First hug for Dost Hark!

septic-dr-schneep:

Smoke and mirrors. Lights—blinding—swinging back and forth, endless,
unceasing—And somewhere beyond, there were footsteps approaching—the closer,
the quicker. Tinny ringing, cold slithering over his exposed skin—

“Darkiplier,” he hissed, his throat aching around the word.

“Host? What’s happening to you?” Dark’s tone indicated that he might
already have a suspicion, but he still clearly expected an answer. His
narrations were sometimes a coping mechanism; coaxing the Host into speaking
might stabilize him, he thought.

It didn’t. “The—The H-Host is—” Biting back the welling urge to cry out,
the narrator rocked forward against his knees, a quivering wheeze escaping. “He
Sees—his nightmares—a-and he cannot stop them! He—”

At that, Dark’s hand moved from his knee to his ankle, joined by the
other on the opposite side, pulling his legs straight. The older Ego leaned
over them, clasping his shoulders. The pressure of his fingertips was a
different kind of pain, distracting, grounding. He needed it. Unable to contain
himself anymore, the Host threw himself into the touch, scrabbling to bury his
fingers in Dark’s clothing.

“Does Darkiplier sense it?” he gasped, pressing his temple flat against
the demon’s. “Does he hear them?”

Dark had gone rigid, taken aback by his desperation. After a long,
cloying moment, he moved one of his arms, wrapping it around the back of the Host’s
neck, squeezing hard against the strain. “…Yes,” he growled, willing his voice
not to shake at the strength of the sensation. “I hear them.”