. It was cold. Callous. And if he would stoop that low what else would he do? Not to mention even if Remus hadn’t had been a wolf he’d still brought her into a situation anticipating that she’d be in danger. In fact he’d probably been hoping Remus would hurt her after all that would only add to his cause right? Daisy shuddered to think.

‘I don’t think so,’ Daisy said unevenly. It wasn’t an outright refusal, she didn’t think her sister could cope with that blow just yet, but it was enough to know that things weren’t likely to get better. Fortunately Lily seemed to accept her decision without trying to convince her otherwise and she nodded though the disappointment was evident on her face. However, it wasn’t as though she could say anything anyway as before she could speak there was the sound of more people in the hospital wing, coming towards them in a loud and raucous manner. The boys. Lily rolled her eyes as they appeared from behind the screens, which had done nothing to fend off her visitors all day.

‘Hey you’re up,’ James said with a beaming smile which he offered to Lily as he said, ‘hey Evans.’ ‘Potter,’ Lily said as James perched on the end of the bed next to her, slinging an arm around her shoulders which she immediately slid out from under moving towards Daisy. Peter had perched himself in one of the chairs at the end of her bed whilst Sirius hovered by her table though to her disappointment Remus was nowhere to be seen. ‘How are you feeling?’ Peter asked as he helped himself to the jellybeans that had been gifted to her and were now in a pile of presents on her table. ‘Alright,’ Daisy shrugged. ‘That’s good to hear,’ James said. ‘I think I’ll leave you be. You look like you’ve got enough visitors,’ Lily said talking over the end of James’ sentence. Daisy nodded, ‘see you tomorrow?’ ‘Yeah,’ she said leaning in to hug her sister as if reigning her superiority over the boys, ‘be sure to write to mum and dad. So they know you’re okay.’ ‘Will do,’ Daisy said, trying to ignore the guilt that niggled at her again, not only about her parents but about the fact she kind of wanted her sister to leave so that she could talk to the boys properly. Lily gave her a small smile and then left her makeshift bed area, pushing past Sirius as she went. James raised his eyebrows in awe.

‘Feisty one your sister,’ he said. ‘And she’s the restrained one,’ Daisy said unthinkingly. Sirius chuckled, making her blush. ‘Now that I’d like to see,’ James said. ‘I thought you already had? I mean isn’t that how I ended up with all this,’ she said gesturing to her various wounds and bandages. ‘And here is me thinking that was just sheer stupidity,’ James said. ‘A girl can have both,’ Daisy said. The group fell quiet for a moment before Daisy felt the urge to say something.

‘So…how are all the hordes of fans doing? You know, the girls that are so excited to hear of how gallantly brave you’ve all been saving my life and whatnot,’ Daisy said, her eyes on James who had put his arms on the bed, leaning back on them as if he was hanging out in his bedroom and not visiting a girl who had been near death's door not forty-eight hours ago in hospital. ‘Oh it’s been hard to walk through the halls right Pads,’ James mused. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve had to buy another quill I’ve signed so many autographs,’ Sirius chuckled. ‘I’ve taken to just giving out hugs. I think I’m on number six hundred and forty-eight,’ Peter added. Daisy giggled. ‘But for real?’ she asked, for once enjoying their banter much to her surprise. ‘It’s been okay. People talk, they always do, but no one knows what actually happened so it’s all good,’ James said reassuringly, his hand moving to pat her thigh over the cover for a second. ‘Good because you know I wasn’t trying to get Remus into trouble right?’ she said. ‘We know,’ Sirius said firmly. ‘Pads said you were worried about that. We know you didn’t know about his…furry little problem,’ James said. Daisy chuckled at his analogy.

‘So he’s not mad at me?’ Daisy said with hope, hope that was dashed as the boys shared a look she didn’t miss. It made her heart sink, ‘oh.’ ‘He doesn’t hate you,’ Sirius said coming towards her. His tone was sympathetic though Daisy didn’t believe his words. ‘No? Then why didn’t he come?’ she reasoned. She didn’t blame him of course, how could she? People with lycanthropy weren’t exactly accepted in the wizarding world and he thought she had wanted out him. ‘He’s concerned,’ Peter said. ‘Concerned that you’ll not like him now that you know what he is,’ James finished. ‘Especially given,’ Sirius gestured at Daisy’s abdomen which twinged as soon as she remembered the wounds that were there. ‘What? That’s ridiculous,’ she baulked. Her not like him? How could he think that? ‘That’s Moony,’ Sirius said. Daisy looked at him confused. ‘What Sirius means is that Remus has a tendency to think everyone will despise him because most of the time people’s perception towards people like him isn’t well…accepting,’ James said. ‘So he thinks that’s me?’ she said. ‘He thinks that’s everyone,’ James replied reaching out to put a reassuring hand on the back of hers, ‘it took two years for us to convince him that we could be trusted enough to know and that we don’t care about his condition.’ ‘That’s why you learned to be anamagi?’ she asked. ‘Maybe don’t shout it from the rooftops Dais,’ Sirius said glancing at the ajar curtain behind them, ‘but yeah.’ ‘That’s sweet,’ she said with an admiration that made the boys wince as if she had just insulted them. The looks on their faces made her giggle and upon hearing her elegant laughter James broke into a grin followed by Sirius and Peter and pretty soon they were all laughing for no reason.

‘Can’t you convince him to come and see me?’ she asked hopefully once they composed themselves. ‘I don’t think so,’ Peter said. ‘It’s just he feels so guilty about you getting hurt,’ James explained. ‘But it was my fault!’ Daisy argued. ‘Who’s at fault is of no issue now but Remus isn’t just going to accept it. He already thinks he’s bad enough this has just added fuel to the fire,’ Sirius said truthfully. Daisy pondered his words for a moment before she said. ‘Then I want to see him,’ she said adamantly. ‘I mean we can try and coax him to come,’ Peter said rubbing the back of his neck as she looked at him. ‘No, I mean tonight,’ she said. ‘Dais, I don’t think,’ Sirius said but she was already ignoring him and trying to get out of bed. She managed to get one foot on the floor before her leg gave way and James had to swoop in and stop her from falling. Sirius also rushed to help, propping her other side up as they pushed her back into a sitting position, each of them sat by her side and Peter hovering nearby just in case. It had been a stupid move she could tell that now from the way a ragged pain ripped through her chest and a throb came to her ankle that hadn’t been there before. She could also tell from the way the three of them were watching her with concern.

‘Daisy I think you should get back in bed,’ James said. Peter mumbled an agreement. ‘What happened to you lot being rule breakers?’ she said through panted breaths. ‘Yeah well there’s rule-breaking and letting you break another ankle,’ Sirius said tightly. ‘Look,’ she said looking at them pointedly, ‘I’m going to see Remus tonight whether the three of you help me or not. So you can either stand there and watch me army crawl along this cold stone floor, which I will, or you can figure out a way of helping me find Remus so I can speak to him.’

They shared another look before finally, James nodded. Sirius looked livid but didn’t say anything as they helped her to bed and started diving into how they would get her up to their dormitory without being spotted. If Daisy had worries about becoming their friends the boys didn’t know what to expect.

✵✵✵

Remus couldn’t sleep. In fact, he couldn’t do much of anything. If the full moon hadn’t taken it out of him then the news of what he’d done to Daisy had been enough to send him over the edge so much so that he’d marched straight to the headmaster’s office and demanded to be expelled. Dumbledore had refused much to his dismay. So he’d asked for detentions, another request denied. He’d even tried to punish himself by telling the boys they should no longer be friends with him only for them to assure him that there was no getting rid of them that easily and that he was their friend whether he liked it or not.

He didn’t deserve that, friends like them. He didn’t deserve to be here with students he was a risk to.

He didn’t deserve anything.

And the more the boys tried to convince him he did the worse he felt with the pangs only guilt only amplified when they’d told him they were headed to the hospital wing to visit Daisy. He had refused to go, fearing how the guilt that was already gnawing at him would likely engulf him the moment he saw her lying in that bed. When they left he had tried to read or do some homework but he couldn’t concentrate. So, he gave up and crawled into bed though it was still early, and now he couldn’t sleep.

He closed his eyes for the seventieth time and tried to drift off but it didn’t work yet before he could admit defeat he was forced to open them anyway as a clatter and a bang echoed around the draughty dormitory as the door swung open and four bodies fell inside in a heap.

‘You’re on my leg,’ groaned Peter from underneath Sirius. ‘Yeah well I’ve got James’ arse in my face,’ he replied. ‘Um guys a little help,’ came a distinctly more feminine voice from the pile. Whilst the boys clambered up and out from under the bits of the cloak that was still covering them Remus got up trying to figure out who was with them only to find Daisy sitting on the floor, her legs around Sirius’ waist from where he had carried her through Hogwarts, a wince on her face as Sirius started to move. Remus felt a surge of anguish course through him as his eyes fell on the casts she was sporting and the dark purple bruises that littered her face.

‘What are you doing?’ he said coming closer as Sirius turned to help Daisy up off the floor with Peter grabbing her other side so that they could pull her up between them. ‘We’ve brought you a visitor,’ James said, not bothering to help the other boys as they hobbled Daisy onto the trunk at the end of his bed so that she could perch on it. ‘I can see that, why?’ Remus said a bit too harshly. ‘Oh charming,’ Daisy said. ‘She wanted to see you,’ Sirius said as if it were self-explanatory. ‘I said I didn’t want to come!’ Remus protested. ‘And I think that that’s silly,’ Daisy replied. As Remus went to interject, no doubt to give her a spiel about not deserving her forgiveness or to insist she never put herself in his vicinity again she cut him off, announcing with a sternness that rivalled that of her twin’s, ‘look your friends have just carried my incapacitated self up and down several flights of stairs so I can get what I want to say off my chest. And instead of moping, you’re going to sit your arse down and listen to me okay?’

All four boys watched her in amazement.

‘Now would you just sit down…please,’ she said gesturing to the trunk opposite her. Remus hesitated, looking at his friends who were of no help at all, the three of them offering simple shrugs in return to his pleading eyes, before he conceded and followed her instructions. Once he was sat down James, Sirius and Peter took a seat on the beds nearest the door watching the interaction intently. ‘Right,’ Daisy said suddenly feeling self-conscious now that all eyes were on her, ‘well, first off I want to say I’m sorry. Sorry for interfering in your business. I had no idea about your…’ ‘Furry little problem,’ James interjected, making Daisy smile. ‘Yeah, that. I didn’t go to the shack that night to get you outed to the world even though that seems to have been Sev-Snape’s motive. But that’s not me okay?’ she said. Remus nodded, ‘I just thought you were up to no good and like I said to Sirius I wanted you lot to have a taste of your own medicine but it didn’t go to plan.’ ‘That’s an understatement,’ Remus mumbled causing a wave of guilt to flow through her. As bad as she felt he somehow looked worse. She may have had broken bones, cuts and bruises but Remus seemed to have the weight of the world on his shoulders, the guilt of what had happened making the six foot something boy seem as small as she was. Which is why she had known she was right to come up here. ‘I know. That’s actually the other point I wanted to make,’ Daisy said, pausing to make sure he was looking at her before she continued, ‘I don’t want you to blame yourself for what happened. You can’t help being what you are but I sure as hell can help being an absolute idiot and searching out danger-’ ‘But you almost died!’ Remus said. ‘A little pain for a few weeks versus a lifetime of suffering? I know which affliction I’d pick,’ she said offering him a sad smile. ‘You really aren’t mad at me are you?’ he asked perplexed. ‘I’m madder at myself for being so stupid but no, I’m not mad at you,’ she said quietly. Remus watched her, trying to see if he could sniff out any whiff of her lying but there was nothing there. And his hope to have any one on his side in this matter dimmed as his eyes drifted past her to where the boys were sitting and Sirius mouthed, ‘told you.’

‘So what now?’ Remus asked Daisy trying to force the guilt inside him down now that he could see there was no winning. Daisy sighed, ‘we try to navigate all the attention together I hope? Because I’ve already promised I’m not going to say anything but from the number of visitors I’ve had today I think I might need reinforcements when it comes to fending them off myself.’ ‘Especially on that broken leg,’ James said. ‘We could just form a defence around her with us in front who’s gonna be paying attention to her?’ Sirius quipped. ‘Girls do dig scars right,’ James said gesturing to his lip which was half recovered though still busted from his fight with Snape. ‘You wish. I’ve had more boys checking up on me today than I ever had,’ Daisy ribbed making the boys laugh. ‘So that’s sorted then yeah?’ James said coming over to the trunk Daisy was still perched on. ‘Sorted?’ she asked. ‘We’re like friends now I guess?’ James said, his hazel eyes watching her closely. Daisy glanced at the four of them before she nodded slowly and said, ‘yeah I guess we are.’

SIRIUS BLACK/SERIES TAGS

@maeisafangirl @mysteriouslydelicateface @caitlin1996 @imthebadguyyy

[thefandomwritersblog]

Ghost of the Ten

Horizon: Forbidden West

Hekarro x Fem! Old One OC

Action/Adventure/Romance/Hurt/Comfort

Chapter 7

Part 2: Ghost of the Ten

~~

"I woke up into nightmare." - Ned Vizzini

~~

Awareness came with pain.

And not even the good kind of pain. Where she could pat herself on the back for a good workout session or having survived another three-day boozefest. No, this was the worst kind of pain imaginable. There were parts of her body hurting that she wasn't sure existed before. She felt like she was on fire with how much her muscles ached, and the more her muddled brain became aware the more she noticed it agonized right down to her very core.

She struggled to think, to push past the fog in her head. She tried to move but only managed a pathetic twitch, her hands gripping the rough, threaded blanket beneath her palm. She could feel the weight of another blanket across her torso, pulled up snugly around her shoulders to keep her warm against the cool air that brushed her face. There was the sound of faint voices somewhere nearby, nearly incomprehensible to her fucked up head.

Where the fuck was she?

Victoria tried to move again. To force her body to do anything other than lie there in excruciating agony. She somehow managed to prop herself up on her elbows, exhaling a low sigh that transformed into a pitiful whimper. Silence descended in the room, then gentle pattering followed by a tender touch of someone's hand on her shoulder.

"You should lie back down." one of the voices whispered. Soft, definitely younger.

"Where...am I?" Victoria slurred through the pain, her tongue feeling like a lead weight in her mouth. She gritted her teeth against the gentle squeeze of the hand on her shoulder, twitching as if struck, until she found the willpower to sit herself up. A frown deepened on her face as she slowly opened her eyes. But nothing but an expanse of unending darkness greeted her sightless gaze.

A chill of terror coiled around her spine, bile rising in her throat as the dread realization took hold: she was blind.

"Hey, it's okay." The voice came again, this time desperate and loud over the mounting buzz of Victoria's gasps for air. Left, right, every place she looked was nothingness. She felt her hands were trembling in her lap but couldn't catch sight of them.

"Who…?" Her words were broken by frantic breaths and quivering lips as a hand landed on her shoulder. She recoiled, slapped it away and screamed, "Fuck off, get away from me!"

Suddenly, there were more voices and more hands attempting to hold her down. Her heart pounded in her chest as confusion and panic set in. No matter how hard she tried to make out their words, they were lost in the fog of fear that had enveloped her. She yelped at the feeling of a sudden pinch in her arm before a nauseating wooziness filled her head and she collapsed back into the blankets beneath her.

"Get the chief, now." It was another voice, female, definitely younger like the other but rougher around the edges. Eerily similar, but Victoria couldn't think straight enough through the sedative to figure out why.

"Will you be--" Male, rough and soft. Victoria scowled and tried to fight the drug.

Fuck this... fuck this... fuck this!

"Kotallo, now!"

Victoria felt a sudden rush of panic as whoever was in the room disappeared with the sound of hurried footsteps. She heard two girls whispering frantically to each other before Victoria felt the presence of one of them at her bedside. She scowled when she felt careful fingers grab her wrist and take her pulse.

"Are you awake?" The softer-spoken girl's tone betrayed an undertone of nervousness.

"Fuck you..." Victoria slurred her reply, though her voice sounded more scared than angry.

"I'll take that as a yes." The other woman replied with a dry laugh. They descended into an awkward silence, Victoria struggling in vain against the sedative as it coursed through her system. Bouts of indignant anger flared in her chest every so often, spurring her to scowl whenever the mysterious hands tried to comfort her.

"I know you're scared," the young girl whispered, "But you're safe here, I promise."

"Y-you drug...p-people you... try to k-k-keep safe?" Victoria sneered, her words twisted.

"To keep you from hurting yourself, and to help with the anxiety." The voice assured, "I can't imagine how terrified you must feel."

"S-stuff it, k-kid." Victoria snapped, and groaned as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. She tried to focus on her breathing, slowly letting her body drift into an uneasy slumber. It was a half-sleep; she was aware of the voices around her but too tired to fully rise from the black abyss of her doze.

"Are you still with us?"

Victoria groaned quietly as she was stirred out of her nap, blinking at the ceiling and huffing when her eyes failed to focus. She twisted her head towards the voice, the young girl from before. She was somewhere close, hovering just out of reach, but beyond her, Victoria could sense the presence of more people in the room. Though she was sightless, her glare shot to her right, where she could sense someone lingering at the foot of her cot. Their gaze so intense she felt it like a burn.

"What now?" Victoria snapped, her words a little clearer this time. The nap had at least allowed her to sleep through the effects of the sedative. "Looking to pump more drugs into me?"

"Not unless you give me a reason to." The girl said evenly, "I just... wanted to ask you some questions, that's all. Is that okay?"

Victoria didn't bother to respond, but she managed to clench her fist when she tried to wiggle her fingers. A vast improvement from earlier, and one she wasn't keen on letting her captors see.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

She remained silent, turning her head defiantly to face the ceiling. She clenched her teeth and narrowed her eyes as if trying to shut out any other voices in the room. She could feel them all waiting for an answer, suddenly conscious of how carefully they were watching her every move. Even through the haze of drugs and exhaustion, Victoria knew she was being studied like an animal in captivity—dissected without mercy by their collective gaze. After a few moments of tense silence, movement from the edge of her cot caught her attention.

She couldn't make out any shapes, but she could feel them carefully gravitate toward her, their overwhelming presence softly crouching beside her. Victoria gulped nervously in an effort to conceal her unease, her blank stare still focused on what she assumed was the ceiling above her. Then, they-he-spoke. His gentle baritone rumbled through her chest, comforting like a summer's day. Strong, yet tender as he whispered.

"What's your name?"

Victoria clenched her jaw. His voice sounded oddly familiar, but she couldn't remember where she might have heard it before. Without meaning to, she turned towards him, sightless but still desiring to discern some shape of a face in the blackness of her blind vision.

"I know you're very scared," the man said, "but we cannot help you if you don't let us."

"And why should I trust you?"

He laughed much to her surprise, "You would be a fool to trust someone you can't see."

Victoria scoffed at that. She still had yet to place his voice, and despite its eerie familiarity, it wasn't enough for her to open her mouth and answer his questions.

"Then I guess we're at a crossroads here," she finally said, shifting slightly on the cot to try and get more comfortable.

"We don't have to be." The man replied, his tone gentle yet firm.

Victoria quickly realized she was in the presence of someone who seemed to be very assured of his place in the world. The stark silence of the room told her that their audience was either afraid of him or respected him enough to remain quiet, and since she didn't sense any nervousness in the room, she opted for the latter observation. Which meant that the man talking to her was in charge.

Victoria considered her choices. Part of her wanted to remain defiant; at least until she could regain her sight and reassess the situation. But another part of her quietly recommended cooperating. She had no idea what was going on and no assurance that she would ever recover her vision. If she wanted a shot at survival, she had to try to work this group in her favor.

"My name is Victoria," she eventually said, returning her gaze back up towards the ceiling, "but that's all I'm willing to tell you right now."

"As you say, Victoria."

A wave of calmness filled the room. Victoria detected a faint murmur nearby, and the girl next to her backed away, leaving her alone with the man. Victoria felt the man's eyes on her and she turned to face him, despite the fact that she couldn't see. She knew he was studying her.

"Where am I?" she asked in a low murmur.

"What do you remember?" He replied, his voice low and controlled.

Victoria scoffed at his response. "I think I reserve the right to ask some questions of my own here."

He chuckled at that and said, "A trade then. A question for a question. Does that sound fair?"

She clicked her tongue, mildly unamused. "Yeah, alright," she said eventually, "I'll give ya an easy one: what's your name?"

"Hekarro."

The simplicity of his answer stunned him just as much as the strangeness of his name. "What kinda name is that?" she blurted out irritably, to which he hummed,

"I believe it is my turn for a question." He prompted gently.

She scoffed at him again but nodded curtly and waited for him to ask his next question.

"What's the last thing you remember?"

"This is the third time you asked that question," Victoria observed, "Why do you want to know so much?"

He didn't answer her, but she felt his gaze as he waited patiently. Victoria sighed in exasperation, annoyed by her own affliction. Not being able to see was a tremendous disadvantage, and it grated on her nerves. Hekarro had been so elusive with his answers that she wasn't sure if he was trying to be intimidating or just playing games with her. Either way, she had no choice but to answer his question, if only to try and gain some advantage of her own.

Victoria closed her eyes to think, even if her blindness made it a useless gesture.

"I remember... talking to Colonel Faraday. She was taking me off the frontlines. We got into an argument, and then I blacked out."

It wasn't the answer he wanted, she could tell by the soft hum under his breath. Even still, he didn't offer her a retort. Victoria nodded to the voices near them,

"Who's the peanut gallery?"

"They are two sisters, Beta and Aloy, and my Marshal, Kotallo. They have all been seeing to your care."

What little patience Victoria had finally stretched to its limit and snapped. She was tired, confused, and hurt, and his silence only served to anger her further. It wasn't merely infuriating, it was exhausting.

"Look, if you're just gonna sit here and fuck with me, you can leave." Victoria scowled, "How stupid do you think I am to believe names like that? Are you serious?"

For a moment, Victoria thought he wouldn't respond, but then he spoke in a measured voice that betrayed no emotion. "I assure you they are all genuine names."

She bristled at his condescending response, but before Victoria could lash out further, Hekarro continued with his next question.

"Is Anne Faraday your mother?"

The explosion of righteous indignation at the sound of that woman's name was beyond description, and Victoria couldn't contain the disgusted sneer on her face,

"Why do you care?"

Her anger was palpable when he disregarded her waiting for a response. She pushed herself up with her newfound strength, and as she turned her blind gaze on Hekarro, the room filled with frantic voices.

"Who are you, really? Did the Colonel put you up to this?" Victoria's dark eyes narrowed, and her fists clenched.

She felt a hand reach out to grab her arm, but with lightning speed, she swatted it away. "Don't you dare touch me!" she spat. "Answer the question!"

His lack of response was maddening to her, and the fact that he spoke in a calm and level tone only added to her ire. "I would rather avoid having to sedate you again, Victoria. Please--"

Her jaw clenched so tightly that she felt her teeth creak. "No," she snarled, "I'm done playing games; it's my turn to ask the questions. Who are you? Where exactly am I? And where is Colonel Faraday!?" Her fists were clenched in her lap, her anger slowly bubbling to a boiling point.

There was an awkward silence before another girl, somewhere further than the bed, spoke, "Our names aren't a lie, Victoria." Footsteps brought the woman closer, and at her bedside, "My name is Aloy, and... right now we're in an abandoned facility beneath the Mojave Memorial Museum."

"And the Colonel?" Cold dread ran up her spine as she spoke the words, feeling as if someone else had taken over her body and spoken them instead of her. There was a dawning realization that pulsed within her, a wave of emotion that brought tears to her eyes and made her breath catch in her chest.

"Where is my mother...?"

The girl, Aloy, spoke again, "We... found you. In a cryostasis chamber assigned to Anne Faraday."

Pain...

Terror...

Anguish...

It crashed into her like a wave, feeling as if they would crush her, consuming all sense of hope until she was gasping for air. Victoria's voice trembled, "How long?" She asked, dreading the answer but needing to hear it nonetheless.

"How long?!"

"Almost a thousand years." Aloy's soft reply hit her like a sledgehammer, delivering a crushing blow that felt like it tore through her entire being and brought the tears streaming down her face.

The world suddenly shattered around Victoria, its fragments cutting into her heart like a million sharp blades. She opened her mouth to scream from the pain, but no sound escaped—only a silent flood of tears and anguish filled the air. Denial, anger and sorrow converged in her mind, pounding against her chest with such force that it felt like she was drowning.

It was all gone

Her mama, her papa. Her cousins, aunts and uncles. Everyone whose love had been the foundation of her life - gone forever. And the sheer finality of it all crippled her, sending tidal waves of despair crashing through her soul until there was nothing left but desolation.

The voices that surrounded her faded, silenced by the sobs that shook her being. Victoria felt strong arms wrap around her shoulders, and despite the comfort they offered, she curled into a tight ball and cried out with every ounce of strength she had until it felt as if her lungs would burst. Nothing could undo what had been done, and yet here she was—still breathing, still living in a world where nothing but loss remained. It felt wrong to even exist.

A sudden wave of wooziness washed over her, following the mild prick of another needle. Victoria had no fight left in her, not anymore. As she felt herself start to slip under the black sea of unconsciousness, a deep, dark part of her hoped-prayed-that she wouldn't wake up.

Yet somewhere deep in her slumber, her memories began to play out in her mind's eye like a broken film reel. Corridors of cold steel and shadows, convoluted and desolate. Familiar faces, now lost in the fog but etched deeply into her memories; people she'd spent her entire life around—comrades in arms who had stood beside her to stare death in the face, knowing they all would perish anyway.

The world had come to its end, a self-inflicted extinction. Human hubris had been their undoing; life on earth extinguished. With every ounce of strength they had, they fought against it, giving their all in a futile attempt at redemption. In their darkest hour, they held onto that small fragment of hope—that Project: Zero Dawn could be their salvation.

And to Victoria? That was a cause worth dying for.

Victoria woke again with a soft gasp. The sedative was running its final course; the tips of her fingers were numb as she flexed them. She paused, struggling to remember how she had gotten there. It was only when she opened her eyes that she realized she could make out silhouettes in the hazy blur of the far wall. Not very clear—if the dizzying fog of the distant wall was anything to go by—but enough to distinguish people lingering nearby.

"It can't be helped. I need that medicine, Aloy; it could make a difference in restoring her vision.”

The other woman, Aloy, softly exhaled and shifted her weight between her feet, “Alright. But at least take Kotallo with you. Will you be okay flying the Sunwing?"

The other girl nodded, "I've been practicing." She said proudly, "You'll gather the machine parts I need?"

“Don’t worry, Beta. I'll take care of it. Please, just… stay safe?”

"I always am."

Victoria closed her eyes as the shadow of one of the figures turned to approach. She lay as still as possible, feigning sleep as gentle fingers checked her wrist for a pulse.

"She's stable for now," said the softly spoken girl, whom Victoria assumed was Beta, "You think she'll be okay?"

"She'll be fine. No one knows she's down here, and if she somehow does manage to get up, she's not going to get far, being blind."

Victoria resisted the urge to roll her eyes and waited until she heard the footsteps of the two people fade away. Eventually, all that remained was a dull buzz of silence. She adjusted her position so she was lying on her back and peered at the ceiling above her, struggling to make out its shape as her vision blurred in and out. It was nauseating, but better than being completely blind.

She slowly shifted herself to a sitting position on the cot, fighting off the dizziness that threatened to send her toppling back down. Still groggy from the sedative they had given her, she could feel its lingering effects in her fingers. She flexed her hands again and wiggled her toes, somewhat confident that she had some of her faculties left.

Even with her partial sight, she could still make out a few details - but nothing that felt right. She narrowed her eyes, squinting in the darkness of the unfamiliar room. It was far more unsettling than she was willing to admit.

Victoria shuddered with rage as the voices of the strangers filled her mind, their words like daggers in her heart. Impossible, she thought; Cryogenic stasis, passed out for a thousand years like she was some kind of Sleeping beauty? The absurdity of the situation was enough to send a chill down Victoria's spine.

The red-hot anger bubbled up inside her until she felt no more than a seething furnace of fury and hatred. They had to think she was some kind of idiot if they thought she'd believe any of this. There had to be something else, a deeper purpose behind all this. Her mother Anne must have been involved somehow, but what possible motive did she have in playing such an elaborate game? Whatever it was, Victoria knew she now needed to escape and find a better hiding place before hunting down her mother and uncovering the truth for herself.

Victoria's veins were blazing with a fiery and unstoppable determination. She could feel the potent surge of adrenaline, and she almost welcomed it -- an embodiment of her fierce resolve to escape. Her aim was clear and sharp as she pressed her fingers against the IV that had been inserted while she was unconscious. With one swift motion, Victoria pulled it from her arm, uncaring of the pain it caused, and threw it aside. Steadying herself against the wall with her shoulder, she pushed off the floor and stood on shaking legs.

She took a moment to collect herself before focusing her attention on the open door at the other end of the room. Her vision was limited, but if what Aloy said was true—that Victoria was beneath the Mojave Memorial Museum—she'd be able to escape once she got above ground. This thought was enough to provide Victoria with enough strength, and she steeled her resolve and began feeling her way along the wall until she reached the door and peered into the hallway.

Victoria strained her hearing in both directions, but all she could hear was silence—and feel a faint draft from down the hall on her right. She forced herself to remain calm as she inched forward along the wall, remaining as silent as possible with each step. The draft grew stronger the further she walked until it became a gentle breeze. It smelled cool and sweet with the faint taste of rain in the distance.

Victoria’s footsteps echoed off the metal walls as she followed the cool breeze through the winding tunnel. The floor slowly shifted from a cold, hard surface to gritty sand and hard stone. She stumbled through the dark passageways, her calloused fingertips running over the rough stone walls. Her breaths were ragged from exertion, but she kept walking until a tiny glimmer of light appeared in the distance of her impaired vision.

She felt a surge of overwhelming hope well up within her as she approached the mouth of the tunnel, and then despair hit like an icy wave when she saw a figure silhouetted on the other side. They were average height, slender, their back turned to her as they looked out into the darkness beyond her vision. She allowed herself a low curse in frustration, sinking down to her knees as she weighed her options.

No way was Victoria agile enough to sneak by, as her clumsiness would give her away easily. She didn’t want to turn around and find another exit, since she wasn’t sure there even was one. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, hands pressed against the loose sand and stones beneath her. Her lips pulled into a tight grimace as she clutched onto a decent-sized rock. It was a risk, but what other choice did she have? She couldn't see anything past the range of her blurry vision, so there was no way of being certain that throwing the rock would be enough of a distraction, but at this point she had nothing to lose. She wasn't going down without a fight.

Victoria wound her arm, the tension in her muscles coiling and ready to launch. The rock flew with a satisfying swoosh, slicing through the air before finally crashing into something beyond what she could see. A loud crack echoed from the impact and the guard immediately whirled around and scurried off. Taking no time to hesitate, Victoria fled the tunnel, her hands feeling along the wall for guidance in the darkness.

She eventually came upon another open doorway and hesitated. There was no guarantee it would lead to freedom, and if she made a wrong decision now, all of her efforts might be in vain. Fear and uncertainty warred as she took a tentative step forward, then plunged into the darkness. Further and further she descended, the sand swishing beneath her boots. Every couple of feet or so, she passed a lit torch, but it gave her little idea of where she was or where she was going.

Victoria's heart thudded louder and louder with every step she took, fear driving her forward. Her adrenaline was fading fast and exhaustion was beginning to set in, but still she kept going. It was only a matter of time before her absence was discovered, and she needed to get as far away as possible.

"Fuck!" Victoria's loud curse pierced the silence as her knees buckled beneath her, sending her flying through an open doorway. She slammed into the ground with a grunt, inhaling sand as it billowed up around her. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to her knees and fought for air, feeling the grains burn her throat.

"Fuck!" she spat again as she scrambled to her knees, blinking in the darkness.

Then, she realized with horror, that she had no idea where the wall was.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

Victoria clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, but the pain was too much and tears streamed down her cheeks. She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs, make the world hear her cries of desperation and helplessness. Her fists curled tighter until her knuckles turned white, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't stop the flood of sobs that wracked her shoulders.

Exhausted and beaten, Victoria dragged herself across the floor until she eventually found the wall again. With tears streaming down her face, she wrapped her arms around her knees and dropped her head in despair. Despite all the effort, there was nothing to show for it.

There was no way to tell how much time passed there in the darkness. Be it hours or minutes, Victoria sat there sniffling until she felt it. The faint sensation of being watched migrated across her skin like a breeze drifting over tall grass. She lifted her head and glared into the darkness where she could make out the faint silhouette of a figure. Victoria's heart paused for a moment before beating frantically in her chest. Her lips trembled as hot tears dripped down her face, and she scowled at him through the uneasy silence.

"You know," she snorted, "For someone so big, you sure are light on your feet."

Victoria's cheeks grew hot as she heard her own biting words echo. She had not idea where the sarcasm had come from; either way, it was enough to make them-him-laugh.

"Experience is the best teacher," He replied soft, "The Marshlands devour the loud and the careless."

The sound of his deep baritone voice was unmistakable—it belonged to the man who called himself Hekarro. His form emerged from the shadows, taking calculated steps in the sand until he sat down just outside her reach. She could make out his broad build, cascading hair hanging over his shoulders, and a relaxed posture with hands folded into his lap. Yet, she couldn't shake the heavy weight of his gaze upon her. She could tell he had questions but kept them to himself for now.

What was he waiting for?

Her heart raced as she watched him, wondering why he hadn't already taken her away. He had found her, so why the hesitation? Every second that passed felt like an eternity, and she finally lost her patience and shattered the uneasy silence between them.

"What now?"

"I'm not sure," He admitted, "I had hoped to have a few more days to decide what I was going to do with you."

She scoffed at him, but the silence afterwards was damn near suffocating. Victoria couldn’t help but feel uneasy as she stared at him. He carried himself with such confidence, yet there was something off about him that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. The cryostasis lie, a thousand year time jump - was he seriously expecting her to believe that?!

What did he and her mother have to gain from such a bullshit story?

"Please tell me it's a lie..." she whispered desperately, a silent plea to just tell her want she really wanted to hear.

"I have nothing to gain by lying to you."

Victoria allowed her head to hang low once more, her arms wrapping tightly around her legs in a desperate attempt to keep the fragments of her life from shattering into a million pieces again.

"You'll see the truth of it yourself when you've recovered."

She couldn't decide which was worse: the fact that he wouldn't give her the answer she wanted.

Or her growing realization that this nightmare scenario might actually be true.

[em-writes-stuff]

shock

@whumpril day 16

whumpee, caretaker, whumper

376 words

warnings: (implied) captivity

part two here

---

Whumpee stared into the window from outside, breath fogging up the window. She watched Caretaker open a steaming bag of popcorn and shake it into a bowl and shake salt over it. He stood there for a second, rolled his shoulders and shook his head before throwing the now empty popcorn bag in the trash and picking the bowl up. 

He leaves the kitchen and walks into the living room, Whumpee watched him hand the bowl to someone and sit down next to them, head resting on their shoulder.

She exhaled shakily and blinked tears from her eyes. That used to be her in there with him. Watching a movie and pushing through the over-salted popcorn. He’d fall asleep half-way through the movie and instead of waking him up, she’d let him rest. And then Whumper ruined everything. Whumper always ruined everything. 

The cuts on her feet stung and the wind biting through her thread-bare clothes brought her back to the present. She shook her head and stepped away from the window. 

“Now or never,” she said to herself. 

The walk around the house wasn’t as long as she wished it was, but just then, looking at the door, it seemed like it had taken two eternities. She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. 

Muffled words, the tv stopped, soft footsteps. This was too soon. She had to go. Leave. He didn’t deserve to be dragged into her mess. 

The door opened. 

She stared forward at him, body shaking like a leaf, and his mouth parted in shock. “Whumpee?” 

“Who is it?” the person called, still settled on the couch. “Tell them to go away! It’s too late for anything!” they shouted. 

Caretaker blinked and shook his head, “It’s-it’s Whumpee.” 

“Oh my god, Whumpee? Bring her inside. Hurry. Before all the warm air gets out.” the person says. More footsteps. Have to go. 

Caretaker pulled her inside, arms wrapped around her shoulders. “Where have you been? I looked for you for months.” 

The door closed and he locked it, no escape. She stood there, trapped under his arm, and the person peeked around the corner at her, a small smile on their face. “Hi, Whumpee, I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Whumper.”