Chapter Text
Returning to the club is a blur. Daan’s left himself back in that bunker, his body standing still inside the club as the others ask him questions about Abella. He treats her stump for infection as best he can, with Olivia grinding herbs together into a paste that she promises will make things heal sooner. He administers it carefully, wrapping it in cloth and insisting that she rest, keeping his belt firmly in place around the stump.
When she says she’s going to the church with the others they all vehemently refuse, insisting she rest as best she can. Abella is notably upset when they say goodbye to O’saa, Olivia, and Marcoh, but she goes with the rest back to the train, Levi and Marina talking to her eagerly.
The train feels so foreign, despite only leaving it two days ago. Daan sits by himself in one of the far carriages, legs crossed and slumped in his seat as the others talk. They all sound so hopeful, like they all have things to return to. Abella talks about her hometown, the possibility to slip back into an ordinary life, although the technology here is intriguing and she’d love to delve into it deeper if she can train her left hand. Marina talks about living in Rondon instead, opening an occult store and selling trinkets, teaching others the safer side of Old God lore. It sounds like a nightmare to Daan, personally, but when Levi mentions how he has no plans and would have to find somewhere to turn to, Marina eagerly invites him to come with her.
Seems they’ll be heading in the same direction, back to Rondon if all of this works and they survive. Daan looks out the window, at the still trees. Prehevil is trapped in a constant state of nothing, no wonder Marina and Levi are eager to leave their hometown. The streets of Rondon are bustling and constant, she would do well with a store along the market district, maybe even living in an apartment on top, Levi there to keep her company. He’s envious, stupidly, that when he returns home it’ll be empty, all the staff dismissed before things went south, the stench of the massacre gone but ever present. What would he even do when he gets back? He hasn’t done anything to learn about the cult that took his life away from him, too cowardly to volunteer himself to take Abella’s place down in the bunker. Maybe he should step off the train right now, succumb to the moonscorching for just a crumb of information. Maybe he shouldn’t have ignored the sideways glances from the yellow mage, instead he should have begged for something, anything to get him closer to the truth. Maybe he should have curled into Pocketcat’s side, rather than become distracted and pulled from his course.
Instead, the distraction sits down beside him, down at the back of the train. Karin crosses her arms, that look in her eyes once more. The journalist is about to start snooping.
“Shouldn’t you be over there with them?” He asks, turning away from her in his seat to continue staring out the window. A crow, missing most of its feathers, caws out in panic, before it clumsily flutters into the trees.
“I’m here for you,” she explains, although there’s a lilt of question in her tone. She shifts closer to him, “what happened in the bunker, when she attacked you? You’ve been acting strange ever since. Did she break something?”
“I assure you, my bones are fine.”
“But your mind clearly isn’t,” Karin states, annoyingly perceptive. She examines him further, lips pressed together, invisible notebook frantically scribbling down anything he does. He can feel it, the way she watches his chest rise, his lips part ever so slightly, the way his eyelashes flutter, shoulders tense, “Daan, who was that? You clearly recognised them.”
“I am not some ‘victim of war’ that you’re going to pull a profit from,” he hisses, quiet to match her hushed tone. A glance at the others reveals they’re still talking about their future, even Tanaka now brave enough to talk about his work as a businessman. He’s not entirely sure when August arrived on the train, but he’s also not surprised that the burly gentleman survived doing…whatever it was he was doing. Daan huffs, irritated at Karin’s lack of response, “airing my trauma out to the public isn’t exactly going to make you millions. Maybe you should be targeting Levi instead, make him relive every moment so you can pay this week’s rent.”
Karin scoffs, taking it surprisingly well, “have you considered that I’m trying to be kind for once? Not everything I do is so self-motivated - in fact, most of my writing is done to make things better. I’m airing out dirty laundry so the people think, for once. The common man hasn’t seen the things we’ve seen.”
“The ‘common man’ you’re talking about is a soldier these days. What was that you said when we first met? That you’ve ‘covered wars?’ Everyone has done that over the past decade at this point.”
“You’re criticising me to deflect answering questions about yourself,” Karin mutters. She’s gotten close to him again, he’s not entirely sure when this happened. Her breath lands on his neck, exposed through the collar of his shirt, and he hates how his body reacts so eagerly to her closeness, her firm tone eliciting a demand for her touch again. He stares down at her, a mistake when he finds he can’t tear his eye away from her, “be brave for once and answer the damn question.”
“...fine,” he hisses, casting a look over at the others. They’re still distracted, giggling at something Marina said. He nods to the cabin door behind them, leading into the second train carriage. No one seems to notice as they leave, Karin sliding the door shut with a soft click. Daan leads her further to the back of the carriage, as far away from the others as possible, safe with rows and rows of deep green train seats. They sit in the last row, him on one side, Karin on the other, her hands clasped together and leaning forward to listen to him.
How does he even start? Karin watches him with clarity, as though she’ll actually believe everything he has to say for once. He doubts it, realistically, although every part of him suddenly just wants to spill all, secrets be damned when he’ll probably die once he returns to the manor, exhausted and left alone with His purring in his ear. What’s the point of anonymity when she stares into him anyway, eager to pry him apart piece by piece and expose the middle? He’s almost flattered.
“What do you want to know?” He cannot believe he’s actually asking her this. Her eyes light up and she smiles, leaning in closer again. He really does feel like one of the many soldiers she’s interviewed, he can already picture his words in an article.
“Let’s start simple,” she says, her reporting voice coming in, “what brought you to Prehevil?”
He sighs, looking away and out the window again. They’re still not moving, he wonders if they’ll even succeed, down underneath the church. “It’s a long story,” he says, dramatic, amused at how poorly Karin contains her glee, “I came here to find answers.”
“So mysterious,” she rolls her eyes, fingers flexing against her knee, “answers to what, exactly?”
He swallows, throat dry. It’s surprisingly difficult to voice out loud, he realises he hasn’t spoken to anyone about this yet. The Pocketcat just knew, slinking around and promising answers for a deal he wasn’t yet desperate enough to take, “my…” he trails off, looking down at his hands, the wooden flooring of the train, Karin’s boots across from him. It’s easier to look her in the face, “when I came home from the war I found my wife…she…”
Karin’s lips press together into a thin line. She nods, understanding, “I’m sorry.”
He’s a little taken aback by the genuineness. It’d be easier if she was just a vulture, eager to find her next scoop. He’d rather be used than pitied, he realises with a sick twist in his stomach. He clears his throat, hoping his voice comes out stronger than he feels, “I found things in the basement of the manor, pointing to a cult operating out of Prehevil. I thought I’d be able to find some sort of closure here, before I…” this is too much, too raw. He hates looking at her, hates how his heartbeat quickens and his hands start to shake. Hates how it reminds him of when he first saw Elise, only fourteen, that cruel flutter in his chest from the moment they locked eyes. He sighs, drags his hands down from his forehead to his chin, mindful of his eyepatch, “then Termina happened, and now we’re here.”
For all her abrasiveness, Karin is smart enough to not push him here. She levels her gaze with him, “and your eye? What happened? I know it’s recent, the eyepatch you’re using is a simple medical one, I’ve seen soldiers use them after battle.”
He laughs, dry and sarcastic, “oh? Nothing gets past you, hm? You said so yourself earlier, I tripped and fell onto my scalpel-”
“-stop deflecting,” the tone she uses is firm. Arousal sinks into his lower stomach once more and he shifts in his seat, frustrated with his own broken body.
“I don’t think you’ll believe me, with your logical explanations and everything.”
“Try me.”
She’s staring down at him again. He feels like prey, roadkill to be picked and pulled apart. He hates how his thighs press together, especially as he says, “I removed it for a ritual, to try and bring E-her back.”
He remembers well, a picturesque memory fostered in the back of his brain. The scalpel tilted towards his left eye, his free hand holding his eyelid open with his pointer finger and thumb. The scalpel shook too much, he missed the first time, had to breathe deeply to move precisely the second. Sylvian had taken his eye, but she’d given nothing in return then. He hadn’t expected to see it again, certainly not in Prehevil, his wife a perverted monstrosity of herself.
Maybe Sylvian had listened afterall, toying with him as the Old Gods so loved to do.
Karin’s own eyes are wide. She reaches forward, grabbing his hand and squeezing. He wants to pull away, accuse her of acting kind to get more out of him, but the way she looks up at him is so…
He grips her hand, pulling her into him. Their lips smash together, all teeth, technique lost in the insane need for one another. Karin pushes him back, a fleeting fear of rejection soon dashed when she climbs into his lap, face cupped in her hands, kisses only just gentler than before. His hands roam over her waist, her stomach, her back, every part of her makes his hands tingle in excitement. He paws at her tights, the torn things unclipping with little effort. The skin on her thighs is cooler than her hands, flesh pliable as his fingers ghost over it, the noises she makes rewarding. She shifts against him impatiently, untucking his shirt with a firm tug, her own warm hands burning against his bare skin.
“You really are a twig,” she murmurs against his cheek, a smile pressed into his skin. Her breath is warm against his neck, leaving goosebumps in its absence.
He grunts, smart reply lost in just how fucking badly he needs her. He grips Karin’s wrists, pushing her hand down and under his waistband. She graces him with no teasing this time, hand sliding down into his underwear, straight to the point. She grazes his clit and he groans into the crook of her neck, eye squeezing shut, arms wrapped so tightly around her as though he may fall. Karin works as best she can but it just isn’t enough, the sparks from her touching him short-lived as she pulls away, his whine involuntary but earning a satisfied smirk from her. Karin climbs off his lap, fingers looping underneath the waistband of his chequered pants. He tilts his hips up, staring up at the ceiling, resigned to let her do whatever she wants. Sex is easier to think about than what he’s going to do after this, the dread of the potential train ride settled by Karin’s roaming eyes.
He’s disgusting.
When she doesn’t move he focuses on her again, eyebrows pinched and ready to be accusatory. Is he not good enough for her? Is that why she’s halted, staring down at him with question in her eyes? Gods, is she reconsidering everything? Has whatever lingering effect of Loving Whispers worn off, her common sense finally returning? She knows she can do better than him, a pity fuck before they return to their normal lives or die.
“Can I eat you out?” She asks instead, a shy hesitance to her voice that she poorly hides. Karin looks down at him, a flush across her skin, as vulnerable as he believes he will ever see her. She looks away, removing her hands from his waistband, “you don’t have to,” she’s immediately defensive, embarrassed by his silence.
Daan’s head feels like it’s spinning. The sex he’s most accustomed to isn’t like this, questions aren’t asked when it’s for Sylvian’s favour, nor when the other expects it to be rough, to use him however they see fit. His body is a tool, it has always been presented to him in this way, for as long as he’s known what sex is meant to be. It reminds him of Elise, their first few times, how difficult it was to begin from scars and damage inflicted by people he didn’t even remember. Her gentle touch a painful reminder of what should have been.
His vision blurs, eye wet as he blinks for clarity again. He grabs both of Karin’s hands, guiding them to his torso once more. Her fingers are so warm, it sends a pleasant shudder down his spine as they ghost over his centre, further down to his waist, “sure,” he breathes, hoping the waver in his voice is interpreted as breathy, not nervous.
Karin tugs at his pants and briefs, the cloth pooling at his ankles. He’s exposed under her watchful eyes, scanning every inch of him, the numerous scars littering the pale skin of his legs, injuries collected from all kinds of trauma. She runs her hands up over his thighs, nudging them apart to stare at his cunt, mouth open and breath hitching. He swears she’s salivating, her pupils dilating and a smile tugging at her lips.
He’s embarrassed of the noise he makes when her fingers touch him again, sliding up his slit and earning a shaky moan. She grins down at him, touching him with more pressure this time, “you’re so sensitive. I bet you’ll fall apart in seconds.”
He laughs, enjoying the sound of that threat. Daan relaxes underneath her, his chest not as tight as before, “well, that’ll depend on how good you are at this. Have you ever eaten cunt before, Karin?”
Her annoyed blush is wonderful, “no, but I have one. It should be fine.”
“You’ll have to prove it,” he tsks.
She wastes no time in dipping her head, her breath warm against his slit. He groans when she finally makes contact, tongue lapping at him hesitantly, running from his cunt to his clit. He sighs, hips pushing up more into her, desperate for more pressure. It feels good, but his pleasure only increases when she finally becomes brave enough to push firmer, circling his clit with more confidence when he moans in response.
Karin’s surprisingly easy to command in this way, eager to hear his noises as she works. When she slides a single finger inside of him he groans too loud, hoping no one can hear them from this far down the train carriage. He wants to lace his fingers through her hair as she works so dutifully but fears her stopping, instead settling to claw at the seat of the train, hips thrusting up into her. When she adds a second finger the noise he makes is loud and wanting, someone standing close enough to the door could definitely hear them. He finds it difficult to care, tension in his stomach rapidly rising, the happiest and most distracted he’s felt in a long time. Her fingers pump faster inside of him and that tension keeps building deep in his stomach, thighs spread as far as he can, head tilted back. She was above him like this too, skin decaying and mouth hanging open despite her best attempt to sew it shut. He taught Elise how to sew like that, fine embroidery translating to skin well.
Karin's tongue pushes harder against his clit and he groans, his hips pushing up into her face. She's strong, maybe not practised in this exact movement, but eager enough to make up for it. Elise had not been so brazen, soft touches at first until he gently urged for more. What she became - if that was her - was nothing like she'd been before, and yet he'd recognised the look in her eyes when she'd crawled on top of him. The glimmer as she'd prepared to tear him to shreds, the fear after Karin had taken the shot.
His hips shake as he cums, thighs unable to clamp shut due to Karin holding them down. She's relentless, surged forward with endless stamina, it seems. The noise Daan makes is not one of pleasure despite how good he feels. His eye squeezes shut and all he can see is her, dark hair, dark eyes, understanding smiles, late night conversations around the dying fireplace. Did she really look like that, or has the photo he carried in his front pocket overtaken the real memories, lonely nights on the war front occupied with staring at the crumpled film?
The moan he's supposed to make sounds more like a strangled sob. He hears it, he knows Karin hears it. She releases him immediately, fingers slipping out, chin glistening with his cum, blonde bangs messy and pressed to her sweaty forehead. Karin stares down at him with that same look again, dark eyebrows pinched together in concern.
He hates it.
His breath staggers as he snatches himself away from her, quick to pull his underwear and pants up over himself again. Being naked in front of that is too much, her eyes are burning into him again and he can't stand it.
“We're done,” he says, cold, unable to even look at her.
At this Karin scoffs. Things are left unsaid, her silence unnatural as she clips her torn nylons back into place, brushing her skirt down. There's a distinct coldness under his eye, his lashes heavy, and when he looks up at Karin he feels the tear rolling down his cheek. Fuck.
“Daan-”
“-I said we're done!” He snaps now, definitely loud enough for the others in the cabin to hear. The steady movement of the train's wheels fills the silence. He scoffs, looking away from her once more. He wants to tell her to stop snooping, half expecting the vulture to start picking at him again. He almost wishes she would, so he could have an excuse to be so angry with her, so this could be her fault instead of his.
Instead Karin shoves her hands into her pockets and leaves their carriage silently. The door clicks shut and he breaks, curled up in his seat, head in his hands. He sobs. Not as loud or as anguished as he had when he first returned home, rather a pathetic mewing instead, hands slipping to curl around himself, knees brought up to his chest. He’s a child in his parents’ home again, begging for some sort of comfort with the absence of Sylvian. He’s alone on the street once more, nothing to protect him save for squirrelled away savings and a talent dedicated to a God he hated most. He’s holding Elise in his arms, seeing her for what he thought was the last time, left eye socket throbbing and close to passing out from the pain, warm and wet and red.
Someone sits behind him on the train, that sinking dread dragging him down. He flinches away from His touch, turning to look out the window once more. The trees blurring into one, Prehevil and the others left far behind. Why is He still here?
It suits you well, old sport. Wretched despair fits you just as well as those snazzy pants of yours.
Daan sniffs. He doesn’t look, won’t give him that satisfaction, instead turning to stare at the cabin door once more. They’re all in there right now, talking about their futures, what’s in store for them.
And what’s in store for you?
He leans back into his seat, arms still wrapped tight around him. The Pocketcat sneers at him, he can feel the smug smile beside him. He thinks about Karin, probably sitting with Abella out there, explaining how she’s going to drag Kaiser’s name through the mud, bring to light all the fucked up experiments they witnessed in there. She’s convinced this all has to be Kaiser’s fault, he himself isn’t so sure. But he does wish he could hear whatever it is she’s saying now, even if he couldn’t handle the guilt of seeing her, an unspoken apology that he’s not so sure should be dedicated to her or to Elise.
Stay with me, Daan. We’ve been through a lot together, old friend. You know I’m a very good listener.
He sniffs, closing his eye, hoping to rest at least a little before the train reaches Rondon once more. Pocketcat talks beside him the entire time, filling the silence with promises, threats, all more and more appealing as the train continues. Daan doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t exactly leave either.
What does he have left, anyway?