[The walk back up the mountain is not a quick one. The paths naturally curl and twist up the mountainside, and Hector doesn't make his way by the most direct route. He wants time to think before he reaches Julia's cottage.
He did mean what he said to Isaac, before they...before the sex. Julia may be better off without either of them. He will do right by her.. whatever that may be.
The night breeze whisks away the scent of blood and sex and sweat that hangs around him. There will be no fooling Julia's eagle eyes, so he tarries, hoping she will be deep asleep so that he can clean himself up before facing her.
There's nothing for him to fear on the mountain. His forged creatures keep monsters away, and no people come here. Well, Isaac had, but Isaac also hadn't killed him.
In any case, it's a slow, contemplative journey, and Hector is focused inward, not outward. When he hears movement along the path behind him, he first assumes it is some nocturnal creature, foraging or hunting for its dinner. But it persists, and Hector is forced to turn his aching body to meet the oncoming form.]
similarly, lemme know if this word dump is ok. I'm sure future tags won't be half as long
[They stay crouched in the undergrowth, communicating in a language of looks and nods, breath bitten back as they take aim. By the time Isaac feels the familiar, visceral twinge of a holy aura somewhere in the middle distance - Belmont-like, but less overbearing -, he's already in their crosshairs. Abel moves fast, lunging for the shadows with a powerful snap of its wings. But projectiles are faster.
It's not the first time a hunter has gotten him wrong: Isaac doesn't burst into flames or crumble to ashes when a jagged bolt punches into him, or when a stake does as he whirls around, wild-eyed. Jacked with fury and adrenaline, he's as alive as he's ever been, roaring for blood while Abel tears through their formation. They break apart and fall back, some in pieces, survivors fumbling desperately to reload. A flask of holy water shatters into Isaac's shoulder, splashing his face as he rips through a man from hip to armpit and severs another's head in the same swing. Someone turns, stumbling back the way he came. They don't make it more than ten feet before Hector's dagger leaves Isaac's hand and catches up, burying into the back of his skull. The one man left alive survives just long enough for Isaac to drive his heel into his crotch and twist it, squeezing everything he needs to know out of him.
There are others on the move: packs of village-grown hunters led around by sorcerers, all humans emboldened by Dracula's fall and determined to reclaim their homeland, piece by piece.
It's not the thought of Hector that makes his stomach swoop when he has Abel take him up into the air and set him down along the steep, craggy footpath leading up the mountain to intercept him. Isaac wasn't counting on a reunion this soon, if at all; but the fierce look in his eyes leaves little room for talk of anything but the situation on hand.]
You will go no further. [He doesn't raise his wet, sheening sword but doesn't sheathe it either, standing with a slight slouch to his shoulders as though he's struggling under the weight of his own blood-soaked cloak.] We are being followed.
[For common hunters, his enemies were clever enough to anoint their weaponry. He managed to wrench the stake from his blistering flesh, but the bolts snapped off, leaving the heads buried. Whether poor craftsmanship or a deliberate choice in its design is to blame, they're aggravatingly effective; he can already feel the blessing leaching from the metal, the wrongness of it as it slowly eats at his insides.]
[Hector gasps out the greeting when Isaac emerges, but his rival's explanation cuts off any further inquiry. He looks feral, and smells like blood. Hector's immediately on guard.]
Damn it. [So much for going home. Hector's still unarmed and aching. Damn, damn, damn. He and Julia had been so careful to avoid notice. Why now?]
We'll lure them away. I know these paths. If we move quickly, we should be able to lead them on a merry chase.
[He's careful not to mention from where they are diverting their pursuers; he knows not how close they are or if his words will be overheard. More than his life or Isaac's, Hector hold's Julia's safety as paramount. No matter what, he cannot let her come to harm.
He starts to move down a side path, then hesitates as his eyes pass over Isaac's form in the dark. He knows Isaac, has witnessed all manners of his postures and poses. Even in darkness, he knows the silhouette of the man. This slump of his is atypical. Concerning.]
Are you hurt?
[He steps closer to Isaac's side, hyper-aware now of the scent of blood hanging about him.]
[He turns from Hector's knowing gaze, his jaw sharpening as he moves on ahead, his stride purposefully, defiant. Isaac may have turned his back on the idea of returning to the castle on its eventual return, but it lives inside him all the same, as does its culture of fierce competition and posturing. He can't say yes, can't bring himself to say it, even when his body betrays him, because forgemasters aren't supposed to ask for help.]
'tis nothing. ...'twill take far more than a few bolts sprinkled with the piss of a priest if they hope to kill me.
[He keeps his sweat-stung eyes to the darkness on the horizon, gaze darting briefly at any sound he can't place or with the feelings on the periphery of his awareness. His lungs shouldn't burn; it shouldn't be this hard, keeping up with Abel's lazy wing beats. He gives his head a brisk shake to clear it, annoyed with himself. Sooner rather than later, he'd need Abel to burrow its claws into him and pick out every burning piece of metal.]
These are hunters by no means as capable ['Or as pretty', he might have mused, in a lighter mood] as the Belmont. But 'twould seem they have recruited men of magic to further their glorious cause. [After a while, he finally slants Hector a look from the corner of his eye.] There is time to fashion yourself a crude weapon. But work quickly.
[Rocks, branches. Not much in the ways of useful raw material, but it's a start. Open that COMBINE menu!]
[Even in the height of Hector’s time as Dracula’s Devil Forgemaster, a part of him was always unsuited for the brutalities of war. He hated sending his creations off to die in battle. He hadn’t want to see innocents suffer. He yearned for peace, for the chance to devote himself to his art of creation, not of death.
Isaac is a tenuous ally at best, but he is the only ally Hector has at the moment. They have the unified goal of keeping the hunters from Julia’s door. Hector wants him well. Isaac would rather die than accept pity, but Hector is counting on the fact that he will recognize the fact that Isaac can’t pull his weight if he bleeds out first.
...the fact they fucked factors in to Hector’s resolve as well, though he does not know where in the puzzle it fits.]
If there’s time for that, then there’s time for me to patch up your wound so you don’t leave a trail for our would-be Belmonts to follow. If it’s as trivial as you claim, it should only take a moment.
[He lengthens his strides so he can outpace Isaac and get out in front of him to bar his path. The fact that he can is a testament to how sorely it is needed.
He won’t risk summoning any of his combative devils when Julia might need to call upon them, but his fairy, he beckons to join them. He might have need of the creature’s skills, if Isaac will let him see the damned wound.]
[He jerks to a stop, baring his teeth at him. In an instant, their history and every meaningful exchange they ever shared fades away and Hector becomes just one more person standing in his way, waiting to be cut down.]
Let them come. [Then:] I don't need your help.
[The word is spat out with the venom that uglier four-lettered word deserve, and every line in his body tenses, because he's fine, because the arrowheads are plugging some wounds from bleeding heavier and he knows his limits, knows he can survive and push through this like he has everything else, able to put more distance between them and Julia before he'd desperately need rest.
But he does slip a hand under his cloak and press it to the stake-wound in his side, waiting for the burst of flame from his palm to take, for his skin to sizzle and sting and crust over. It's like lighting wet tinder, has been this way for as long as he's known it. He could pass his arms through fire and his gauntlets would melt and stick to him long before his flesh pinked, bubbling with blisters; it's the raw bite of ice that hurts.]
Now move, and get to work, or you shall the spend the length of our trek dragged over the rocks.
Edited (forever picking obsessively at words while I still can) 2019-08-11 02:13 (UTC)
Damn you, Isaac. It will be no hunter that tells you. Your own stubborn pride will see it done.
[Hector’s own pride is smarting, having extended a hand in aid only to have it smacked away. He shouldn’t be so irrationally angry, but he is.
He wrinkled his nose at the revolting stench of burning flesh. If Isaac would rather burn himself than let Hector tend him, so be it.]
I doubt any rock here is as hard as your head....
[He mutters to himself as he turns away from the other forgemaster and finds himself a rock, a branch, and a length of vine. With a few moments of crafting, he comes away with a makeshift mace.]
Mind your tongue while you have one yet, you worthless fuck!
[He bites back, one wounded animal to another. Clenching his jaw, he pushes his battered body along to fall into step at Hector's side, almost desperate to make a point. He didn't need Hector; he didn't need anyone, much less now, he reminds himself, when some of the worst that could've happened had happened and he had crawled his way out of fear to a place of self-respect on his own, drying the last of his tears himself. It's what needed to happen; it's what it means to be strong. One either breaks under terrible force, or bends into a new, sometimes unrecognizable shape. A better one, he decides.]
I was learning to survive long before you showed your pretty little face in the castle!
[The breathless edge to his voice betrays him and he's all the more vicious for it. He hates it all: the way only Hector can burrow under his skin; the uselessness of his own training as his heart pumps more of the poison around and the parts of him that aren't burning grow heavier, number; that wherever they'd camp for the night, together or alone, feels too far away, and dogged determination just isn't enough.
There's no adrenaline left to buffer the pain. He doesn't know when it goes from white noise to a shrill screeching that makes the world around him all floaty and fuzzy around the edges, pushing and pulling his thoughts to half-crazy places, but suddenly he wants - needs to stop, to push his nails into himself and carve his way down, down. Carve all the sickness right out of himself.
His eyes pinch shut.
He grips the hilt of his sword tighter.]
Even with your strongest weapons and devils at your side, neither you nor Dracula's spirit could destroy me, and now... you think you know best, do you? [He huffs, tottering.] That I, I need --
[His knee goes soft all on its own and the ground lurches towards him. He doesn't snap out his arms to break his fall and drops hard, loose pebbles and clods of dirt tumbling after him as he slides partway down the side of the path.]
[Isaac’s dig strikes a chord, and Hector’s heart beats harder with fury. A worthless fuck, huh?
He speeds up so that Isaac will have to work to keep the pace. Let him learn his stubbornness has a price.]
You survived because no one cared enough to—
[He turns when he realizes Isaac has gone silent. Somehow, he feels Isaac’s collapse just as surely as he sees it, in the churning of his stomach and the sinking in his chest.
For one brief, panicked motion, Hector’s anger wins out, and he thinks, ‘I’ll leave you there and good riddance.’
He’s at Isaac’s side within the next heartbeat.]
Damn you, Isaac. [He repeats. Abel will never listen to Hector’s orders, not even to save his master, and Isaac can’t or won’t ask god his demon’s help either, so Hector curses him again as he stoops to lift the deceptively heavy frame of his fellow forgemaster.]
Be still, or it’s more than just our lives you’ll be putting at stake. [He growls as he hoists Isaac into his arms, even though he’s not sure if Isaac is even conscious to hear them. There’s a network of caves not far from here; they’ll be as good a place as any to rest briefly and see to this wound of Isaac’s, if the man will just let Hector get them there.]
The flesh does, of course - and it takes only seconds for the dazed ache he's feeling to build to a savage, full-bodied throbbing in the aftershock. His lungs cramp up; his mouth fills. He spits what tastes like dirt and burnt copper and croaks for air, blood webbing his lips. Still alive, if barely. He can't tell how bad it is any better than he can tell up from down while his skull rocks with a violence that feels like it'll split itself open.
Abel circles back, hovering restlessly at his side. A muted growl rumbles in its chest and Isaac shakily lifts his head to look. Through the sunspots dancing in his vision, he makes out the gold accents of a boot, wondering vaguely where he remembers it from. Then there's a voice, drowned out by the rushing in his ears. It could be saying anything; but all he hears is his own breath coming heavy and ragged and Hector's words in a loop:
try to keep up try to keep up
He coughs. Something jars deep inside him - an ugly, visceral shock, like that something is squirming and alive - wringing tears from his eyes faster than he can blink them back. His brain whites out. He coughs again, wetter, as he grasps his way up the slope and scrabbles clumsily for purchase, fighting to get a gasp in edgewise. His body isn't working like it should; doesn't feel like his own. Not until someone - or something - grabs hold of him. Hands hauling him up and up. His heart lurches. He snaps to awareness with a strangled shout, blinded by anger and hurt and by something dangerously close to fear on an instinctual level, because he's felt this before and knows he has to escape it, to try, or it'd get worse - it could always be worse. But he has already lost, when he twists and another raw stab of pain runs him through. Retching bile, he sees a flash of lights and colours -- and then nothing at all, ragdolling in Hector's grip.]
[Every muscle in Hector’s body aches as he lifts the struggling body.]
Shhhhh.
[He hushes by instinct; Isaac has never been one to follow an order. The cries get muffled by vomit, and Hector has to fumble through the hold to get a hand free to turn Isaac’s head so he doesn’t choke on it. There’s bile on Hector’s clothes and shoes and streaking Isaac’s face. This night gets better and better.
Unconsciousness is a blessing when it comes. At least Hector now only has to contend with dead weight, not with a stubborn idiot crying out.
It would be better to make a roundabout course to their destination, through the streams that flow down the mountain to obscure their path, but Isaac is too poorly off to allow for that. Hector takes the quickest path.
The cave is dark and quiet. Hector eases Isaac out of his arms and onto the cold stone. He moves aside the cloak to examine the hastily cauterized wound. The skin bulges, distorted by some foreign object still inside.]
You’re not going to like this. [He murmurs, taking one of Isaac’s daggers and wiping it clean on his pants. This is the best he can do under the circumstances.
He cuts into the flesh, reopening the wound. The blade is withdrawn and replaced by Hector’s fingers, seeking out the shard he knows must be there. Slow and gentle will prove to be no kindness in the long run, so Hector is quick and deliberate. Feeling through blood and tissue, he finds the broken bit of shaft. He widens the cut and draws out the piece.
A glowing light appears over his shoulder. It’s a familiar light, one Hector does not need to turn to acknowledge. His fairy, finally caught up to them.
With a wordless command, the little devil focuses its energy on the flesh Hector is applying pressure to. It knits the flesh back together, purifying to ward off infection as it accelerates the body’s natural healing process.
Hector uses the water from his canteen to wash the blood from his hands. He tears a strip of cloth from his tunic and wets it to wipe the sick from Isaac’s lips and cheeks.
He needs to leave the cave, to intersect their pursuers before they tract the forgemasters to this hideout.
He lingers for a moment, still kneeling beside Isaac’s prone form. It’s rare to see him still, unguarded.
Hector reaches out a hand to brush sweat-slick hair from his brow. He repeats the motion, with no purpose other than to reassure himself that Isaac has not yet succumbed to his wound. It’s a gentle touch that Isaac would never permit in waking, so Hector steals it while he sleeps.
And then he rises, leaving the fairy to watch over Isaac as he heads to the opening of the cave.]
[What could be hours or minutes later - to Isaac -, he twitches to life, gasping like a man shaken out of a dream. His senses filter back in, slowly. Taste first: vinegar and rust sticking to his tongue; then the icy press of something flat and wide underneath him, and the prickling of his skin as he shivers and goosebumps rise, his nipples pebbling. When he finally cracks his eyes open, it's to a world so black and still. A near-total silence that sharpens his awareness of the pulsing at his temples and the calmer, steadied flow of his magic. It's too quiet for a cell in a dungeon but he listens for footsteps anyway, for howling, for the chitter and hiss of rats. Something whirs faintly by his ear - an insect? He blinks and blinks until the darkness thins, turns to shades of gray, and a jagged wall pulls into focus. Nothing hurts; not yet. But some part of him is counting the seconds, waiting for his nerves to light up when he dares to flex an arm and pull it closer to him. Nothing pulls it back. He isn't tied down. The arrowhead is gone too, he realizes, because the fog in his head is clearing and he can breathe again, deep breaths that don't feel like they're ripping him apart.
He pushes up after a moment, too smoothly, too easily, chains softly rustling. Dirt rains from his hair. Still no pain. Only the violent headrush of sitting up too fast - and then, as it settles, a series of memories flashing through his mind, vivid fragments. The pieces all begin to slot into place when he turns to see a fairy drifting nearby and a man's silhouette against the mouth of the cave.
He stares and stares, feeling like his chest is folding in on itself.
Hector did this.
This is Hector's punishment: leaving him at the mercy of his own demons, the wrenching humiliation and self-hatred that no healer can soothe or cut out of him or draw out with a poultice; a pain that makes him wish that he had never woken up at all, that Hector left him on the mountainside and did them all a favour. Dying is easy, has always been easy; it's living that's hard.
He swats at the fairy, his throat bobbing.]
I never asked for this! [He roars.
Abel looks on from a distance, its lip curling into a snarl.]
[Hector hears movement, then Isaac's angry growls from within the cave. Well, the silence was nice while it lasted. He sighs, steeling himself before he ducks inside their hideout.]
Hush, and stop being rude to my fairy. It saved your life. [The poor harassed devil, a little tiara-type, flits to Hector's side and seats its crystalline backside on his shoulder.
Hector's in no mode for Isaac's tantrum. Isaac has been out for a while, and in that time, Hector has been out into the forest, trying to make a false trail for the hunters to follow further away from both Julia's shop and from their cave. He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, has barely rested, and so help him if Isaac undoes all of his hard work with his whining, Hector will kill the other forgemaster himself.]
No, you didn't ask, and you were in no shape to, so I acted. Leaving you to die would have only emboldened the hunters to keep going.
[He hates that he has to offer excuses for why he intervened. Isaac won't accept that Hector saved his life for his own sake, though, so he has to go through this song and dance.]
We should be safe here for a little while longer, but we need to be ready to move before the sun fully rises. We have to be seen leaving this area so that they will have no reason to search any further.
[He's drag Isaac out if he has to. If that's the only way to keep both Laforezes safe, so be it.]
[Isaac twists his face away, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he draws his knees to his chest. If he's grateful for anything at all, it's for the shadows that hide Hector's expression from him and that afford him the same inscrutability when a tic pulls at the corner of his mouth and he shakes, staring hard into empty space. He scrapes his dagger off the cave floor, gripping it by the blade. Squeezing slowly. The sting is keen but controlled as the edge slices into his fingers, everything he needs it to be, and he lets his eyes slip shut to focus on the fresh welling of blood. Just breathing and breathing, struggling to keep his head above all the chaos and the noise threatening to pull him under.]
...Safe.
[He repeats, quietly, with the leering sneer of a man who doesn't believe in the word. He swallows against the burning lump of shame in his throat.] And then what? Walking longer yet to the ends of the earth? Setting out to sea, perhaps?
[Any mention of 'we' is carefully left out; he doesn't know what his own intentions really are any more than he knows Hector's, beyond the immediate plan he's laid out. But it's easy to assume that somewhere along the way, there'll be a parting of ways; one last goodbye, before hell would bring them together again.]
I. Don’t. Know. [Frustration and exhaustion sharpen his clipped words.]
We’ll lead them away from here. Until that’s done, nothing that comes after matters.
[Hector isn’t a planner, isn’t a leader. He doesn’t know what to do other than to react to the threat before them. What he wants is to curl up on the cold stone beside Isaac and bury his head in the crook of Isaac’s neck, to let the heat of his skin and the beat of his pulse lull him while his body rests.
He is pretty sure Isaac would put his dagger through Hector’s heart before he’d allow that.]
...I don’t know where I am headed after. We’d be stronger together, not that you’d care, but once we’re clear of the mountain and sure the hunters have been drawn away, you can be rid of me.
[He assumes that is what Isaac wants, now that he’s conquered the bit of Hector he’d wanted.]
[A muted, humourless chuckle.] Well, I had imagined you would best know, familiar as you are with running away.
[Luring enemies to their deaths is the sort of end he'd hope for for these humans; not letting them be, each one of them an untied loose end. He tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulder and hunches against the cold, sparking a small ball of flame from his palm. He turns his hand, idly rolling it between his fingers and over his knuckles as if it's a marble, longing for the heat and comfort of a proper fire, smoke be damned.]
Together, that many more of them could be slain. [And their bodies infused with new life, made to fight or sent off in different directions, leading others astray.] And with every corpse, one less threat to darken Julia's doorstep.
[He snaps a first over the fire, snuffing it out, and looks up to Hector again, his pale eyes gleaming.]
Abel shall keep watch. [It has three more eyes than either of them do, and they're better suited to sensing movement, more so in the dark.] If they are near enough, he will see them... and you shall sense their presence as well.
[Isaac is worse than any thorn bush Hector’s had to pick his way through. He digs in barbs and tears at any flesh that catches. More fool Hector for trying to get close.]
Self defense is one thing, but once they are away from Julia, there’s no need....
[The men chasing them aren’t evil, or if they are, it is independent of their pursuit. They are just men, trying to protect their families and make the world safer.
If it comes down to it, Hector will kill to protect his own, but he won’t seek out the battle. Julia wouldn’t want them dead, just gone.]
Just be ready to move when the sun rises. We may end up with no choice but to fight.
[He takes a seat, more than an arm’s length from Isaac on the cold stone. He’s not that masochistic to come any closer, even if they are the only sources of heat available to the other.
He pulls out his canteen, newly filled from one of the chilly mountain streams, and offers it across the distance between them.]
Drink. You lost blood earlier, and you need to stay hydrated.
[The flintiness of Isaac's gaze says there never was a choice, not from the moment they were othered, driven to desperation to look to a demon-infested castle for refuge and freedom. But he doesn't snap at him; just watches as Hector moves and then settles in front of him and they sit in the cold, lonely damp like creatures who've never seen the light of day, taking measure of each other and waiting for something neither of them seem to be sure of.
Hector's eyes are still, black pools. Isaac sees nothing he can recognize in them - it's too dark. But he keeps looking, unblinking, as he breathes in the musk that sticks to Hector's clothes, what's left of their sweat and their come from a time that seems like it never existed, and feels his cock twitch, his bare skin tingling.
He looks down at the offered canteen, hesitating. This isn't concern, he reasons; it's simply the pragmatic thing to do. Hector wants him fit to travel, not a burden - and in that, at least, they can agree.
Wordlessly, he lifts it to his lips. The first sip he reserves for rinsing out his mouth, having the decency to turn his head when he spits. Then, a proper swallow, long and greedy, and god, it takes like gold, soothing his burning throat. He lets himself have another before passing it back, knuckling his chin dry.]
I am almost impressed you could walk as far as you have without the aid of your precious fairy. [He says, lowly.]
[That honest shock in Hector's voice - the sense that he's unbalanced him, even slightly - prompts a shift in his black mood and he offers a slow, crooked smile, a glint of teeth.]
Perhaps 'twas wrong of me to think you a sweet, tender flower, a trembling virgin on the nuptial bed. ...But I did have you prepared, out of the kindness of my heart. [Letting out a loose, throaty chuckle at his own choice of words.] And your cunt was most willing to receive.
[He hums low in his throat, a sound both contemplative and appreciative, as he lets his eyes slip shut, wanting to hold onto the sense-memory of skin rasping skin and his hot, gritty tightness; the taste of forbidden fruit. The back of his neck prickles and his fingers itch, restless for something to do.]
...Was I your first?
[He asks after a while, slanting him a sideways, half-lidded look. The first to push inside, is what he means.]
[Hector looks everywhere but at Isaac, who scents his discomfort like a shark drawn to blood, damn him. A trembling virgin? He'd been married, for hell's sake!]
Your demon was.
[If Isaac wants to know the first one to breach him there, it's the truth.]
I know it means nothing to you, but...I don't spread my legs for anyone who asks.
['So stop trying to get yourself killed?' 'Let us work together?' 'Shut up and lay beside me so we can stop freezing to death in this damned cave?' He doesn't know how to end the thought, so he stops there and just lays down, turning his back to Isaac. There, conversation over....right? They both need to rest before the sun rises.]
[Bitter triumph swells inside him, a feeling almost too big for his chest. It's something, having beaten out men and monsters for Hector's flesh - the best part, many would say. Even if he wasn't the first to burn his fingertips into his skin, or the first to kiss him and to know his taste. He'd take his victories where they came.]
How fortunate for you, then.
[He says to Hector's back, choosing not to interpret his body language in the way he suspects it's meant to be taken. Hector can escape the strain of sustained eye contact, but the conversation isn't over, only temporarily put on hold while he considers the gentle curve of Hector's spine, the rise and fall of his side. Considers the faith Hector still has in their truce and his own ability to honour it.]
You would not have been able to keep a secret of it, if you did.
[Or it doesn't seem possible anyway, as far as life in the castle was concerned. Demons talked, the walls had ears.
And Isaac had been listening closely, sifting through rumours and lies for what he hoped - and at times, dreaded - was true.]
[Most of the creatures in the castle would have been inclined to eat Hector during or after sex, so he’d wisely kept to himself.
It’s only after Rosaly that he craves the warmth of skin pressed against his, to stave off the loneliness he’d never let himself acknowledge when he’d been at the castle.]
You’re worse than a gossiping old maid. Go to sleep.
[He’d certainly heard the whispers of what Isaac did to his demons at the castle, and he’s pointedly trying to not think of it. The harder he tries to ignore it, the more pervasive the thoughts become. His body remembers the shuddering pleasure of Abel’s tongue, the overpowering sensation of surrendering to Isaac and letting himself be thoroughly used.
His whole body is tense and cold and frustrated, and the relief of sleep refuses to come to him.]
[It will seem, for a while, that he's willing to think about closing his eyes too; Hector is reluctant to engage and the night isn't getting any younger. He tires of watching him and eases himself down over the rocks that jut from the floor like broken teeth. There's no way to settle without them digging into his ribs - and from the line of Hector's back, resembling a drawn, quivering bowstring, it's not hard to tell that the discomfort is mutual.]
...I am, am I?
[He doesn't care if Hector answers him this time, much in the same way he stops caring altogether when he shifts over and tucks himself into Hector, seeking heat and the familiarity of his angles and edges, seeking Hector's softness where he's just beginning to harden. An arm snakes around his waist, dipping to palm Hector through the leather of his pants and squeeze. It's meant to hurt - not fiercely, but enough for the hitch in his lungs he hopes to hear, and for Hector to listen, when his hot, feathering breath finds the shell of his ear.]
...Had anyone had you in that castle, of or against your will, I'd have killed them.
[The effect of his velvety growl may be spoiled somewhat by his shivering into Hector's back.]
[Hector's hip and shoulder are starting to go numb where they rest against the cold stone, and as exhausted as he is, he can't sleep.
Isaac's body heat feels scalding against his back as he closes in. The comfort is offered and immediately shattered by Isaac's hand grasping his member. He does gasp, squirming back into the hard curve of Isaac's body in an instinctive defense. He can't escape the hold.]
...this isn't a good idea...
[It's a weak protest at best. The proximity and the painful fisting of his cock has Hector's heart racing. He's been hollowed out in the wake of Rosaly's death. Isaac's possession is a warped imitation of affection, but to a starving man, even scraps will do.
He wraps his hand over Isaac's, but he doesn't force Isaac to let him go. Would Isaac have actually avenged him, had he been forced against his will? Was it the bond of their twinned powers, or a misplaced sense of ownership?
Does it matter, or is Hector broken enough and sick enough not to care? He presses himself harder into Isaac's chest. Isaac is a heat that is guaranteed to burn him, but the alternative is freezing.]
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For relictusdeus - Hunted
[The walk back up the mountain is not a quick one. The paths naturally curl and twist up the mountainside, and Hector doesn't make his way by the most direct route. He wants time to think before he reaches Julia's cottage.
He did mean what he said to Isaac, before they...before the sex. Julia may be better off without either of them. He will do right by her.. whatever that may be.
The night breeze whisks away the scent of blood and sex and sweat that hangs around him. There will be no fooling Julia's eagle eyes, so he tarries, hoping she will be deep asleep so that he can clean himself up before facing her.
There's nothing for him to fear on the mountain. His forged creatures keep monsters away, and no people come here. Well, Isaac had, but Isaac also hadn't killed him.
In any case, it's a slow, contemplative journey, and Hector is focused inward, not outward. When he hears movement along the path behind him, he first assumes it is some nocturnal creature, foraging or hunting for its dinner. But it persists, and Hector is forced to turn his aching body to meet the oncoming form.]
similarly, lemme know if this word dump is ok. I'm sure future tags won't be half as long
It's not the first time a hunter has gotten him wrong: Isaac doesn't burst into flames or crumble to ashes when a jagged bolt punches into him, or when a stake does as he whirls around, wild-eyed. Jacked with fury and adrenaline, he's as alive as he's ever been, roaring for blood while Abel tears through their formation. They break apart and fall back, some in pieces, survivors fumbling desperately to reload. A flask of holy water shatters into Isaac's shoulder, splashing his face as he rips through a man from hip to armpit and severs another's head in the same swing. Someone turns, stumbling back the way he came. They don't make it more than ten feet before Hector's dagger leaves Isaac's hand and catches up, burying into the back of his skull. The one man left alive survives just long enough for Isaac to drive his heel into his crotch and twist it, squeezing everything he needs to know out of him.
There are others on the move: packs of village-grown hunters led around by sorcerers, all humans emboldened by Dracula's fall and determined to reclaim their homeland, piece by piece.
It's not the thought of Hector that makes his stomach swoop when he has Abel take him up into the air and set him down along the steep, craggy footpath leading up the mountain to intercept him. Isaac wasn't counting on a reunion this soon, if at all; but the fierce look in his eyes leaves little room for talk of anything but the situation on hand.]
You will go no further. [He doesn't raise his wet, sheening sword but doesn't sheathe it either, standing with a slight slouch to his shoulders as though he's struggling under the weight of his own blood-soaked cloak.] We are being followed.
[For common hunters, his enemies were clever enough to anoint their weaponry. He managed to wrench the stake from his blistering flesh, but the bolts snapped off, leaving the heads buried. Whether poor craftsmanship or a deliberate choice in its design is to blame, they're aggravatingly effective; he can already feel the blessing leaching from the metal, the wrongness of it as it slowly eats at his insides.]
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[Hector gasps out the greeting when Isaac emerges, but his rival's explanation cuts off any further inquiry. He looks feral, and smells like blood. Hector's immediately on guard.]
Damn it. [So much for going home. Hector's still unarmed and aching. Damn, damn, damn. He and Julia had been so careful to avoid notice. Why now?]
We'll lure them away. I know these paths. If we move quickly, we should be able to lead them on a merry chase.
[He's careful not to mention from where they are diverting their pursuers; he knows not how close they are or if his words will be overheard. More than his life or Isaac's, Hector hold's Julia's safety as paramount. No matter what, he cannot let her come to harm.
He starts to move down a side path, then hesitates as his eyes pass over Isaac's form in the dark. He knows Isaac, has witnessed all manners of his postures and poses. Even in darkness, he knows the silhouette of the man. This slump of his is atypical. Concerning.]
Are you hurt?
[He steps closer to Isaac's side, hyper-aware now of the scent of blood hanging about him.]
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'tis nothing. ...'twill take far more than a few bolts sprinkled with the piss of a priest if they hope to kill me.
[He keeps his sweat-stung eyes to the darkness on the horizon, gaze darting briefly at any sound he can't place or with the feelings on the periphery of his awareness. His lungs shouldn't burn; it shouldn't be this hard, keeping up with Abel's lazy wing beats. He gives his head a brisk shake to clear it, annoyed with himself. Sooner rather than later, he'd need Abel to burrow its claws into him and pick out every burning piece of metal.]
These are hunters by no means as capable ['Or as pretty', he might have mused, in a lighter mood] as the Belmont. But 'twould seem they have recruited men of magic to further their glorious cause. [After a while, he finally slants Hector a look from the corner of his eye.] There is time to fashion yourself a crude weapon. But work quickly.
[Rocks, branches. Not much in the ways of useful raw material, but it's a start.
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Isaac is a tenuous ally at best, but he is the only ally Hector has at the moment. They have the unified goal of keeping the hunters from Julia’s door. Hector wants him well. Isaac would rather die than accept pity, but Hector is counting on the fact that he will recognize the fact that Isaac can’t pull his weight if he bleeds out first.
...the fact they fucked factors in to Hector’s resolve as well, though he does not know where in the puzzle it fits.]
If there’s time for that, then there’s time for me to patch up your wound so you don’t leave a trail for our would-be Belmonts to follow. If it’s as trivial as you claim, it should only take a moment.
[He lengthens his strides so he can outpace Isaac and get out in front of him to bar his path. The fact that he can is a testament to how sorely it is needed.
He won’t risk summoning any of his combative devils when Julia might need to call upon them, but his fairy, he beckons to join them. He might have need of the creature’s skills, if Isaac will let him see the damned wound.]
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Let them come. [Then:] I don't need your help.
[The word is spat out with the venom that uglier four-lettered word deserve, and every line in his body tenses, because he's fine, because the arrowheads are plugging some wounds from bleeding heavier and he knows his limits, knows he can survive and push through this like he has everything else, able to put more distance between them and Julia before he'd desperately need rest.
But he does slip a hand under his cloak and press it to the stake-wound in his side, waiting for the burst of flame from his palm to take, for his skin to sizzle and sting and crust over. It's like lighting wet tinder, has been this way for as long as he's known it. He could pass his arms through fire and his gauntlets would melt and stick to him long before his flesh pinked, bubbling with blisters; it's the raw bite of ice that hurts.]
Now move, and get to work, or you shall the spend the length of our trek dragged over the rocks.
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[Hector’s own pride is smarting, having extended a hand in aid only to have it smacked away. He shouldn’t be so irrationally angry, but he is.
He wrinkled his nose at the revolting stench of burning flesh. If Isaac would rather burn himself than let Hector tend him, so be it.]
I doubt any rock here is as hard as your head....
[He mutters to himself as he turns away from the other forgemaster and finds himself a rock, a branch, and a length of vine. With a few moments of crafting, he comes away with a makeshift mace.]
I’m ready if you are. Try not to fall behind.
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[He bites back, one wounded animal to another. Clenching his jaw, he pushes his battered body along to fall into step at Hector's side, almost desperate to make a point. He didn't need Hector; he didn't need anyone, much less now, he reminds himself, when some of the worst that could've happened had happened and he had crawled his way out of fear to a place of self-respect on his own, drying the last of his tears himself. It's what needed to happen; it's what it means to be strong. One either breaks under terrible force, or bends into a new, sometimes unrecognizable shape. A better one, he decides.]
I was learning to survive long before you showed your pretty little face in the castle!
[The breathless edge to his voice betrays him and he's all the more vicious for it. He hates it all: the way only Hector can burrow under his skin; the uselessness of his own training as his heart pumps more of the poison around and the parts of him that aren't burning grow heavier, number; that wherever they'd camp for the night, together or alone, feels too far away, and dogged determination just isn't enough.
There's no adrenaline left to buffer the pain. He doesn't know when it goes from white noise to a shrill screeching that makes the world around him all floaty and fuzzy around the edges, pushing and pulling his thoughts to half-crazy places, but suddenly he wants - needs to stop, to push his nails into himself and carve his way down, down. Carve all the sickness right out of himself.
His eyes pinch shut.
He grips the hilt of his sword tighter.]
Even with your strongest weapons and devils at your side, neither you nor Dracula's spirit could destroy me, and now... you think you know best, do you? [He huffs, tottering.] That I, I need --
[His knee goes soft all on its own and the ground lurches towards him. He doesn't snap out his arms to break his fall and drops hard, loose pebbles and clods of dirt tumbling after him as he slides partway down the side of the path.]
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He speeds up so that Isaac will have to work to keep the pace. Let him learn his stubbornness has a price.]
You survived because no one cared enough to—
[He turns when he realizes Isaac has gone silent. Somehow, he feels Isaac’s collapse just as surely as he sees it, in the churning of his stomach and the sinking in his chest.
For one brief, panicked motion, Hector’s anger wins out, and he thinks, ‘I’ll leave you there and good riddance.’
He’s at Isaac’s side within the next heartbeat.]
Damn you, Isaac. [He repeats. Abel will never listen to Hector’s orders, not even to save his master, and Isaac can’t or won’t ask god his demon’s help either, so Hector curses him again as he stoops to lift the deceptively heavy frame of his fellow forgemaster.]
Be still, or it’s more than just our lives you’ll be putting at stake. [He growls as he hoists Isaac into his arms, even though he’s not sure if Isaac is even conscious to hear them. There’s a network of caves not far from here; they’ll be as good a place as any to rest briefly and see to this wound of Isaac’s, if the man will just let Hector get them there.]
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He doesn't remember falling.
The flesh does, of course - and it takes only seconds for the dazed ache he's feeling to build to a savage, full-bodied throbbing in the aftershock. His lungs cramp up; his mouth fills. He spits what tastes like dirt and burnt copper and croaks for air, blood webbing his lips. Still alive, if barely. He can't tell how bad it is any better than he can tell up from down while his skull rocks with a violence that feels like it'll split itself open.
Abel circles back, hovering restlessly at his side. A muted growl rumbles in its chest and Isaac shakily lifts his head to look. Through the sunspots dancing in his vision, he makes out the gold accents of a boot, wondering vaguely where he remembers it from. Then there's a voice, drowned out by the rushing in his ears. It could be saying anything; but all he hears is his own breath coming heavy and ragged and Hector's words in a loop:
try to keep up
try to keep up
He coughs. Something jars deep inside him - an ugly, visceral shock, like that something is squirming and alive - wringing tears from his eyes faster than he can blink them back. His brain whites out. He coughs again, wetter, as he grasps his way up the slope and scrabbles clumsily for purchase, fighting to get a gasp in edgewise. His body isn't working like it should; doesn't feel like his own. Not until someone - or something - grabs hold of him. Hands hauling him up and up. His heart lurches. He snaps to awareness with a strangled shout, blinded by anger and hurt and by something dangerously close to fear on an instinctual level, because he's felt this before and knows he has to escape it, to try, or it'd get worse - it could always be worse. But he has already lost, when he twists and another raw stab of pain runs him through. Retching bile, he sees a flash of lights and colours -- and then nothing at all, ragdolling in Hector's grip.]
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Shhhhh.
[He hushes by instinct; Isaac has never been one to follow an order. The cries get muffled by vomit, and Hector has to fumble through the hold to get a hand free to turn Isaac’s head so he doesn’t choke on it. There’s bile on Hector’s clothes and shoes and streaking Isaac’s face. This night gets better and better.
Unconsciousness is a blessing when it comes. At least Hector now only has to contend with dead weight, not with a stubborn idiot crying out.
It would be better to make a roundabout course to their destination, through the streams that flow down the mountain to obscure their path, but Isaac is too poorly off to allow for that. Hector takes the quickest path.
The cave is dark and quiet. Hector eases Isaac out of his arms and onto the cold stone. He moves aside the cloak to examine the hastily cauterized wound. The skin bulges, distorted by some foreign object still inside.]
You’re not going to like this. [He murmurs, taking one of Isaac’s daggers and wiping it clean on his pants. This is the best he can do under the circumstances.
He cuts into the flesh, reopening the wound. The blade is withdrawn and replaced by Hector’s fingers, seeking out the shard he knows must be there. Slow and gentle will prove to be no kindness in the long run, so Hector is quick and deliberate. Feeling through blood and tissue, he finds the broken bit of shaft. He widens the cut and draws out the piece.
A glowing light appears over his shoulder. It’s a familiar light, one Hector does not need to turn to acknowledge. His fairy, finally caught up to them.
With a wordless command, the little devil focuses its energy on the flesh Hector is applying pressure to. It knits the flesh back together, purifying to ward off infection as it accelerates the body’s natural healing process.
Hector uses the water from his canteen to wash the blood from his hands. He tears a strip of cloth from his tunic and wets it to wipe the sick from Isaac’s lips and cheeks.
He needs to leave the cave, to intersect their pursuers before they tract the forgemasters to this hideout.
He lingers for a moment, still kneeling beside Isaac’s prone form. It’s rare to see him still, unguarded.
Hector reaches out a hand to brush sweat-slick hair from his brow. He repeats the motion, with no purpose other than to reassure himself that Isaac has not yet succumbed to his wound. It’s a gentle touch that Isaac would never permit in waking, so Hector steals it while he sleeps.
And then he rises, leaving the fairy to watch over Isaac as he heads to the opening of the cave.]
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He pushes up after a moment, too smoothly, too easily, chains softly rustling. Dirt rains from his hair. Still no pain. Only the violent headrush of sitting up too fast - and then, as it settles, a series of memories flashing through his mind, vivid fragments. The pieces all begin to slot into place when he turns to see a fairy drifting nearby and a man's silhouette against the mouth of the cave.
He stares and stares, feeling like his chest is folding in on itself.
Hector did this.
This is Hector's punishment: leaving him at the mercy of his own demons, the wrenching humiliation and self-hatred that no healer can soothe or cut out of him or draw out with a poultice; a pain that makes him wish that he had never woken up at all, that Hector left him on the mountainside and did them all a favour. Dying is easy, has always been easy; it's living that's hard.
He swats at the fairy, his throat bobbing.]
I never asked for this! [He roars.
Abel looks on from a distance, its lip curling into a snarl.]
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Hush, and stop being rude to my fairy. It saved your life. [The poor harassed devil, a little tiara-type, flits to Hector's side and seats its crystalline backside on his shoulder.
Hector's in no mode for Isaac's tantrum. Isaac has been out for a while, and in that time, Hector has been out into the forest, trying to make a false trail for the hunters to follow further away from both Julia's shop and from their cave. He hasn't slept, hasn't eaten, has barely rested, and so help him if Isaac undoes all of his hard work with his whining, Hector will kill the other forgemaster himself.]
No, you didn't ask, and you were in no shape to, so I acted. Leaving you to die would have only emboldened the hunters to keep going.
[He hates that he has to offer excuses for why he intervened. Isaac won't accept that Hector saved his life for his own sake, though, so he has to go through this song and dance.]
We should be safe here for a little while longer, but we need to be ready to move before the sun fully rises. We have to be seen leaving this area so that they will have no reason to search any further.
[He's drag Isaac out if he has to. If that's the only way to keep both Laforezes safe, so be it.]
poor Hector cares too much
...Safe.
[He repeats, quietly, with the leering sneer of a man who doesn't believe in the word. He swallows against the burning lump of shame in his throat.] And then what? Walking longer yet to the ends of the earth? Setting out to sea, perhaps?
[Any mention of 'we' is carefully left out; he doesn't know what his own intentions really are any more than he knows Hector's, beyond the immediate plan he's laid out. But it's easy to assume that somewhere along the way, there'll be a parting of ways; one last goodbye, before hell would bring them together again.]
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We’ll lead them away from here. Until that’s done, nothing that comes after matters.
[Hector isn’t a planner, isn’t a leader. He doesn’t know what to do other than to react to the threat before them. What he wants is to curl up on the cold stone beside Isaac and bury his head in the crook of Isaac’s neck, to let the heat of his skin and the beat of his pulse lull him while his body rests.
He is pretty sure Isaac would put his dagger through Hector’s heart before he’d allow that.]
...I don’t know where I am headed after. We’d be stronger together, not that you’d care, but once we’re clear of the mountain and sure the hunters have been drawn away, you can be rid of me.
[He assumes that is what Isaac wants, now that he’s conquered the bit of Hector he’d wanted.]
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[Luring enemies to their deaths is the sort of end he'd hope for for these humans; not letting them be, each one of them an untied loose end. He tugs his cloak tighter around his shoulder and hunches against the cold, sparking a small ball of flame from his palm. He turns his hand, idly rolling it between his fingers and over his knuckles as if it's a marble, longing for the heat and comfort of a proper fire, smoke be damned.]
Together, that many more of them could be slain. [And their bodies infused with new life, made to fight or sent off in different directions, leading others astray.] And with every corpse, one less threat to darken Julia's doorstep.
[He snaps a first over the fire, snuffing it out, and looks up to Hector again, his pale eyes gleaming.]
Abel shall keep watch. [It has three more eyes than either of them do, and they're better suited to sensing movement, more so in the dark.] If they are near enough, he will see them... and you shall sense their presence as well.
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Self defense is one thing, but once they are away from Julia, there’s no need....
[The men chasing them aren’t evil, or if they are, it is independent of their pursuit. They are just men, trying to protect their families and make the world safer.
If it comes down to it, Hector will kill to protect his own, but he won’t seek out the battle. Julia wouldn’t want them dead, just gone.]
Just be ready to move when the sun rises. We may end up with no choice but to fight.
[He takes a seat, more than an arm’s length from Isaac on the cold stone. He’s not that masochistic to come any closer, even if they are the only sources of heat available to the other.
He pulls out his canteen, newly filled from one of the chilly mountain streams, and offers it across the distance between them.]
Drink. You lost blood earlier, and you need to stay hydrated.
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Hector's eyes are still, black pools. Isaac sees nothing he can recognize in them - it's too dark. But he keeps looking, unblinking, as he breathes in the musk that sticks to Hector's clothes, what's left of their sweat and their come from a time that seems like it never existed, and feels his cock twitch, his bare skin tingling.
He looks down at the offered canteen, hesitating. This isn't concern, he reasons; it's simply the pragmatic thing to do. Hector wants him fit to travel, not a burden - and in that, at least, they can agree.
Wordlessly, he lifts it to his lips. The first sip he reserves for rinsing out his mouth, having the decency to turn his head when he spits. Then, a proper swallow, long and greedy, and god, it takes like gold, soothing his burning throat. He lets himself have another before passing it back, knuckling his chin dry.]
I am almost impressed you could walk as far as you have without the aid of your precious fairy. [He says, lowly.]
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And then Isaac opens his mouth. It takes Hector a second for the meaning of the words to register, and his eyes go wide in shock.]
Wha...?! You vastly overestimate your performance or your size, Isaac.
[It's lucky the darkness and Hector's tan complexion hide any signs of a flush on his face. He takes the canteen back, but doesn't drink.]
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Perhaps 'twas wrong of me to think you a sweet, tender flower, a trembling virgin on the nuptial bed. ...But I did have you prepared, out of the kindness of my heart. [Letting out a loose, throaty chuckle at his own choice of words.] And your cunt was most willing to receive.
[He hums low in his throat, a sound both contemplative and appreciative, as he lets his eyes slip shut, wanting to hold onto the sense-memory of skin rasping skin and his hot, gritty tightness; the taste of forbidden fruit. The back of his neck prickles and his fingers itch, restless for something to do.]
...Was I your first?
[He asks after a while, slanting him a sideways, half-lidded look. The first to push inside, is what he means.]
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Your demon was.
[If Isaac wants to know the first one to breach him there, it's the truth.]
I know it means nothing to you, but...I don't spread my legs for anyone who asks.
['So stop trying to get yourself killed?' 'Let us work together?' 'Shut up and lay beside me so we can stop freezing to death in this damned cave?' He doesn't know how to end the thought, so he stops there and just lays down, turning his back to Isaac. There, conversation over....right? They both need to rest before the sun rises.]
don't worry, hec, you'll feel some heat soon
How fortunate for you, then.
[He says to Hector's back, choosing not to interpret his body language in the way he suspects it's meant to be taken. Hector can escape the strain of sustained eye contact, but the conversation isn't over, only temporarily put on hold while he considers the gentle curve of Hector's spine, the rise and fall of his side. Considers the faith Hector still has in their truce and his own ability to honour it.]
You would not have been able to keep a secret of it, if you did.
[Or it doesn't seem possible anyway, as far as life in the castle was concerned. Demons talked, the walls had ears.
And Isaac had been listening closely, sifting through rumours and lies for what he hoped - and at times, dreaded - was true.]
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It’s only after Rosaly that he craves the warmth of skin pressed against his, to stave off the loneliness he’d never let himself acknowledge when he’d been at the castle.]
You’re worse than a gossiping old maid. Go to sleep.
[He’d certainly heard the whispers of what Isaac did to his demons at the castle, and he’s pointedly trying to not think of it. The harder he tries to ignore it, the more pervasive the thoughts become. His body remembers the shuddering pleasure of Abel’s tongue, the overpowering sensation of surrendering to Isaac and letting himself be thoroughly used.
His whole body is tense and cold and frustrated, and the relief of sleep refuses to come to him.]
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...I am, am I?
[He doesn't care if Hector answers him this time, much in the same way he stops caring altogether when he shifts over and tucks himself into Hector, seeking heat and the familiarity of his angles and edges, seeking Hector's softness where he's just beginning to harden. An arm snakes around his waist, dipping to palm Hector through the leather of his pants and squeeze. It's meant to hurt - not fiercely, but enough for the hitch in his lungs he hopes to hear, and for Hector to listen, when his hot, feathering breath finds the shell of his ear.]
...Had anyone had you in that castle, of or against your will, I'd have killed them.
[The effect of his velvety growl may be spoiled somewhat by his shivering into Hector's back.]
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Isaac's body heat feels scalding against his back as he closes in. The comfort is offered and immediately shattered by Isaac's hand grasping his member. He does gasp, squirming back into the hard curve of Isaac's body in an instinctive defense. He can't escape the hold.]
...this isn't a good idea...
[It's a weak protest at best. The proximity and the painful fisting of his cock has Hector's heart racing. He's been hollowed out in the wake of Rosaly's death. Isaac's possession is a warped imitation of affection, but to a starving man, even scraps will do.
He wraps his hand over Isaac's, but he doesn't force Isaac to let him go. Would Isaac have actually avenged him, had he been forced against his will? Was it the bond of their twinned powers, or a misplaced sense of ownership?
Does it matter, or is Hector broken enough and sick enough not to care? He presses himself harder into Isaac's chest. Isaac is a heat that is guaranteed to burn him, but the alternative is freezing.]
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Hector's a sap, news at 11
:']
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learn how to teleport, hector, GOSH
Only with chairs so it doesn't break the game, sheesh
FINE
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The morning sun has vanquished the horrible night
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hector and isaac then start a food-reviewing youtube channel
Bone Appetit, They'll review food that's to die for.
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asshole is an asshole, more news at 11
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crimson's deadly absorb is and will always be a lousy skill /huff
np, hec is here with tiramisu for two
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guess who is being a stubborn shit
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full blown lost it
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if this doesn't work for any reason, I'm happy to change it, just lemme know
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And what gets high... must come down. Something like that.
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imma fudge some travel times here so Isaac doesn't have to wait around for days
LOL fucking pumpkin
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no real kids for them is probably for the best, lol
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