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ladyathenawisdom · 2 years

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Don't Let Me Down ♔♕

Warnings: Language, Betrayal, Enemies To Lovers, Eventual Smut, Past Trauma, Angst, Toxic Relationships, Mature Content.

F-Heroine and M-Supervillain

Part 2.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ❁ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

"You can't do this."

"I just did." Superhero ignores her and continues walking down the long white corridor. His eyes were sharp and unemotional, he held a file in his hands as he walked forward.

Hero swallows hard and scrambles after him, panic clear on her face. She walks next to him. "It's irrational and stupid. You cannot be serious," she says in disbelief. She wore a short dress with some heeled boots, she never said no heels. Especially heeled boots. "You cannot comply with them,"

"Fuck, Hero." Superhero pauses, turning to her with a humorous laugh escaping him. "You think I wanna listen to them? You think I wanna do what they want us to do? I'd rather cheat on my wife," he scowls.

Hero frowns but slowly nods. "They want us to surrender or else they'll leak the information of every superhero out. Maybe we could take it back?" She says, biting her bottom lip in thought.

Superhero sighs. "I thought of that. But we have no idea where it is, I sent a few scouts out along with some agents. They couldn't find it," he grunts and pulls the door to a room open.

Hero trails after him, looking around the room and finding out it was one of the case file rooms. This was where almost every case was recorded, and then sent to storage for safe keeping.

Superhero looks through the file with concerned eyes, like he was thinking of something. He snaps it close, causing Hero to jump slightly, he slides the file on a shelf before turning to her. "Look Hero, I know you and the others want to stop this but we don't have a option. If the information gets out than everything is done for,"

Hero swallows, fiddling with her fingers.

"There are many more criminals out there, many more out of this city. There are many villains around the world. And if they find out who the heroes are, they'll all die. They'll be murdered and killed after their identities and family backgrounds are found out. And unless we surrender, we cannot be sure." He says sternly.

"But what if we-" Hero starts.

"No, Hero." Superhero cuts her off firmly. "We cannot be sure anymore, and until me and the other leaders agree on something or come up with something, no one is going on a plan of action. Understand?"

Hero suppressed the urge to argue, she nods obediently.

Superhero nods. "Good. Thank you, Hero. I know I can count on you," he gives her a smile before it drops and he walks out, frustrated.

Hero watches him go, she swallows hard and huffs. She decides to just go home to her significant other, Other Hero was probably worried about her. He's always been protective.

It was best not to get him angry.

...

"There are you." Other Hero said walking out of their room, an annoyed look on his face. He narrowes his eyes. "Where were you?"

"Sorry." Hero apologies, taking her coat off. "I was talking to Superhero. He wasn't in a good mood. Considering....."

Other Hero nods, letting out a sigh. "Yeah, I heard about that. The Leaders are coming up with a deal of some sort,"

"What do you mean?" Hero asks, moving closer. She wraps her arms around his waist since Other Hero had said he didn't like it when someone grabbed his neck or face.

Other Hero rolls his eyes, his hands going to Hero's rear causing her sqeak slightly, a blush coating her cheeks. "Apparently, they're thinking of trading something important for the hard drive. Something that could help both sides,"

"And what could that be?" Hero hums, thinking everything over. The hero organization didn't have much, the only key factor would be the way they handled their cases and the way each hero or superhero had a power. Some were similar while others were different.

Many heroes had the same gifts and powers.

Hero was probably the only one with her gift. She was an empath, almost, she could sense feelings and emotions. She could cause internal and external pain, inside or outside.

Her biggest gift of her power would be controlling a person, but she hadn't learned that yet since it was to dangerous. And even when she tried, she could only control one person and only for a few minutes.

Other Hero shrugs. "Beats me. As long as we win," he states before pulling Hero closer. "Now, I have been waiting all day to have you. Are you make me wait longer?" He smirks.

Hero giggles.

It wasn't her real laugh, her real laugh was like a cackle, a evil laugh that really sounded unlady like with snorts. Other Hero didn't like her laugh so she pretended to giggle for his sake.

He pulls her into a needy kiss.

Hero feels that same uncomfortable feeling she has been feeling for the past few months but ignores it, pushing it away as worry for the future. She kisses back slowly.

She didn't really feel anything with the kiss, and she didn't think she needed too. That was all in stories and movies, all the touch she felt was external, physical.

She may have sensed emotions but the one thing she didn't feel was her own emotions. Perhaps a curse to her own power.

She ignored the warning bells in her ears and continued to kiss her lover, the two moving over to the coach.

____

"HERO, HERO, HERO!"

She yelps when a person collides with her, Hero gasps and looks to see Sidekick, an excited but also a panicked look on his face.

"Sidekick? What's wrong?" She questions, moving over to sit where her cubicle was. A bunch of files along with many sticky notes were littered all over desk and computer, but she sat down and put down her bag.

Sidekick looks around the room, glancing at all the agents and heroes milling about. Unlike other days where all of them would be talking boisterously and laughing aloud, it was quiet with hushed whispers and small conversations.

No doubt that everyone was worried about the information the villains had and would use for their own gain. Even the elders hadn't decided what to do, there was no action and no nothing. Which was getting frustrating since many heroes were getting tired.

"What's wrong?" Hero asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sidekick shifts uncomfortably, he looks around at all the agents in the room. He didn't know whether to say this out in the open or to say it to Hero quietly in private. "I uh, I need to tell you something. Privately." He nods over to the break area.

Hero frowns but follows after him, the two stand near the coffee pot. "What's wrong?" She repeats, confused.

Sidekick looks around suspiciously, leaning in towards his boss. "I heard the Elders discussing a peace treaty of some sort, a deal with the villains." He whispers.

Hero blinks, her naturally pink lips parting. "...what?" She breathes out in shock. "Wh-what happened? What's gonna happen?" She asks eagerly.

Sidekick yelps when Hero leans in closer, her eyes flashing. He swallows hard, answering meekly.

"Well, the heroes are debating on giving the villains something worthwhile, like something really rare. An exchange for the hard drive, they're gonna give the villains something important they can use."

"And what is that?" Hero asks, raising her eyebrows. "What is that something?"

"I have no idea." Sidekick shrugs unhelpfully.

Hero deflates. "Dang it. Would have been awesome if you would found that out too," she huffs.

Sidekick shrugs sheepishly. "Yeah, well, all I know is that they're still debating what to give to the villains. As far as I know, we have nothing special." He shrugs.

Hero sighs. "You could say that again. But what are they even debating? All we have are some super powered humans, and our insanely good fighting skills."

Sidekick shrugs. "Hey, beats me. As long as they don't hand me to the villains," he then grabs a mug before pouring himself some coffee.

Hero furrows her eyebrows. "And why would they give you?" She says, looking over at him with some confusion.

"Well, Sidekick 2 had a theory that the agency might trade a superhero for the hard drive." He shrugs. "It would be trading someone powerful for something else."

"That's crazy." Hero shakes her head. "Why would they do that?"

"Hey, it's a theory." Sidekick rolls his eyes. "Why would they give a living person for a stupid hard drive?"

"You do know they could release the info they have on all heroes, right?" Hero says, giving him a stern look. "That could do a lot of damage."

Sidekick huffs, taking a sip of his coffee. "Yeah, yeah, all of you keep thinking about that but I'm wondering how they got the information."

Hero pauses, turning to look at him with wide eyes. A few people walk by, talking in whispers. However, she doesn't pay them any mind, turning all her attention to her sidekick.

"I mean," Sidekick hums. "How do you think they collected all the information about the heroes? How did they even gather all of it?"

Hero looks at him with a frown.

"Sure, they could have snuck in or hacked our database but how could have they have got all that information?" Sidekick continues with a shrug. "This place is heavily guarded."

"Sidekick...." Hero starts, getting an inquiry.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, but do you ever stop to think how they could have gotten all that info?"

"Sidekick!" Hero snaps.

"Agh!" He yelps, turning to her. "What?" He says, looking startled.

"You may be onto something." Hero starts, a smile growing on her face. "But we're gonna need to confirm a few things." She nods slowly, an idea forming in her head. Or a possibility.

Sidekick frowns. "What?"

Hero smirks.

Sidekick blinks.

......

"Alright," Civilian cracks her knuckles before she starts typing on her laptop crazy fast. She was sat on her sofa with Hero and Sidekick on either side.

In her apartment.

"You sure this is gonna work?" Hero asks, glancing between the laptop and the girl skeptically.

"Obviously," Civilian snorts. "I'm the best hacker ever, I once hacked into the pentagon." She smirks.

"Wow...." Sidekick blinks. "That was you?" He asks, staring at her in awe.

Civilian giggles. "Yeah, um, it was just a bit of hacking." She blushes.

Hero scrunchs her nose up. "Alright, the two of you can flirt after. Come on, Civilian." She says causing the two to blush. "Do your thing."

"Alright." Civilian mutters, she looks at her laptop as equations and numbers of all kinds come on. After a few minute, she furrows her eyebrows in confusion. "That's odd." She mutters, clicking a few buttons.

"What?" Hero moves closer to take a look at the screen.

Sidekick looks around the apartment. It looked cozy enough, it had 2 bedrooms and 2 bathrooms with a small kitchen. The wall was a maroon color, matching the same coach that Civilian was sat on.

Many decorative pieces like small statues and flowers were put around, with many scientific and technical things around.

Civilian was known to be a Nerd and bit of a tech wiz. But she never joined the hero organization for unknown reasons.

"Well, according to this, the database for the hero organization was never hacked. Even I can't get through it." Civilian frowns.

"That's because they change their passwords every week." Sidekick informed, crossing his arms. "Thay change the password to log in everyday."

"Yeah." Hero mutters. "That is a lot of passwords."

"Well, the world has about a billion combinations, so that's that." Civilian nods, looking back at the screen. "But it was never hacked, from what I can tell." She shrugs. "They're security is pretty tight."

Sidekick sighs, running a hand through his hair agitatedly.

"Wait a minute..." Hero trails off, walking away from them slightly, she turns to them.

"What?" Civilian says, raising an eyebrow.

"If the database was never hacked, how do you think the villains got the info? Who has the power and access?"

Sidekick hesitates. "Hero...are you saying-" He starts.

"There's might be a mole in the agency." Hero states. "And it has to be one of the higher ups, no one else has that much power to hand all the background information for all heroes and sidekicks." She explains. "This is like, all heroes and sidekicks, and superheroes and vigilantes information."

Civilian slowly nods, shifting in her seat. "That's...possible. But who would do such a thing? Who would it be? How would they get in?"

Sidekick nods. "Yeah, she's right. How would they get in? And even if there is a mole, who could it be?" He mutters, looking away.

Hero shrugs. "I have no idea. But we have to be careful, and we have to find out who it is."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Sidekick asks.

Hero let's out a breath. "I don't know...yet. But we have to be extra careful, especially with the elders. One of them could be the mole,"

Both Civilian and Sidekick nod.

Hero sighs and glances at the clock. She bites her bottom lip when she notices the time, she was supposed to meet Other Hero. She quickly bids her farewell, leaving the other two who looked happy to be alone.

Hero rushes to the park, not getting a chance to enjoy the beautiful day. She arrives at the park where the two lovers were supposed to meet up, she sighs as she stares at Other Hero, who was pacing. He has never been a patient one.

He turns to look at her when he hears her walking towards him. He frowns. "I've been here for almost an hour, Hero. Where have you been?" He hissed quietly.

Hero swallows hard, knowing he meant well. He's always had an issue with anger, but they've talked about it and Other Hero explained how he never meant it and that he was just protective of her.

Understandable. The two were heroes, they were bound to get hurt on the job.

"I'm sorry." Hero says sheepishly. "I was with Sidekick."

Other Heri smiles tightly. "Really? And what pray tell, were you two doing?" He questions, crossing his arms.

Hero sighs, knowing he was a bit possessive or something. "He found out that the leaders are planing to make a deal with the villains or something." She shrugs nonchalantly, but on the inside her heart was hammering.

Was it normal to fear your significant other.

Other Hero stares at her, processing her words. He raises an eyebrow. "....that's slightly assuring." He mutters. "What else has he found out?"

Hero isn't sure whether to tell him or not. But she scolds herself for second guessing, this is Other Hero, why couldn't she trust him. "Not much. I don't think we'll find out until they make a decision." She shrugs.

Other Hero nods, a frown growing on his face.

Hero smiles. "Yeah. Now, are we here to have fun or talk about work? I'm really hungry." She sighs, remembering how she didn't have breakfast.

Other Hero nods but gives hero a look. "Sorry, Hero but I left my wallet at home. Uh, can you pay?" He asks as the two start walking towards a hot dog stand.

Hero falters but she nods. "Oh, uh, sure. It's alright," she says. This wasn't the first time that she had paid, Other Hero forgot his wallet all the time. It was no biggie. She wasn't that poor.

Heroes got paid based on their popularity, how many villains they caught or killed, how powerful they were and how much the people loved them. And if you were really popular, you even for benefits such as the agency paying all your hospital bills, getting a car or apartment or even a house or mansion.

The downside was that at any given moment, the agency has the power to freeze all your bank accounts or take away your things. But only if you were suspected as a villain or betrayed the organization and broke your oath.

Fortunately, Hero was popular and one of a kind. So they got paid atleast a thousand or something a month. But she mostly tended to save her money and keep it in a safe place instead of a bank account. She needed to be careful.

Hero glanced at Other Hero, he was texting someone on the phone.

"Everything okay?" She asks, holding her hotdogs. She only got ketchup on, nothing else. Usually, she would get everything but Other Hero has commented on how much extra weight she had put on, so she had decided to eat less.

Even though she got hungry.

"Yeah, awesome." Other Hero gave her a grin, his phone still in his hand and the hotdog in the other. "What do you think the elders will decide?"

Hero hums, looking away. "I don't know. If word gets out about the heroes identities, everyone will be in danger. All their families and love ones, they'll be in danger. And the villains will all win," she sighs. "They could probably take over the world with all that."

"Yeah," Other Hero nods with a hum. "Supervillain would, most likely."

Hero flinches, hearing the familiar name of the world's most wanted criminal. The number one wanted man on their list, the most calculated and deadliest man alive.

Supervillain.

He was known worldwide, being the son of Mastermind himself. He was known to be a ruthless killer, killing and torturing his victims slowly. And when he didn't, he burned them. No one could ever catch him, and no one ever did.

Because half the world was scared of him while the other half was in his payroll. No one could ever get close to him, because if they did, they would mysteriously die.

Even the hero organization couldn't catch him, which was quite amazing since they have caught even the biggest baddest criminals in the world.

Hero breathes out shakily, feeling her stomach twist uncomfortably.

Other Hero glances at her before rolling his eyes. "Don't get scared by that mere stupid name. He's got nothing on us, it's just plain stupid." He scoffs.

Hero nods, however her heart didn't agree.

Especially with what Sidekick had said. Could the agency really trade one of their own for a hard drive? Sure, it was really important but would they really do that?

They wouldn't.

Could they? The hero agency was a organized for heroes, to save people and help people. To capture villains and criminals, to put an end to evil doing. And even if the elders did so, what could they give them?

All the heroes were just average people with inhumane abilities and awesome, advanced fighting skills. How could they be the use to the villains?

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nelkenbabe · 1 year

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WIP Whenever

thank you bestie @isayashai for tagging me in the WIP whenever <3

i uuuh. happened to be venturing into writing smut cause i find it insanely difficult and have never gotten far before so. be warned. this is basically the build-up to the scene, nothing overly explicit yet but I would rate it M? maybe?

my brain is fried and i can't think of who hasn't been tagged yet, forgive me

context: the inquisition is about to end for good, due to an incident amaryll's hand was forced to retire cullen from his position as commander early, and this is the night of his farewell party. amaryll is walking cullen back along the barricades to his tower. by this point they have been close friends for like half a year and it's been months of (what they assumed was) unrequited love.

"I don't know how much I care about what I mean to a general crowd. Especially once the Inquisition ends," Amaryll said after a while, gaze flicking down onto the stone and then back up to him. "But I do care about what I mean to you."

One stark, powerful heartbeat at the base of his throat. Without even meaning to, Cullen took a step forward before he thought better of it.

"I think you already know," he replied gently, and once again Amaryll's chest puffed up with things she couldn't quite bring herself to say.

She took it upon herself to breach the distance, stepping closer while keeping her eyes on him in what Cullen knew was careful monitoring of his reactions, watching for rejection. She would find none here.

He reached both hands out, lightly tracing her shoulders down to her arms. By the time his fingertips reached her elbows, her skin was nothing but gooseflesh. Cullen could feel himself relax down to the centre of his being, like something long-awaited was falling into place.

Amaryll's palm met his chest, fingers half curled. The expression on her face was still cagey and guarded, as though he'd pull away at the last second and say "Wait-".

Cullen let his thumb run over her cheek and watched her in turn. Her fingers relaxed against his shirt, cheek tilting ever so slightly against his hand. Amaryll's eyes gleamed with worry and want in the torchlit darkness and Cullen could feel his breathing hitch at the knowledge that this want was directed at him.

He leaned down without a second thought. The kiss sweetened as Amaryll reciprocated and slid her hand up to his nape, leaving no air between them.

He tasted a bite of bitterness from the dark ale she'd had before, an unexpected freshness sitting right below. A sudden pinch of teeth on his bottom lip elicited a sudden knee-jerk reaction; without thinking he grabbed her hips and turned to press her against the stone railing.

"Yes," Amaryll gasped when her back hit the stone, and that reaction was the beginning of his undoing, he knew.

There had been many ways the night could have gone between them. Now there was only one.

She interrupted the kiss to hop into a seat on the ledge, now much more evenly measured in height to Cullen. There was greed in the way she kissed, the way her knees lifted on their own accord as though...

The suggestion alone was more than Cullen could handle. He had to pull away, only to bury his face in the dip between Amaryll's neck and shoulder. He kissed and bit, teetering between despair and restraint. Amaryll's next breath out was slow and humming, like a mountain before a rock slide.

In a slow movement, Amaryll wove her fingers into his hair and then suddenly jerked his head back up to her.

Their movements against each other began to grow less controlled. And when Cullen couldn't help but dig his fingers into her thighs, and received a twitch of her pelvis against his belly, all sense he might have still possessed had been tipped over the edge of the barricade.

A groan escaped him, mirrored by a breathless pant from her. Amaryll crossed her legs behind his lower back, pulling him tighter, tighter, tighter against her core. That was it. With a one sweep he grabbed her rear and lifted her to turn and walk towards his tower.

Amaryll's breathless, gleeful laugh was almost reward enough for everything that had gone wrong this past week. She continued to kiss him, albeit more shallowly, teasingly - demanding Cullen's undivided attention when it was, in fact, crucial to pay attention to their surroundings. Unwise, and he would have pointed it out, if Amaryll wasn't keeping him occupied. But Cullen had a feeling that this was precisely the spontaneous prank she was playing. And he would not let her win.

Doing his best not to drop to his knees when her lips moved to that sensitive spot between his ear and his jaw, he walked on, shifting the weight of her to only one of his hands. He could have sworn to have heard her murmur "Showoff-" under her breath, and his back would pay for this tomorrow, he was sure, but right now nothing else mattered.

By a miracle they made the length to the door. Cullen pushed it open gently, almost swaying against the frame when Amaryll doubled down her efforts.

"You're wretched," Cullen heaved, working hard to keep his balance in spite of the growing weakness in his legs.

In the dim light of of his office he just barely managed to walk to his desk and drop a grinning Amaryll onto some reports. She wouldn't even let him catch his breath, instead she pulled him back down onto her.

#nelke writes #ivy & twine #da fanfic #cullen rutherford #amaryll #inquisitor lavellan #lavellan #lemon

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chefediaboiv · 5 months

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Conversations with Jr. GGG Pt. 3

Woosah, nope I refuse to recommend a therapist. She was just teething for hope and apparently it's clear as shit, imagine the farmers face when the cow says it likes being beat rearing inn. The Genie in a bottle doesn't want you making appearances during the rubbing the fuzzy purple wall procedure she got from the rapist. What's supermanmanns one wish when kryptonite is his favorite dish. Don't complain when you chose the Louis lane, giggity goo. Plain English, I bet she say's cheers if I came to kick it with you. Drug test? You popped up for Royce da 5'9 and Eminem, when you see me outside don't ask if we can be friends again. The Shitty boss works at City Hall, a fitting infit for a shitty call. If Sifu gave you some homework don't get it wong, let's play Captain a shore I see. I'm wading between two islands, don't fuck up my punchline just say Sir I see. I've been easter egging the masked singers surest seats, career choice is in demand but you need triangles like Isosceles. She clicking me in for security, don't act pompous please. You been writing? Do you mind if I saw some sheets, why so nervous soldier would you like some sauce with cheese. I'm a Saturday morning cartoon freakazoid, me and my bros quote lyrics from the beastie boys. Dealing with heart born illnesses, you might as well be annoyed. My grilling outfit is a Gothic Speedo, SSX tricky gets a little Christiana Ricci since your concerned about my beetle juice. Handled by Barefoot wine, I won't need new shoes. Don't confuse cologne with stinkmeaner, halitosis is way neater. How low can you you go sis, my Sunday after noon gets racier. If I were you I'd drive out about 50 miles, double it or 2 and drive off a cliff, you had help and the lie is awful as shit. Remember when paying with quarters you get a Nickelback for 30 cents, I bet your on iPhone with your Siri sense. When parrying long hair don't care waving at the Aryan, he's a Nazi extremist. Apparently the message to him is you do not need a penis, I'd much rather you think about the drum set between us. It doesn't have to be yours, but I thought the hole in reality might be convenient. You seem about as threatening as ficus, I seriously like hugs and I mean it. What's up with uppercutting, you gotta put the gravy on the stuffing just because Im up to nothing I figure that today I'd plunge the summit. I bet I have ez pass at every immediate family gathering, Mcnugget stuck like he's wrapped in batarang. I saw that stupid look on your face the last time you had chance to swing, why don't you look your mother in the eyes and tell her love don't cost a thing. Pretty sure we have different views on that because either way I end up in a sausage sling. Poor thing Mrs Lovett's meat pies poor thing, poor thing had me at Hello with sweet lies, poor thing, poor thing. Where the party at don't look like you 112, jodeci, D4L boy you Clay Aiken, Ruben studdard, Tracy McGrady Houston, Bulls, Clippers I can't put no trust in this boy that's a Billy Jean full zipper. It's you that's biting my style to be a full Witcher, be grateful I took my time to fool with ya. My deep thoughts of late are mask on or mask off, either way the back soft.

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transperceneige · 2 years

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There's a horse story I was told about and I literally can't get it out of my head so I kinda need to lay it out here.

Tw : it gets pretty gruesome, so skip entirely if you don't want to hear about horrific injuries caused by a horse.

So I was talking with a friend who's an excellent rider - she's 50+ years old now, has been working with horses her entire life, and at one point was competing at quite high level in eventing and show jumping. Let's call her M.

At some point in our conversation, she said something about that time she broke her back falling from a horse, so I asked her what happened.

Turns out that, in the 80s, when she was in her final year of high school, she got a part-time job working for a trainer specialized in backing young horses - aka teaching them to wear a saddle and bridle, and to carry someone on their back for the first time. They were also teaching the young horses the basics of under-saddle work, as well as working with 'difficult' horses, whose owners had trouble breaking in themselves.

(just for context, this is all happening 30+ years ago in rural southwestern France)

My friend M. is quite a petite, muscular woman, and was even more so at barely 18yo, and her athleticism and competency as a horse rider made her extremely good at this job. Basically, she was unshakable, and could stay in the saddle through the worst young horses' tantrums - rearing, kicking, jumping up and down, she had seen it all and very rarely got unseated.

The head trainer had different kind of riders working for him - big guys, tall guys, small guys, and my small female friend - and would try to find the better 'fit' for each horse. For instance, for some horses the process of being first ridden would go more smoothly with a big guy, some were more easily handled by women, etc.

After a few months working for the head trainer, M. got a ride on an especially difficult horse : Jaquin.

Jaquin was a tall, gorgeous chestnut anglo-arab, with an incredible pedigree (bloodlines so good, M. said that horse was probably worth more than her current house).

That was in the 80s, so anglo-arabs were still basically half arabian blood, half thoroughbred, meaning they tended to be especially hot horses, full of blood and stamina. Basically born to jump and run cross-country, but with quite a reputation for difficult temperament.

Jaquin was a superb specimen, and was still owned by the couple running the breeding farm he was born at.

But there was a serious problem with this horse : despite being raised in 'normal' conditions (aka no abuse, handled by professionals with a long experience with horses, and no evidence of any physical pain), this horse had stayed all his life dangerous to handle, and very aggressive towards people. The owners had tried it all with him - but at 7yo, Jaquin was still a nightmare, so they got him castrated, hoping it would help make him less dangerously dominant.

Sadly for them, that didn't change a thing (basically : the castration was too late to really impact his behaviour), and the horse was still unriddable (which was kind of a bummer for a horse bred for competition).

In a last-ditch attempt to make something of this horse of fantastic potential but awful behaviour, the owners sent him to the facility M. was working at.

At first, the head trainer tried to have him worked by some of the other riders, but no one was able to get anywhere with the horse. So the head trainer asked M.

He also told her : never, ever stay alone with that horse, don't be alone with him in the stable, and don't ever ride him alone. That was the first time he had given her such advice.

But rightly so : M. was absolutely unable to approach the horse. He'd see her and try to attack. He's see anyone and try to attack and bite if given the chance, but was especially agressive towards small people, like my friend who's barely 1.50m tall. Despite all her experience with handling horses on the ground, M. was never able to even simply put a halter on Jaquin, as he would physically try to crush her.

The guys working at the barn had to get him ready for her, and they'd never ever get in his stall without a pitchfork in one hand.

M. told me she had never met a horse like that, and she never did again in her life.

The head trainer too was baffled, and agreed with M. that this horse had something deeply rooted in him that shone through his look.

M. described it as a glow in the horses' eyes, some sort of evil glimmer that made no sense for a prey animal. M. said you'd feel constantly watched when Jaquin was in the barn, like being watched by predator on the hunt. He'd see something or someone he could assert his dominance over and would try to tear through them at the first given chance.

There truly was the weirdest, most chilling vibe emanating from this horse.

So : that is a lot of red flags. But being 18yo and needing money, M. carried on and rode the horse. And riding a horse as difficult as Jaquin came with really good money (at least for her standards at the time).

M. being fearful and very competent, she actually managed to get somewhere with this horse. She got 15 rides on him. The 15th was the last one.

She told me the ride was actually really good, she had reached some goals with the horse's training and he worked well under saddle.

But M. said she made one mistake : she patted Jaquin at the end, and let go of the reins to let him walk with his head free. For some reason, that was a huge trigger for him.

Immediately, Jaquin leaped forward in the air, and threw himself on the arena's wall. M. got thrown off, and was catapulted a few feet from Jaquin. She said she was sure Jaquin tried to crush her against the wall with that first throw.

Now, the arena she was in was built for working with young horses, and as such there was a space left between the ground and the bottom part of the boards forming the wall. That space was there for when people were getting thrown off, so that they could roll over, get their body into that space, and avoid getting trampled by a scared young horse.

So M. was on the ground, at a certain distance from Jaquin - so technically she was safe and didn't need to roll under the wall. But when she looked up, she saw Jaquin looking directly at her. He then put his ears backwards, completely flat on his head, and opened his mouth, showing his teeth. M. said the horse made a noise she could only describe as a growl, and charged at her at full speed.

Knowing her only chance was to get into the small space at the base of the wall, she rolled over as fast as she could, just rolled and rolled towards the edge of the arena.

But as she was just a few centimeters away, Jaquin had caught up. M. was mid-roll, on her belly, head toward the ground. Jaquin lifted one of his foreleg up, and then put his feet down right on her back, between her two shoulder blades. And then he pushed, and pushed, literally crushing her.

All this was happening in the span of a few seconds - the head trainer, who was in the arena riding another horse, rushed to intervene, as did another guy on foot. They had to physically hit Jaquin to get him off M.

In that time, Jaquin had crushed a few vertebraes on M's back.

She had to be rushed to the hospital in an ambulance, and had to stay in bed, unable to move, for six months. She missed half of her senior year in high school.

Still, she told me the money she had made off of riding Jaquin covered her living expenses for almost a full year after high school.

After she finished her story, I had one question in mind : what happened to Jaquin after all that?

M. told me the head trainer sent him back to his owners after that accident, basically saying the horse was beyond help.

What happened after, she did not see herself, but she was told about. That's when this story gets gruesome.

Three months after M's accident, Jaquin was in the stables at his owner's place - the place where he had been born and raised as a foal.

Then comes the owners' son, a 7 year old boy. That boy probably had been told to never approach Jaquin, but being a kid and all, he probably didn't follow the rule, unaware of the danger - M. wasn't privy to the details of how exactly the kid put himself in this situation.

What followed is the most fucked-up thing I've heard about a horse.

Jaquin, seeing the boy approach, decided to attack. He turned his head 90 degrees, opened his jaw and lunged for the kid. The boy's face being small, Jaquin could cover it with his opened mouth, and he bit him with each set of teeth on each side of the kid's face. Crushing his skull with all of his force.

The kid died instantly.

...

After that horrific aggression, Jaquin was finally put down (euthanized).

He had killed a child ; not by accident, but unprovoked, with full intent to kill.

That story really stuck with me.

Horses are very pacific creatures, they're scared prey animals, and any aggressivity from them always stems from being put into danger or having been abused.

But I guess once in a blue moon, a horse like Jaquin is born.

Maybe there was something undetected with Jaquin after all - that, we'll never know. But M's recollection of that horse truly made me think : in medieval times, that's the kind of creatures we would have said is the devil incarnated.

#text post #story time #horse #equestrian #tw : gore #long post

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imagine-darksiders · 2 years

Text

Eden's Heir - Chapter 1

Worm-holes.

Strife x Reader. War x Reader Summary: A wedding day is supposed to be the most magical day of any bride's life. But even a on a perfect day, accidents can occur. Time and space can tear themselves open, at just the right moment, to send you spinning into a world of giants and demons and angels who struggle to believe that you're a human, because humans are not like you. Of course they're not - you're 40,000 years removed from them, sucked into a faulty worm-hole and spat out in the past, on another plane of existence. The Universe, after all, was never created to be free of imperfections, and not even a Creator is without flaws.

---

The lone, black taxi trundles lazily to a stop just outside the church gates, the purr of its engine rolling across a quiet graveyard and disturbing one, solitary crow from its perch atop a crumbling headstone.

Poised awkwardly inside the cab, stuffed in alongside an excessive amount of taffeta silk and lace, you gaze through the window, watching the crow flap into the air and soar away from the churchyard with enviable ease.

If only it were that simple for you.

“Here we are then, Miss! Ope, soon to be Missus,” the cab driver announces, twisting his mirror down to catch your eye in the rear-view, “Couldn't've asked for better weather, eh? When I married my old lady, it was piddlin' down.”

You can't deny he's right about the weather. Your fiancee, Cain, had chosen this Saturday in early September, and the cloudless sky that hangs above the pretty, sandstone church seems to bathe the whole world in warm, comforting azure.

There's no wind either - a stroke of luck that will no doubt please your soon-to-be mother-in-law if she insists on wearing that wide-brimmed, ostentatious hat atop her perm.

“I'm sure it was lovely, regardless,” you reply absently, straining to reach over layer upon layer of ruffled train to reach the little window divider and slide a fifty through the slot, “Here. Keep the change.”

The cabbie swivels about in his seat, taking the proffered note and giving it a quick once-over before he lets out a long, slow whistle. “You sure, Miss? Meter only says thirty five!”

Leaning back in your seat, you turn to face the outer window again, peering through the glass at the uneven, cobblestone path that will inevitably lead you to your groom.

Painted lips tug up into a rueful smile and you tell the driver, “Trust me, I'd rather give you a fifty than spend five hundred hiring a Fiat from some guy who slapped a white bow on the bonnet and called it a wedding car.”

At that, the cabbie throws his head back and lets out a loud bark of laughter, exclaiming “Economical! Your fella's a lucky man!”

You bite back the instinctive urge to impress upon him that you're the lucky one, really.

“Go get 'im then, love!” he exclaims, casting a final glance at you over his shoulder, “And try not to look so nervous, yeah? This is the most magical day of your life!”

Perfectly manicured fingers slide around the door handle and you pause just long enough to toss the driver a tenuous grin before pushing open the door and letting the excessive train of your wedding dress all but explode out of the confined space you've bundled it into.

You have to brace both hands on the open doorway in order to haul yourself out onto the pavement, grunting in a decidedly unladylike manner from the effort. But once you're out, the poise returns, you step away from the taxi and begin languidly rearranging your wedding dress, feeling in no particular hurry to begin your march. White silk sparkles in the bright autumn sunlight and a full length skirt cascades down to the floor in a waterfall of layers and embroidered tulle. It's quite beautiful - as well it ought to be with your own mother at the helm, dressing you up in the sort of extravagance you wouldn't have even glanced at if not for her.

But, she'd offered to pay the dress's rental fee and... well... it is a Westwood....

Cain will no doubt be impeccably dressed, as always, standing at the alter beside the best man in his tailored, black suit, sending a winning smile out at the throng of guests who have crammed themselves inside the church. You imagine there'll be an eclectic myriad of people attending, from his extensive family and friends to a handful of your own relatives, and four bridesmaids, all hand-picked, of course, by the Maid of Honour – Cain's sister.

They're all lovely girls, from what you could tell in the little time you've actually spent with them.

Your new sister-in-law is.... wilful. But she was good enough to appoint herself your Maid of Honour, ultimately saving you the trouble of having to choose one yourself, so you should really be grateful. She'd also been so kind as to pick out the flower arrangements for you, and you'll admit, during the rehearsal, the church's interior had looked absolutely stunning with black dahlias and vibrant, yellow carnations winding around the pillars and pews with loose petals scattered across the glistening, marble aisle.

Behind you, the taxi revs its engine and sputters away, leaving you to stand by yourself at the gates, twisting your engagement ring around and around on your finger, casting little flecks of light across the ground when the sun shine through the sizeable diamond sitting inside the band.

You take a moment to lament the absence of your father, but the hospital staff had made it quite clear that if he were to remove his IV lines and pumps to walk you down the aisle so soon after a stroke, he might not live long enough to see the vows. Your father had been willing to risk it. You, however, were not. Oh, certainly, it would have been lovely to have him hand you over to Cain, if only so you don't have to enter that church alone. You can live without that particular tradition, while your father might very well lose his life carrying it out, the stubborn old bastard.

Clenching your jaw, you draw in a lungful of fresh air, hoping against hope that it might be enough to clear away the heavy clouds fogging up your brain.

Your father's illness aside, everything is so, so close to perfect. Any bride would call it a win. Any bride would be lucky to have a wedding day like the one you're about to have, and any bride would be over the moon to marry a man like Cain Cox -Valedictorian, entrepreneur, home-owner and eventual heir to his father's lucrative business.

You're lucky.

You should feel lucky...

… Frankly though, you'd probably feel luckier if a pigeon flew by and dumped all over your nice, shiny wedding dress.

You're the only thing about this wedding that isn't perfect.

You're the freckle marring the day's otherwise spotless complexion.

You're the feckless idiot who can hardly stomach the idea of walking down that detestable aisle to say 'I do,' to your own fiancée.

But it's too late to back out now. So, with your heart pounding against your ribcage like a prisoner beating the bars of their cell, you begin to wobble your way up the uneven, graveyard path on your dainty heels, reaching up to flick your veil down over your face.

Perhaps you can muster a smile before you reach the alter.

Your fingers twist apprehensively around the strap of a silver bag that you plan on leaving somewhere near the entrance to retrieve later. Every step that brings you closer to the church feels like walking towards the precipice of a bottomless pit, which you're fairly sure isn't a feeling that brides are supposed to have on their Big Day.

Halfway up the path, you catch movement ahead in the large, wooden doorway.

One of the ushers has been watching for you, and he's just just dashed inside, no doubt signalling your imminent arrival.

Sure enough, seconds later, the air is suddenly filled with the melodic, easily-recognisable Wedding March, blasted from a pipe organ sitting high above the narthex inside.

Each resounding chord boxes at your eardrums and you wince as they seem to quiver in your head, leaving you digging your nails into the palms of your hands to refrain from trying to cover your ears.

The church looms over you, casting its great, unassailable shadow across your face, you hear a hush sweep over everything just as you reach the entrance, and then... without missing a step, you simply turn to the left and veer off the well-worn path, your heels sinking into the grass as you retreat past stain-glass windows and disappear underneath the darkness of the bell tower.

'Well, that was unexpected of me,' you muse blankly, tucking yourself in between two pilasters at the rear of the church and slumping down the stone wall until your backside hits the dirt, wide eyes glistening as you stare out across the graveyard beyond. One hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, stifling the rapid, uneven breaths that leave you in gushing bursts. Your other hand, in the meantime, you set on the grass at your side, fingers burrowing aimlessly into the grass and muddying up your perfectly manicured nails.

'Just need some air,' you tell yourself firmly, 'It's pre-wedding jitters... That's all.'

'Jitters...' another part of you scoffs contemptuously. There's cold feet, and then there's the icy crawl of dread that bites at your spine and leaves you feeling vulnerable and frightened and paralysed where you sit, not quite at the stage where you're bursting into tears, but there's a definite sting behind your eyelids that makes you glad you'd elected to wear false lashes over your waterproof mascara.

“God,” you sigh raspingly, peeling your hand away from your mouth and letting your skull thud backwards against the stone behind you, “What the Hell am I doing...?”

You seem to have been asking yourself that same question more and more of late.

Cain is waiting faithfully inside, probably wondering where on Earth you are by now, along with the rest of the wedding party.

Already, you can hear the awkward crunch and slide of heels on gravel.

“Where the HELL are you!?”

Ah. There's his sister, Delilah, likely furious with you for disrupting her brother's big day.

You suppose you deserve her wrath. But right now, you aren't sure you're brave enough to face it.

And isn't that the plain and simple truth?

You're a coward.

You were too cowardly to tell Cain you didn't like him as anything more than a family friend who could only boast that title because his father was an old buddy of your own. You were too cowardly to cause a fuss when he invited you to his mother's sixtieth birthday party and thought it would be a good idea to propose to you as a gift to her, in front of his entire family.

Even now, you can still remember how you told yourself, 'I'll say yes now, and avoid an upset. But later, I'll take him aside and tell him the truth.'

Of course, by the time you'd mustered up enough courage to mention your... reservations, you got a call from your mother.

She'd just heard the news from Delilah.

She sounded so... so happy on the end of your phone. She'd even cried, you seem to recall.

“I've been worried to death about who'll look after you when your father and I are gone,” she'd gushed, unwittingly plunging a white-hot blade into your stomach and giving it a vicious twist. Later, you'd realise that knife had opened you up for panic to get in like a parasite.

“I'm so happy,” she'd added, “Cain is such a good man!”

You heard it often. That seemed to be the general consensus, and the more you heard, the more you found yourself wondering what any of it had to do with him being a good man.

'He works so hard.'

'He has fantastic prospects.'

'He's got money, with a view to come into even more when his parents eventually pass away.'

'He's the perfect match for you!'

… So why couldn't you fall in love with him?

You'd given it the old college try, of course, to appease your family and your peers. And besides, 'sometimes these things take time!'

Well, you'd given it time. You sucked up your reservations, you swallowed down the bile that rose into your throat whenever he kissed you sloppily after a night of drinking whisky with his boys, and you dealt.

The situation only proceeded to get a whole lot worse.

You can't remember who the first person was to mention the pitter-patter of tiny feet, but you know you hate them. So very much because not long afterwards, Cain started talking babies. You hadn't even married the man and he would stroke your belly whilst you lay with your back to him in bed, whispering about how many you were going to give him.

That, at least, you had the guts to shoot down.

“Bit early to start talking kids when I don't even think I want to have any.”

There had been an eerie silence following your reply, hanging over the bedroom like a suffocating cloak of unease.

You couldn't see his face with your back to him, but after a while, you felt his warm breath slide over the shell of your ear and he'd chuckled boyishly, crooning, “Whatever you say, darling.”

You'd hoped your refusal would be a deal-breaker for him. You kept up with it, repeating over and over to anyone who'd listen that you don't want children, always in the hopes that Cain might be the one who calls off the whole marriage and save you the trouble.

The wedding was already looming by the time it really hit you.

He wasn't backing out.

You started to get overwhelmed. You could see a dark, dizzying spiral coiling downwards right in front of your eyes and you were too anxious to do anything about it. You started thinking that while you might not have loved Cain at first, you could grow to love him through even more time and effort. He's a good man, after all, and you'd be an idiot to throw away the security and safety that marriage brings.

Looking back now, while you listen to the crunching footsteps round the side of the church in your direction, you can't be sure you ever really thought it would get this far.

Well. It did, evidently. So, more fool you.

The sight of the church, the sound of the organ drifting out through a heavy, wooden door... it's as if it's only just occurred to you that this is going to happen, and instead of nervous excitement that most brides attest to, your stomach is as cold and barren as an icy tundra.

Oh, you imagine you'll inevitably still go through with this whole debacle. Aloud, you can chalk it up to pre-wedding jitters, you'll get married, and then you'll focus on falling in love with him. There are too many people in that grand, open room to let down if you get cold feet now.

And his family really have sunk a lot of money into this thing.

All that wasted cash doesn't sit right with you at all.

The first tear finally escapes the confines of your eyelid and blazes a trail through the powder on your face.

Resignation, at last, begins to sink in.

This is happening.

“Y/N!” Delilah hollers, so close now that you're certain at any moment you'll catch a strong whiff of that Dolce perfume she seems to favour.

All you need is five minutes to yourself. Just to regain your composure, to get your head back on straight.

To breathe.

But then, this is your fault anyway, isn't it. You should have said something when you had the chance.

Now, you're going to have to lay in a bed of your own making.

And cope.

With a noisy sniffle, you swipe a finger under your eye and flick away a tear before you gather your feet underneath you and heave yourself up onto unsteady legs. All around you, the dress tumbles down in intricate folds and rustles audibly as you take a faltering step forwards, ready to face Delilah's ire and subject yourself to the scrutiny of hundreds.

But in taking that first, tentative step, you suddenly encounter an unforeseen problem.

Your silver heel doesn't even hit the ground.

“Wha-!” is all you manage to blurt before your shout of alarm is cut off and your foot simply disappears through the grass, and never once makes purchase on anything solid beneath it.

It's as though you've stepped off a bridge into thin air. You suddenly find yourself in a disorienting free-fall straight down through the earth that you're certain had been perfectly corporeal only seconds ago.

Nothing about the ground itself has changed. It still looks solid, from the brief glimpse you manage to catch of it as you descend. Instant terror steals the air from your lungs and you desperately throw your arms out to try and catch yourself on an edge of some kind.

It's decidedly odd being able to see a solid object right in front of you, and yet being utterly incapable of placing your hands upon it. Nothing ceases your rapid descent into the very fabric of the Earth.

You choke on a shriek, clamping your eyes shut instinctively when the ground rises up to meet your head...

There's a loud whoosh that sucks your eardrums inside out.... and you pass right on through an invisible worm-hole, into a world of darkness and rushing wind.

------------

There are those who believe wholeheartedly that nothing happens by accident. Every choice and outcome is predetermined by some great, omniscient being or higher power. The Universe, according to some, does not make mistakes.

Those people, sadly, would be wrong.

Sometimes, accidents do happen, even on a cosmic scale, even to space-time itself. Sometimes, there are pockets of magic on Earth that have remained hidden from humanity for thousands of years, portals placed in random locations by a species so ancient that their name has long been lost to history. Sometimes those portals, much like human electricity, can experience an extreme fluctuation, or a power surge.

The Universe, after all, was never created to be free of imperfections, and not even a Creator is without flaws...

---------

The Void....?

'Damn. Why the Hell would Samael whisk us off to such a gloomy in-between?'

The great magic of the demon Prince's portal fizzles and dies out as it closes behind a pair of titanic figures, leaving them stranded and seemingly alone on a vast, floating rock that hangs over a bottomless abyss.

The slightly smaller of the figures straightens up from his hunched position, still caught a little off balance after taking an impromptu trip through the fabrics of time and space.

Strife, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, cranes his helm back to gaze up towards the foreign 'sky,' or lack thereof.

It's all mist, as far as his sharp eyes can see... Just mist and floating rocks that stretch on endlessly into a wide, open nothingness.

“Welcome to the Void,” he drawls sardonically, turning about to check on the youngest yet ironically the largest of his four siblings, and the only one who has accompanied him to this lonely place.

War, an armoured behemoth even by Nephilim standards, is already on his feet with his favoured, blood-red hood pulled low to cast half of his pale face in shadow. Though even that extra effort isn't quite enough to hide the thin, blazing brand that stretches in an arch across his forehead, glowing with a soft light as if there's a layer of searing lava flowing just beneath the surface of his skin in lieu of blood.

If he hadn't already seen War bleed during battle, Strife would probably believe that his brother's insides consist of nothing but the liquid fires of a planet's core.

The Red Rider casts his narrow glare around the plateau they've found themselves stranded upon, and Strife has no doubt that he's scouring their immediate surroundings in search of an ambush, but when he finds nothing waiting to leap out at them from the shadows, his absurdly immense shoulders slowly drain of their tension and his hand twitches away from the grip of the broadsword strapped to his back. Chaoseater's bloodlust will have to be sated another day.

“Samael must have sent us here for a reason,” War announces, his booming voice ricocheting between the islands of stone and echoing back at them several times over.

Strife makes a mental note to yell into the Void later to test that echo, but for now, finding out why they're here takes priority.

Although to be frank, he's not exactly sure how eager he is to meet an associate of Samael's.

“C'mon,” he sighs, resigned, “Let's go find Sammy's pal and see what's what.”

Without another word, which is surprisingly rare in the older rider's case, Strife leads the way across their rocky platform. There doesn't appear to be any clear-cut path around the Void, and though the realm is bathed in a mystifying, if dim teal light, neither Horseman can determine its source when they surreptitiously throw their gazes about, both curious about their unfathomable surroundings, yet neither willing to admit to the fact.

Together, in silence, the brothers make their way along the most obvious 'path,' listening to their heavy footfalls bounce around between the suspended debris until they come upon a short, curved staircase.

Once they ascend to the top and emerge onto another flat, open plateau, Strife abruptly draws to a halt and lets out an obnoxious groan as War clomps up beside him and quirks a slender, white brow down at his fellow Nephilim.

Ahead of them, in the middle of the island, is a wide, circular dais, and at its centre sits a pool filled with some kind of viscous liquid that throws out a brilliant, cerulean glow. Carved into the stone around the pool's edge are foreign symbols, each emanating the same hue, neither Demonic nor Angelic in origin, nor are they reminiscent of the language pertaining to the Old ones.

Strife huffs beneath his silver helm. Death, the eldest of the Four Horsemen, would probably be able to read them... the brainy bastard...

Aloud, he throws his head back and gripes, “Ugh! Serpent Holes... I should've known.” He stomps closer to the humming pool and eyes its placid and shimmering surface distastefully, planting both of his gauntlets squarely on his hips.

“You are familiar with these?” War asks, stepping up next to his brother and sliding his eyes over to the trio of statues that encircle the pool, each depicting massive snakes coiled into a striking pose.

Sighing roughly, Strife drops his chin and grumbles, “Unfortunately, yeah. They belong to a... a guy I've heard of.”

“Samael's associate?” War guesses.

The other Horseman nods in reply. “If so, it sure would explain a few things...”

War's brows draw into an impervious line across his forehead and he gives his brother a serious look, lowering his voice to ask, “Can he be trusted?”

Strife's short bark of laughter leaps out of him before he can swallow it down, earning himself a withering glare from War. The older rider knows exactly why he's asking, but to question whether this guy can be trusted is like questioning if an angel can be funny.

The answer, categorically...?

“Uh no,” he chuckles, clearing his throat, “Absolutely not. In no way possible.”

Rankled from being laughed at, War nonetheless gives a resolute hum of understanding.

“But,” Strife adds as he swivels his helm around pointedly, “I don't see another way out of here. So, what're we waiting for?” With one, gauntleted hand, he gestures to the mill-pond in front of them. “Let's hop in.”

Dubious, War squints down at the puddle, his scowl somehow growing even deeper than its usual profundity as he asks, “Is it our only option?”

Shrugging one of his armoured shoulders, Strife replies, “We could just wait right here...” A pause, and then, “... forever.”

The larger Nephilim's lips purse and he seems to come to a decision rather quickly. Moving aside, War gestures down at the pool with a dismissive flick of his prosthetic wrist. “After you.”

“Such a gentleman,” Strife mutters under his breath, moving closer to the Serpent Hole and sparing it a quick once-over.

These things are a means of travel he's never made use of before. There are supposedly countless portals just like this one, spread across every corner of every world, like an insect hive with millions of entrances and exits, all converging in this one, shrouded realm.

The smooth and glassy surface looks stable at least, so it seems safe enough, or as safe as any portal leading to an undisclosed location can be.

But then... when has Strife ever concerned himself with safety?

Stepping confidently onto the dais, his golden eyes slip shut as that familiar, disorienting sensation sweeps his legs out from underneath him and an ancient magic pulls him down through the rippling surface and into the conduit's 'throat,' sensing War's presence close behind him.

At an impossible speed, the Horsemen's atoms are flung through the fabrics of space, hurtling them on towards the connecting portal.

Between one breath and the next, Strife's ears suddenly catch a strange, faraway noise, a high-pitched ringing that seems to grow from ignorable to downright earsplitting in a single blink.

'What the....?'

Solid ground materialises beneath the Horseman's boots and he's just about to peel his eyes open and search for the source of the noise when all of a sudden, something small and squidgy crashes into his torso and sends him staggering backwards off the Serpent Hole, tripping over the lip of the well and sprawling onto his backside with a shout and an almighty clamour of metal striking stone.

… At least the ringing has stopped.

The first explanation that springs to mind is that he's being attacked.

There's a weight tangled up against his chest and the tickle of hair or perhaps fur brushing the underside of his chin.

With lightening speed, Strife snaps a hand down and wrenches Mercy - one of his infamous pistols - from its holster, his blazing eyes enraged, and his lips curled into a snarl, ready to tear his unexpected assailant to pieces for daring to knock him on his ass.

The Horseman cranes his neck down at an awkward angle to look this coward in the face so he can give them his own, personal farewell.... only to freeze in his tracks, his eyes growing round and wide.

The snarl is wiped off his mouth as swiftly as it had appeared.

There's a... a person in his lap, clothed from head to toe in immaculate, white garb. Their hands – and, Creator, those are some tiny hands – are splayed out across his armoured chest plate, each finger tipped by an unnaturally pink nail. There's some kind of sheer, lacy veil poised daintily on top of their head, flipped back to cascade down the length of their spine.

Stunned into rare silence, Strife can only gawk as the person weakly pushes themselves up, using his chest as a prop and groaning in apparent pain.

A face rises from his dusty, old cowl, turning upwards, and all at once, the breath catches inside his throat when two eyes - each framed by thick, ebony lashes - flutter delicately open and lock onto his like a magnet to metal.

----------

Somebody must have hit you with their car. That's the only explanation your poor, frazzled brain can come up with when all motion ceases in a flash of brilliant, white light, and a jarring thud knocks the wind right out of you and causes your teeth to clatter around inside your skull.

After peeling your eyelids apart, it takes you a few, dizzying seconds to make sense of what you're looking at.

Everything is still spinning, the whole world is little more than a blur of greys and blacks until finally, you give a hard blink and focus on two pinpricks of golden light hanging side by side within a beclouded, silver blob.

With immense effort, your brain chugs into gear and you squint, face screwed up in exasperated confusion. Beneath your hands, you gradually become aware of a warm, solid surface moving steadily up and down.

Unfortunately for you, you're given no more time to try and decipher just what it is you're laying upon.

Without warning, something hard and unforgiving grabs a fistful of your dress's neckline from behind and your ensuing yelp is strangled out of you as you're torn away from the golden lights and hurled through the air. A split second of gut-churning free-fall occurs before you hit solid ground again with a hard 'whumph!' rolling several times over across an uneven surface and getting thoroughly tangled up in your skirts until you finally skid to a somewhat painful stop on your spine, eyes screwed shut.

You dimly make a note to get the plates of the god damn semi-truck that must have just ploughed into you... as soon as you can see straight, that is.

“Brother! Are you injured!?” a voice booms out, too loud for your pounding head to cope with.

It takes considerable effort just to roll your neck over until your cheek is pressed against the wonderfully cool stone underneath you.

Heaving out a weary groan, you pry your eyelids apart and squint through the strange, dull light to see a pair of... figures, you suppose, standing several yards away from you, slowly coming into focus. Blinking, you attempt to raise your head to get a better look at them, your neck straining from the effort.

One of the figures is leaning down and hauling a slightly smaller one onto their feet, only to have their efforts rewarded by being shoo-ed away by the latter, who huffs, “M'fine, War. Relax. She just caught me off guard.”

A beat of silence follows, and then... “She?”

The pair of them turn in your direction, and as they do, you promptly feel the blood in your veins run thick with cold.

Eyes. Those golden pinpricks of light you'd been staring into mere moments ago had been eyes.

The pain in your neck dissipates as your brain catches up with the situation and a neural pathway clears to make room for alarm and mounting horror.

What... happened? Who are these people?

...

… You need to get up...

Gritting your teeth so hard that your jaw begins to ache, you roll yourself over onto your front and push against the ground, bullying your battered body up onto trembling hands and knees as the familiar weight of your shoulder bag slides down your ribs and lands on the ground with a 'clink.' Thunderous footsteps shake the tiny stones beneath you, and, still in the throes of a daze, you watch them skitter about, wondering how large the approaching figure could possibly be that he might cause the Earth itself to quiver.

Stinging pain on your arms briefly draws your focus to a crosshatch of scrapes and grazes that litter the skin from wrist to elbow, though you don't have long to inspect them before that same, rough hand is snatching you up by the collar of your dress once more, this time tearing a yelp from your lips as the ground falls away and you're hoisted into the air, your shoes dangling several, alarming feet off the ground.

It abruptly occurs to you that you might be lobbed again, so, with unparalleled haste, you throw your arms out and tear your eyes off your wedding shoes, raising your head and blurting, “Wait! Wait, don't, ple-...!”

Whatever plea you'd intended to make is forgotten in the blink of an eye.

It is immensely disconcerting to find yourself hanging clear off the ground and still having to look up into the fierce, arctic eyes of a bonafide giant.

A crimson hood cloaks half of the strange man's face in darkness, but his teeth gleam starkly in contrast as he aims a snarl at you that could rival an angry lion's. With deliberate ferocity, his almighty jaw is pried apart, causing you to instinctively brace.

It swiftly becomes apparent that you were right to do so.

“What is the meaning of this ambush!?” he roars, and a blast of heat slugs you squarely in the face, forcing you to clamp your eyes shut and try to hunch into your shoulders before you're able to blink tentatively up at him again once the warmth recedes.

You can't think fast enough to formulate a response.

The man holding you aloft – though you hesitate to call him a man at all – has to be something straight out of the fantasy novels you read as a child. He's built like an ox on steroids, an almighty, armoured brute with shoulders as broad as a truck and a face like chiselled granite. He glowers down at you from beneath his crimson cloak with eyes that lack any kind of iris or pupil. Instead, you find yourself trapped by two, white-blue pits of light that burn the same colour as a roaring gas fire.

Your impromptu study is interrupted when the man peels his lips back even further to expose sharpened canines and he gives you a rough shake, as though you weigh no more to him than a dollar bill.

“Speak!” he demands, “Before I decorate this wretched abyss with your innards!”

Somehow, you don't think that's an empty threat.

Thoroughly jostled, panic bubbles up inside your chest like acid and your mouth turns as dry as a desert when you peel your tongue from the roof of it, parting your trembling lips and sucking down a lungful of stale, musty air.

If this man had been expecting a coherent response, he's about to be sorely disappointed.

“AAAAAAHHHH!”

The ungodly shriek that explodes past your teeth has the stranger's head jolting back, his brows unfurling by a fraction to give away his surprise.

Like a mouse caught alive in slowly closing jaws, you begin to thrash and struggle, twisting yourself from left to right and even bringing your legs up to paddle uselessly at his armoured stomach, screeching, “LET ME GO!”

The only indication that he's even noticing your efforts is the single, snowy brow that makes a steady journey higher up his forehead.

“Ha! What've I always told you, War?” another robust voice echoes across the platform and into your ears, momentarily drawing your focus away from your pitiful escape attempt.

'War? What kind of a name is that?'

The second figure emerges from behind the first - smaller and slighter than your captor, but still leagues bigger than you.

Boldly, he leans an elbow against his companion and cocks his head at you, drawling, “You sure have a way with the ladies.”

Jesus, there isn't an inch of this one that isn't strapped up in gleaming armour, gunmetal grey in the seams and dulled silver everywhere else. Even his head is obscured by an avian helm made entirely from metal, save for two, angular hollows carved into the front, from which a pair of eyes peer out at you, entirely featureless as well. These, however, spark with intrigue rather than rage, glowing gold like a freshly struck match.

The larger of the two has yet to take his own eyes off you. He ignores his friend's jab, instead jutting his square chin at you and growling, “What do you make of this, Brother?”

Brother?

“Whaaat the shiiiit?” you whimper breathlessly, reaching up and feeling for the back of your dress to tug feebly at the unyielding, steel fingers as if you ever had a hope in Hell's chance of loosening the giant's grip.

This has to be some kind of prank, or a hallucination - a full, auditory and visual hallucination. Tactile as well, apparently, though you've never heard that such a thing is really possible. But what other explanation is there? Perhaps that taxi driver had somehow drugged you through the... god, the air conditioning, or something.

All you know with any certainty, is that whatever terrible dream or trip you're having right now, it's a thousand times scarier than any stupid wedding. What you wouldn't give to be walking down that aisle now instead of dangling helplessly in the clutches of a man who's much too large to be human.

The silver figment of your imagination tilts his helm down, then slowly brings it back up, and even without any recognisable detail in his eyes, you just know he's giving you a thorough once-over.

“Mm,” he grunts, cocking a hip and folding his arms across a proud chest, “Can't be sure. Maybe some kind of... fashion-forward angel?”

“Then where are her wings?” the one holding you speculates.

“Ah. Right, right, right.... Mmm, glamoured demon?”

'War' is quiet for a time, narrowing his glare at you before he blinks and offers a pensive nod. “... A fair assumption.”

On the verge of losing your breakfast, you whip your head back and forth between the two of them, bewildered by a conversation you can't possibly hope to follow.

“Although~,” the smaller one starts, and without warning, reaches down to pluck the front of your dress between his fingers, tugging the fabric up to inspect it and inadvertently revealing the wedding garter on your thigh, “This seems a little excessive for a disguise.”

For a split second, your unparalleled fear is abruptly overwhelmed by a rush of indignation, and before you can come to your senses, you aim a vicious kick at the silver gauntlet keeping your dress aloft. “Hey! Hands off!” you bark.

To your surprise, he actually lets go and raises his hands in mock surrender.

“Woah~! Feisty little filly, isn't she?” he chuckles.

The indignation doesn't last for long after that.

Receiving another sharp glare from the man holding you hostage, you gulp audibly and stop trying to kick out, turning limp in his grasp and ducking your head to escape his scrutiny.

“What business have you here, demon?” he spits the last word through his teeth like it's poisonous, “Are you Samael's associate?”

“Sam-eye-who!?” you squeak, a far cry from your earlier bite, “I-I don't know! I'm not.. I'm not a demon, for god's sake, I'm a human being!”

Anyone would think you'd just spoken the magic words.

Your enormous captor's eyes fling open wide and all at once, the pressure around your chest goes slack and you're unceremoniously dropped in a heap onto your backside, your dress fluttering down after to pool around your legs.

A jarring pain shoots up your coccyx and you wince, trying desperately to ignore the fact that that sort of pain would definitely wake you up if you were dreaming. Moments later, you're kicking and pushing yourself backwards across the stone, away from the looming titans.

An eerie change seems to have come over the pair. Now, they're both staring down at you in dangerous silence, at least until the silver one begins to stride after you, prompting a squeal of alarm to escape your lips. He catches up to you easily and plants one, immense boot down on the train of your dress, jerking you to a sudden halt and preventing you from retreating any further.

“What did you just say?” he utters slowly. Dangerously. There's none of the jocular lilt in his tone that had been there only moments ago.

Your chest heaves, your mind races... What did you say? What did you say that could have prompted such a change in their demeanour?

“Wh-what?” you splutter, “What, that I'm a human? I'm not a demon!?”

Why does that matter? You thought it was pretty, damn obvious.

The pair of them stare down at you in silence for several, uncomfortable seconds until you're sure you're going to burst if the tension grows any thicker, when all of a sudden, the smaller one throws his head back and lets out a sharp bark of laughter, successfully giving you a tiny heart attack. “Ha! Good one!” he snorts, extending a clawed thumb and flicking it between he and his companion, “Hey, you know what. Me and my brother are actually makers who got hit by a shrinking spell.”

Swallowing your heart back down your throat, you breathlessly ask, “What... the Hell is a maker?”

The pair of them share an odd look before peering down at you again. “It... was a joke,” he says slowly, regarding you as if you're being deliberately dense.

At last, he removes his boot from your dress and steps back, glancing at his brother. “Hey... You don't think...”

“No,” 'War' retorts with an air of inarguable finality, “She cannot be human. Listen to her. She speaks the Common tongue. Humanity's language is.. abstract. They still rely on visual communication.”

Incredulous, you stare up at him as if he's now the one being dense.

His brother meanwhile, gives him an impressed up and down, drawling out, “Well, look at you, brushing up on your human history.”

“They are not exactly a difficult species to understand,” the first scoffs.

If you weren't so busy trying to crawl backwards as stealthily as possible, you'd probably take offence to the slandering humanity.

As it is, however, you're more preoccupied with how they're referring to humans in the third person. You don't much like the implications of that.

There's a lot you don't really like about this whole situation, actually. Your brain feels like its firing all cylinders as it tries to make sense of where you are and how in the world you got here. Who are those two people? Is this real, or is it all happening in a dream?

Sniffling, you swipe the back of a hand underneath your nose and begin the arduous task of shambling backwards on your rear, keeping your eyes fixed upon the two strangers before at last swallowing a gulp of bravery and tearing your eyes away, flinging yourself over and scrabbling up onto your heeled feet.

Your plan, unperfected though it may be, is simple.

Run like Hell and hope you can out-pace the pair of heavy-weight brutes behind you.

Your own folly is that you'd been so busy watching them, that you have yet to catch a glimpse of your surroundings, a decision you instantly regret when you face forwards and have to slam on the brakes at once. “SHIT!” you yelp, your arms pinwheeling desperately as you slide to a sharp and clumsy halt right at the edge of an enormous, flat-topped rock.

Chest heaving, you let out a shaky breath and tentatively inch your neck out to peer down over the ledge.

Nothing waits below you.

Literally nothing.

There's only a thick, gaping abyss that plunges down, so far down until the ambient light fades and turns into pitch-black darkness.

You can even see the bottom of the rock you're standing on.

This, you think, must be what astronauts feel like, floating in the great expanse of space with no idea of what's out there, nothing above you, nothing below you... You could drift forever if you take a single step forwards.

It's a harrowing thought.

Sweat beads on the nape of your neck and you take a very slow, very careful step backwards, away from the ledge. Your head swings like a periscope from left to right in search of a way off this stupid boulder. There's nothing about this place you recognise, not from any book, or documentary or map. You have to look away when you spot a veritable mountain levitating in the distance, nothing to support it but the open air.

“This is a dream...” you mutter to yourself, “Surely to god, please let this be a dream...”

“You should watch your step.”

Your shoulders jump and you whip around, reeling your bag back threateningly, only to find the silver-clad man standing a little too close to you, regarding you curiously from several, meagre feet away.

God... even stood at your full height, you doubt you'd even reach the bottom of his sternum.

“Y-you stay away from me!” you stammer, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, “I mean it! If you come any closer, I'll... I'll-!”

Cocking his helm to one side, the stranger helpfully suggests, “You'll... make us regret it?”

Borderline hysterical, you latch onto his proposal at once, jabbing your bag at him. “Yes, yes! Exactly. Oh-ho! You would not believe what I've got inside this thing!”

Lipstick, tissues, tweezers and tampons. Truly, you're a formidable opponent for two hulking brutes with guns and a sword that's taller than you are.

“Okay,” you admit, deflating like a popped balloon, “Okay, I.. I don't know what you want from me, but, you should know, my family... we aren't very rich, so if you're going to ask for a ransom-”

You start to feel your lip wobble, but before the waterworks really hit, the stranger squints down at you incredulously and asks, “Lady, what the Hell are you talking about? You're the one who crashed into us!” He pauses to share a brief glance with his brother. “Well, specifically me. I think the real question is, what do you want with us?”

Your hands fly up and you splay them out in front of you, waving them frantically from side to side. “Nothing! It was an accident, I – I didn't mean to, I just... I...” Trailing off, your arms slowly draw close up against your chest and you drag your eyes down to the stranger's boots, aimless in their venturing. “I'm supposed to be getting married right now! I just want to get out of here.” Wherever on Earth here is.

Good god, your mother... She'll be so disappointed that you didn't turn up, after all the work she put into your own wedding. And your father! Watching you from a screen in his hospital bed, expecting to see his daughter walking down the aisle, only to see... nothing.

The thought hits you like a punch to your roiling guts.

Pressing a hand over your mouth, you thoughtlessly turn your back on the two men, ignorant of the way the largest bristles in offence.

Perhaps it isn't especially intelligent to expose your fragile spine to these... people. But nothing stabs or shoots you in the back for several minutes, so you turn your focus to a more pressing matter – retracing your steps and figuring out how you ended up in this otherworldly place.

Strife eyes the 'human' uncertainly.

It's odd, he thinks. You don't act like a human, you don't sound like a human. Heck, you barely even look human. There are hardly any hair follicles embedded in your skin and your jaw isn't nearly robust enough. And humans, so far as he knows, don't wear those clothes. They wear leathers and furs - sturdy things meant to protect them from the world they've recently made their home. Not stark, white silk that looks like angel-made fabric.

And yet... Well, you're either a demon who also happens to be the Universe's most convincing actress, or you really believe you're a member of the human race.

… Huh...

“Brother?”

He perks up at the sound of War's voice, casting a glance over a shoulder to see his brother has moved away and is standing at the foot of another stone staircase, watching the woman through narrowed eyes. “It is clear this... creature is not of sound mind.”

“But, she-”

“We have our orders from the Council,” he continues pointedly, cutting his brother off, “We've tarried for too long.”

“...Right...” Strife exhales softly through his nose. Their 'orders...'

With a pensive furrow to his brow, he spares a final look back at you.

One of your arms is wrapped securely around your middle, the other bent up at the elbow to press bone-white knuckles firmly against quivering lips, and those intricate, pretty eyes glisten in the dim light of the Void as they dart around at the ever-changing landscape.

Of its own accord, Strife's mouth stretches into a lopsided grin.

You sure are a weird little creature. Or misshapen angel, or glamoured demon, or... whatever in Creation you are.

And where had you even come from, if not from here?

He muses on it for a moment longer before War none-too subtly clears his throat, reminding Strife to get a move on.

Typical War... always more interested in upholding his honour than succumbing to even the barest sniff of curiosity.

'Still,' Strife supposes, heaving a one-shouldered shrug, 'shepherding wayward souls is Death's area of expertise. Not mine.'

… This soul does have a particularly wayward look about it though...

Strife wrenches his focus away and turns his back on the little 'human,' giving his helm a brusque shake to clear it of any lingering intrigue.

You are not his problem.

He reaches the steps and looks up at War, who gives him a steadfast nod before turning on his heel and lumbering on towards the apex of the staircase.

Tempering his curiosity by focusing on the grim duty they've been set by the Charred Council, Strife follows along at a lackadaisical pace, but just as his boot hits the fourth step, a timid sound drifts across the rocky landscape and twitches at his ears, just loud enough to slow him to a standstill once more.

It's a sound he seldom hears, but for all its rarity, it's recognisable nonetheless.

To begin with, he starts to think he must have imagined it, perhaps it was nothing more than an ambient sound cast by the Void itself.

But then, he hears it again, and there's no pretending for a second time.

It's the conveying of despair and worry and fear all wrapped up inside one, little vocalisation.

A wet, hitching, 'sob!'

'Oh no...' The rider squeezes his eyes shut and wills himself to take another step forwards, jaw clenched in defiance of his own, wretched heart.

Damn him, he's a Horseman now. A Horseman of the Apocalypse, no less. Hell, he's a killer, a genocidal maniac, a dashing if not puckish scoundrel. The Horsemen weren't created by the Charred Council to solve trivial matters such as escorting strays back home, after all. That would be laughable.

What was it they had decreed him? Endless Spirit of timeless unrest. All that is unsettled in the hearts of that which lives and breathes...

Yeah. Something along those lines.

… He's a good-for-nothing...

Strife's head twists around ever so slightly and he catches a glimpse of you over his shoulder.

That flouncy, white garment trails through the dust behind you as you pace back and forth across the platform, head tipped to the sky and your chest heaving in and out with long, overcompensating breaths, none of which seem enough to fill your lungs.

In a word, you look... terrified.

When you turn to the side, his sharp eyes immediately zero in on the glistening shine on your cheeks.

They're wet? But... how could they be? There isn't any...

Oh...

Gently, the Horseman's gaze slides down to rest on the holster strapped to his left hip. Mercy rests inside, patient and pliant, always standing ready in the event that its master needs it. Gah, he must've been feeling particularly sentimental when he named the damn pistols...

Slumping on his haunches, Strife blows out an exaggerated sigh, defeated by his most tenacious opponent – himself.

“War?” he utters, resigned.

The younger Nephilim pauses his ascent and twists his torso around, cocking a brow down at his brother and finding his helm fixed unwaveringly in your direction.

“... I don't think she's a glamoured demon...”

War's shoulder pauldrons clank softly as he raises his head and glowers down at you, his eyes narrowing to thin slits. “What makes you so sure?” he asks after a beat.

This time, when Strife speaks, he starts to venture back down the staircase, never once looking away from you. “Demons don't cry,” he explains quietly, more to himself than to War, “They can't. Their frontal lobes are the smallest of any species. They literally don't know how to cry...”

“Your familiarity with demon biology is noted, but what are you getting at, brother?”

Reaching the bottom of the steps, Strife doesn't respond, prompting War to call out to him, slightly louder, “Brother?!”

But the older rider's attention is now solely fixed upon the small, unassuming stranger who'd quite literally barrelled straight into his life.

He approaches slowly, much like he'd approached his flighty steed, Mayhem, not so many weeks ago.

You turn towards him just as he draws within a few feet of you and when you spot him looming above you, you jump back, choking out a cry of alarm.

His fearsome stare trails from your head all the way down to your shoes that sit hidden beneath the hem of the wedding dress. “What is it?” you try to snap, grimacing when it leaves you as a pitiable squeak instead, “What are you staring at?”

If Strife were a more mannerly Nephilim, he might have recognised that it's rude to not only ignore people when they address you, but to stare at them so openly and unabashedly that they feel the need to cover their chests to preserve some modicum of dignity, or privacy.

But as it is, he isn't mannerly.

His name is Strife, for Creation's sake. Not Harmony.

The Horseman snorts at his own little joke, electing to save that one for later when he feels the time is right. War is sure to hate it, if nothing else.

Good.

But as for the matter at hand...

Strife has met some wolves trussed up in sheep's clothing before, but here he sees a wolf with no teeth, no claws, no weapons or magic.

In fact, aside from that unusual satchel you keep slung around your waist, you haven't raised a single weapon against them, and unless you have something hidden away beneath those frills and skirts – which he highly doubts – you've come here, to the Void, completely and utterly...

“Unarmed,” he muses aloud, appraising you in a new light.

Hardly even a wolf at all, then. Perhaps more of a sheep in lambswool.

You're defensive. Not aggressive.

What a jarring change of pace from their usual company...

And... you're still crying.

Unleashing a deep sigh that seems to emanate right from the darkest depths of his soul, Strife lifts an arm and cards his fingers through thick, black hair that sticks in an unruly mess from the back of his skull, more akin to a demon's spines than the soft, lustrous locks of angel hair.

“Look,” he pushes out, dropping his gaze from your face at last, “I, uh.. I'm not sure what you are. Or where you came from. But, I can't help noticing that you don't have a way to defend yourself...”

His eyes are on you again as soon as you shuffle away from him a little further, freezing you solid. After several seconds pass and you realise he isn't about to attack, you swipe at your damp cheeks and lower your stare to his pistols.

'Well, duh,' you want to scoff, 'Of course I'm not armed. I'm not a psychopath who brings guns to her own wedding.' Calling the gun-toting juggernaut a psychopath might not go down so well. Then, belatedly, you think, 'It isn't a shotgun wedding, after all.' But something tells you the humour wouldn't be well-received either by anyone except yourself.

...Cain would have hated that joke.

'Good,' a tiny, vindictive part of you whispers, deep within the most secretive corners of your mind.

At your prolonged silence, Strife mirrors your stance, bringing his much beefier arms up to fold them pointedly across his own chest. “Well, if that's the case,” he huffs, “Then you're either really brave, or really, really stupid.”

Pursing your lips, you slide your gaze to one side, apparently unwilling to divulge which of the two you believe yourself to be.

“You're in the Void, kid,” he presses, sweeping a hand out to the world around you, “This is no place for a vulnerable little speck like you.”

He's admittedly proud that he manages to put an affronted scowl on your otherwise fear-stricken face.

“And if who I think is here, is here...” Falling silent for the sole purpose of building suspense, he lowers his arms to his sides and drops his pitch, uttering, “Then you're in more trouble than you realise. We're here via invite. Can't say the same for you...”

At long last, you find your tongue. “Uh, what're you... getting at?” you say falteringly, retreating another step only to suck down a whimper when he simply closes the distance again in a single stride.

The stomping approach of heavy footfalls alerts you to the larger man returning grumpily to his brother's side with a face the very picture of exasperated irritation.

You shrink in on yourself when his shadow falls across you.

“Well,” the silver man pipes up, “You keep telling us you're human... And now, y'see... I'm kinda curious about that... Cause me and my brother can't exactly leave you here when you're supposed to be back on Earth.”

His words cause your brain to sputter for a moment before it kicks into gear again. Very carefully, you ask, “What do you mean, 'back on Earth?”

Disregarding your query entirely, he simply states, “You're comin' with us."

Your response to that is about as abrupt as they come.

You balk, stumbling away from them again on shaky heels. “I most certainly am not!” you blurt out, feeling your panic spike to its apex, “Frankly, I'm still not convinced that you two, or any of this-!” You throw your arms away from your chest. “- aren't just some kind of fucked up hallucination brought on by the stress of this stupid wedding!”

Strife's eyes crinkle with amusement, a stark contradiction to War's, who's own glare is so cold, it would give Death a run for his money. Nothing you say makes any sense. It's actually quite enchanting.

“...What... is a wedding?” War murmurs to him from the side of his mouth.

Shrugging, his brother replies, “Beats me. But, we should probably get this show on the road.”

“Agreed.”

“You thinking what I'm thinking?”

War scoffs. “The day I think like you, brother, is the day I shall finally ask Fury to cleave my brain out with her whip.”

Strife's grin turns sharp and pointed. “Ha,” he says flatly, “Funny. I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to do the honours.”

At once, your whole body goes rigid and you dart a suspicious look between them, bumbling, “Honours? What honours? What do you mean honours?”

The glare War is subjecting his brother to is nothing short of murderous, but after a moment of stillness, his cinched jaw works itself loose and some of the stiffness dissipates from his shoulders. Stoic, utterly impenetrable, he turns his hooded face to you and holds you still with a mere look of warning, eyebrows locked at the centre of his forehead.

Then, without a word, he marches forwards, and in one smooth motion, bends down and snakes a monstrous arms around your hips, sweeping you effortlessly into the air and slinging you across his shoulder like a sack of especially mortified potatoes. You slot neatly into the space between his hood and the solid, metal shoulder pauldron to your right.

At once, your palms slap down on the gigantic expanse of his back and you let out a bleat of terror when his metal palm lands on the seat of your dress.

Even through layers and layers of fabric, you can still feel the heat his appendage exudes.

“What do you think you're doing!?” you shout, kicking your legs and clawing at his armour to try and pull yourself free, “Put me down, right now!”

The silver man steps up to War's back and tilts his head at you, meeting your flabbergasted gaze with a coy wink.

“What? Not comfortable enough for you, Princess?”

Sparing him a distressed frown, you sag against the shoulder you're laying across and bleakly croak, “Why're you doing this?”

“I have to concur with the female, Strife-"

You yelp again and hurry to wind your fingers into the crimson cloak beneath you as War abruptly swings around to face his brother, adding, “-Why are we doing this?”

For a few seconds, the smaller Nephilim simply watches on in amusement as your comically diminutive shoes flick and flail helplessly through the air, poking out from under all those layers of white fabric until one wayward heel almost grazes War's cheek, prompting the Horseman to rumble out a low growl and raise his other hand to capture both of your ankles in one palm, keeping them secured.

“Don't suppose you'd accept, 'because it's funny' as an answer, would you?” Strife poses.

The Red rider's lip curves up and this time, he growls at his brother, and the strength of it causes your teeth to clatter around inside your jaw.

At the display of aggression, Strife simply snorts and spins on his heel, making for the staircase again as he beckons over his shoulder for War to keep up.

With an aggravated grunt, the youngest Horseman trudges unhurriedly along behind him.

“Fine," Strife sighs in mock exasperation, "We're doing it because if she really is human, then I wanna know how we missed an evolutionary jump this big, and if she isn't...”

A shadow falls across his visor and he drops back until he's stalking along just behind War's heel, a sudden ice to his tone as he watches you struggle about on his brother's shoulder.

“If she isn't human,” he murmurs dangerously, sending fingers of ice brushing up your spine, “Then I plan on finding out just why she thinks she can lie to the Horsemen, and live to tell the tale...”

#Darksiders #darksiders genesis #War/reader #Strife/reader #fluff #angst #marriage #hurt/comfort #Strife is kind of nasty thooo #War continues to be best boy #weddings #reluctant bride #runaway bride? sort of?#not an incest ship #horsemen of the apocalypse #Human x monster

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neonscandal · 2 years

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9 Anime to Watch if You Want to Feel Like 👇🏾

I wanna go to war! I want a lightsaber! AHHHHH! 💪🏾

Sometimes, ya just wanna see heads roll. Following the path of a "righteous" or... morally ambiguous person with a mission wreaking havoc against insurmountable odds (cue the plot armor). This collection just happens to be bite sized for your viewing pleasure. Check out the short series/movie recs below for good action. Since that feeds into a lot of sub-genres, there's more of a focus on adventure or drama (as opposed to horror or gore). ⚠️ Most of these recs are for mature audiences so be advised!

Michiko and Hatchin (series)

Filed under: "I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me." Michiko is equal parts lethal and lovely. In fact, her looks often leave those who seek to capture her unaware of how big a threat she truly is. She is reckless and relentless with a single minded determination. The story starts out as a quest for a man but evolves into one of camaraderie between the titular characters. TBH I'd love more WOC led action series/suggestions.

Sub/Dub | Funimation, Crunchyroll

Trigun (series + OVA)

When @elaine2895 asked some of my favorite characters, the reflection reminded me of one of my favorite anime when I was younger. The series follows Vash the Stampede, a wandering gunman who draws the ire of those he comes across as he leaves chaos in his wake or, worse, inspires fear in the very civilians he makes it a point to save. The bounty on his head pretty much guarantees he will never know peace but he continues to roll along until he's forced to confront his past.

Sub/Dub | Funimation, Crunchyroll, Hulu

Samurai Champloo (series)

I almost added Samurai Champloo to this list instead but I'm glad I held out. It's a great addition to this list, I just happened to find the fight sequences to be particularly beautiful and the soundtrack is stellar. Fuu embarks on a mission to find a samurai who smells of sunflowers with Mugen and Jin begrudgingly in tow. While Mugen and Jin manage to stave off their animosity toward one another to work together as her body guard, they manage to make new and exciting trouble along the way. With Fuu's quest driving each of them forward, all three of them are forced to to come to terms with their separate pasts on their journey together.

Sub/Dub | Crunchyroll, Funimation, Hulu

Gangsta. (series)

See those tags up close and it just may be the last thing you see so let that be a warning. Nico and Worick are handymen who specialize in doing the dirty work no one else is really capable of doing. In a city overrun with corruption and sin, they play their role to maintain a sense of balance for those around them. So when a new force rears its head in Ergastulum, causing trouble for their esteemed contacts, they handle it the only way they know how. By any means necessary.

Sub/Dub | Funimation, Hulu

Banana Fish (series)

I try to keep recommendations diverse so the fact that this series wound up on this list before then ending up on this list of favorite characters...? It so squarely fits into this genre, it can't be avoided and it's so captivating. Ash, 17-year old gang leader, is entangled in a conspiracy that grows larger and larger by the day. Having spent too much of his life under the thumb of a large mafia boss, he navigates the rotten underbelly of gangland New York tracking down the origin of a strange drug that made its way to his turf. The very same mafia boss threatens his freedom and life the closer he gets to the truth. Despite the growing dangers associated with exploring this rabbit hole of a drug, his resolve doesn't waver. Where some of these shows tend to burn brightly and fade from your recollection over time, this is definitely one that stays with you (if the rest of my blog is any indication). ⚠️ Pay attention to trigger warnings!

Sub | Prime Video

Cowboy Bebop (series + OVA)

Bounty hunters have the benefit of no one digging too deeply when you show up to collect on an even shadier guys outstanding bounty. Cowboy Bebop pulls back the curtain on the lives of Spike, Jet and Faye as they barely skate by on what little bounties they're able to collect on. The bonds that keep them together are tenuous and it's not always clear what side of the law they're really on. While the show seems relatively easygoing and without a larger mission, eventually everyone has to answer for what drove them to be a bounty hunter in the first place.

Sub/Dub | Netflix, Funimation, Crunchyroll, Hulu

Akame Ga Kill! (series)

Filed under: "I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me", "Don't get too attached" and "That first episode tho 👀" To say the story follows Tatsumi would be a bit misleading, especially considering the titular character is so obviously Akame. Nonetheless, the series kicks off with kind and naive Tatsumi, hoping to raise money for his village, separated from his childhood friends when bandits strike. Finding himself far from the kindness of his village, he becomes ensnared in a greater scheme to combat corruption in the Capital between two opposing forces the Night Raid and the Empire.

Sub/Dub | Hulu, HiDive

Dorohedoro (series)

Filed under: "I love the kind of woman that will actually just kill me" Age old story of a man who's transfigured into a reptile works to exact revenge and remember who he was before the transfiguration by kicking lots of ass. Pretty straightforward but things are not always as they may seem. Any questions, ask the guy inside his head.

Sub/Dub | Netflix

Love of Kill

This show takes enemies to lovers a bit literally. It's basically the product of what happens when an unstoppable force (Ryang-Ha the assassin) meets an immovable object (Chateau the bounty hunter). I think they call that the irresistible force paradox. So it goes as Ryang-Ha develops a quick and inexplicable fondness for someone who continues to be a rival and threat to his livelihood. Begrudgingly, Chateau entertains his whims as a means to an end but, eventually, the cost of keeping his company gets to be a little too pricy...

Sub/Dub | Crunchyroll

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one-boring-person · 3 years

Text

The Real Thing.

Major Franz Sauer (Munich: The Edge of War) x Female!reader

Warnings: NSFW, smut, slight dubious consent (Not much)

Context: Franz catches the reader whilst she's sleeping and...yeah ;)

Masterlist

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By the time Franz finally reaches the familiar apartment, it's too late. Somewhere in the apartment block he can hear a grandfather clock chiming midnight, four hours later than his intended time of arrival had been, his irritation with himself steadily rising. He's unsure of why he turned up at all, knowing that the person he's here to see will be long asleep now, and very likely angry with him for not turning up on time. A curse escapes him as he stares at the closed door; there are some times that his job irritates him.

For a short moment, the major debates ringing the doorbell, wondering if it would be a good idea to do so. It doesn't take him long to decide against it, instead lowering a hand to try the door handle.

He frowns as it opens - he'd already told her she should be more careful and leaving the door unlocked is one of the worst things she can do. Internally, Franz makes a note to remind her.

Silently, he enters the apartment, closing the door softly behind him. When he doesn't hear any response from inside the apartment, he goes further in, remembering where her room is. A brief battle inside him is won as he locates the bedroom, knowing he's breaching her privacy here, though his curiosity and longing wins over his trepidation. Carefully, he goes into the small room, easily making out the shape of (Y/n) on the bed, her lower body covered by the duvet.

Standing for a minute, he admires how the moonlight falls across her bare back until it occurs to him exactly what he's looking at: her naked back. Franz can't help but stare at the skin covered by the blanket, a need to touch it and explore her making itself known inside him. Biting his lip, he once again battles with himself, before he finally gives over and approaches the bed, sitting lightly on the edge.

Tentatively, he lifts a hand, taking his cap from his head and placing it on the bed beside him before using the same hand to lightly brush some hair from her neck. Using a featherlight touch, Franz ghosts his fingers down to her shoulder blades, feeling over her wonderfully soft skin with awe, admiring her body. (Y/n) stirs ever so slightly but doesn't wake, seemingly arching minutely into the touch on her back. Smiling softly to himself, Franz continues on his way, stroking gentle lines down to her lower back, trying to ignore the image of her breasts pressed against the mattress that enters his mind, his cock twitching a little in his trousers all of a sudden as he thinks it.

Surprised, he stops for a moment, looking down at his crotch. He'd often dreamt of being intimate with (Y/n), and now that he can finally give in to the urges to admire her body his own body is reacting accordingly. Once more, he debates stopping, but the soft whine that escapes her as his contact stills kills the thought in the crib.

Slightly more deliberately now, Franz presses his fingers down a little more, pushing them towards her ass, which he smooths his entire hand over. His curiosity gets the better of him and he cups her rear in his palm, squeezing ever so slightly to feel the flesh properly; the sensation sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock, which twitches once more. He knows he shouldn't touch her without her consent, but he can't help himself, enraptured now by the feeling of that soft skin against his fingers.

And then he feels her arch into his touch.

His eyes snap back to her head as she pushes her hips up towards him, a soft whine escaping her. When he looks, however, her eyes are still closed, though she's starting to stir, the giveaway breaths of moans telling him exactly what he needs to know: she's enjoying his ministrations, whether instinctively or not.

Unable to stop the triumphant grin spreading on his face, he massages her ass a little more, satisfied by the sight of her fists clenching in the sheets, her lips parting to utter something nearly incoherent.

"Mmph...Please, Franz...Please…" Her words are slurred, still sleepy, but he can distinguish them immediately.

Franz can't help but stare at her, stunned. Is she dreaming about him? And not only dreaming about him but having an apparently not-entirely-innocent dream?

His suspicions are only confirmed when she moans out his name once again, pushing her ass against him, trying to grind against whatever she can.

An idea springs to mind and he smirks, suddenly very happy with how the night is apparently turning out.

"(Y/n)..." A teasing voice purrs right into my ear, the sound suddenly far more realistic than it had been moments before. Hot breath fans over my face and I become aware of the fact I'm no longer alone.

It's still dark, late at night, though I can't see the room, given I'm laying on my front. Not that I'd be able to turn over, I realize with swiftly rising concern - there's a hand cupping my ass, massaging the flesh softly, inexplicably sending gentle rolls of pleasure through me, the grip almost holding me down. A body leans over me, a face lingering near my neck, lips seconds from touching my sensitive skin.

They must have felt me tense, as they quickly soothe me, stroking the skin on my lower back now, pressing their nose to my cheek.

"(Y/n), it's me, Franz." The familiar voice hums to me, deepened with lust, the sound of which now sends waves of anticipation through me as I recognise the speaker.

"F-Franz? What are you doing?" I try to sit up, but the major only pushes me back down, brushing his lips over my pulse.

"Sh, sh...I believe I interrupted a rather pleasant dream of yours," I can almost hear the smirk in his tone, a soft gasp escaping me as he squeezes my ass again, "It would be rude of me to leave you needing...what do you say, (Y/n)? Want me to make you feel good?"

His teeth suddenly pinch my ear lobe, drawing an almost inaudible moan from me.

"Let you try the real thing?"

His last words make me realize he knows exactly what - or rather, who - I was just dreaming about, a blush coming to my cheeks. I want to reply, but his hand has suddenly slipped lower, fingers dancing at my folds, teasing me. The sigh that leaves me is enough of an answer for him, my hips bucking into him slightly to encourage him.

Slowly, Franz presses his lips to my neck, plastering a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the skin there, his tongue flicking out to taste me, leaving a wet mark in his wake. Groaning quietly, he stoops to repeat his action, pressing his chest down on my back as his fingers continue to tease me, dipping somewhat deeper with every stroke over my folds. Pleasure courses through me, sounds of need falling from my lips, mixed with pants of his name, a high-pitched whine following the first press of his fingers against my clit.

Deliberately, he drags the pad of one finger over my clit, chuckling deeply in my ear as I buck into the touch, whining for more.

"You're already so wet, (Y/n). It would be so easy just to…" He slides his finger into my pussy, crooking it, sucking a mark just below my ear.

Moaning loudly, I arch my back, trying to push my ass closer to the pleasure flooding my body. Disappointingly, he removes his finger, using the slick he's gathered now to rub over my clit, massaging it with two fingers, drawing a figure of eight over and over. Squeezing my eyes shut in ecstasy, I focus on the calloused fingertips on my sensitive bud, unable to believe this is actually happening, whimpering as Franz mouths at my neck more.

"Fuck, those little sounds you're making are hot, (Y/n). I can smell how turned on you are," Franz licks a line down to my shoulder, before kissing his way back up to my ear, "I want to taste you. Do you want that? Want me to taste you until your legs are shaking?"

I groan gutturally at his words, pleading with him to do so.

"Yess...yes please, Franz!" I squirm as he lightly pinches my clit, squeaking in surprise.

"Hm I knew you'd want that. I can only comply." He practically purrs into my ear, letting his lips trail to the nape of my neck, where he begins a torturous trail of wet kisses. Tongue pressing into my skin every now and then, Franz maneuvers himself so he's hovering over me, an arm on either side of me, his uniform chafing a little against me though it only adds to the anticipation. As he reaches the swell of my ass, he bites gently at the flesh, groaning as I moan for him.

The major moves to lie on the bed between my legs, using his hands to carefully spread my ass cheeks, audibly making his arousal known as he stares at my sex.

"Franz-" I start to say, only for him to cut me off by suddenly attaching his mouth to my clit, flattening his tongue against me.

The sudden onslaught of pleasure drags a long, loud moan from me, my hands gripping the sheets as the euphoria of feeling him licking my pussy washes over me. Instantly, he starts to alternately flick his tongue over my clit and tease my hole, groaning into me to allow the vibrations to travel through my sex. Grinding back on him, I whine as he holds me down, submitting to the pleasurable torture he bestows on me as he sucks my clit into his mouth, grazing his teeth over the sensitive skin. I can feel a knot forming in my stomach already, getting tighter with every brush of his tongue over me.

All of a sudden, he shoves his tongue deep into my pussy, licking at my internal walls. Biting back a scream of pleasure at the unexpected intrusion, I arch into him, almost losing it at the feeling of that wet muscle writhing inside me, probing as deep as he can. Pulling back after a second, he lifts one hand and drags his thumb over my throbbing hole, chuckling lowly to himself.

"I've never tasted anything as sweet as you, (Y/n), and I reckon I could spend hours with my face buried in your pussy," Once more, I can almost hear his smirk, "But I'd much rather feel you wrapped nice and tightly around my cock as I fuck you. Would you like that, (Y/n)?"

He punctuated each word with a slight press of his thumb, my need mounting quickly.

"Please, please fuck me...fuck me hard, Franz, please…" I moan in response, trying to glance back at him, though it's impossible in the darkness.

"You sound so hot when you beg." Is all he says before he suddenly pulls away.

Disappointment floods me before I hear the telltale climbing of a belt and the rustle of fabric.

All of a sudden, a pair of hips are pressing against my ass, a rigid cock slipping between my ass cheeks, a grunt leaving the man above me. Franz places his hands on either side of my chest, leaning down to kiss at my back as he ruts against me, using my slick to lubricate himself as he lines up with my aching slit. Arching back into him, I encourage the major to slip inside me, which he does, going slow so as to allow my body to accommodate for the sudden intrusion.

A soundless moan leaves my lips as I feel his large cock enter me, stretching me out in ways I never knew possible, rubbing against every sensitive spot inside me and then some. A low groan of satisfaction is huffed against my skin as he finally bottoms out, muscles tensed so as to not thrust immediately, his cock pulsing deep inside me. After a moment, he starts to move, pressing his chest down against my body, wrapping his arms around me as he uses his weight as leverage, thrusting himself into me as deeply as he can as he holds me impossibly close to him. The major sets a slow pace initially, choosing power over pace as he fucks me, soft breaths of pleasure accompanying my high-pitched moans as his mouth is plastered against my shoulder.

With each thrust, I can feel his cock rub over my sensitive spots, pleasure building within me until I can't take his slow pace anymore, no matter how much I'm enjoying the feeling of his bare skin sliding over mine. It feels so intimate, being so close to him as he pleasures us both, his grip on me getting tighter as his cock twitches inside me, his hands moving to gently grasp at my breasts. Holding them, he starts to increase his pace, grunts becoming more insistent now.

"You feel so good, (Y/n)...you're so warm and tight...fuck, I could do this forever….I've wanted this for so long…" Franz huffs in my ear, hair brushing against my skin as he moves his hands to my hips, using the new grip to press me down on his cock.

"Me too, Franz...you're so good...feel so fucking good…" I moan back, "I'm getting close…"

Hearing this, he moans and lowers a hand to my sex, beginning to rub at my clit, matching his thrusts as they start to lose their rhythm, getting more erratic as he nears his own end.

"God, me too...can you cum for me, (Y/n)? Gonna cum all over my cock, hm?" He growls to me, working me closer and closer to my orgasm.

"Yes! Yes, please, Franz! I want to cum so badly!"

"Fuck...cum for me, Liebling, cum all over my cock…"

With one last hard thrust, he throws me into a mind-blowing orgasm, pleasure exploding within me, consuming my every nerve-ending. Nearly screaming, I bite down on the hand that's suddenly clasped over my mouth to keep me from being too loud, rocking down on him as he fucks me through my climax, sending waves of euphoric bliss through me, his grunts stifled as he tries not to cum inside me. With one last moan, he pulls out and spills all over my back, pulling back so he can jerk himself off, milking the cum from his twitching cock.

As we come to a finish, we breathe heavily together, my back sticky now from his cum and my sweat. After a moment, Franz bends down and I feel his tongue starting to clean me up, making sure there's no semen left on my skin. Limp, I stay where I am as he spits into a tissue from the nightstand, throwing the paper somewhere off the bed as he falls down onto the bed on top of me, scooping me into his arms.

Pulling me close, he kisses my neck, pressing his chest against my back, trying to lull me back to sleep.

"Franz…" I murmur, struggling to keep my eyes open as my previous fatigue returns to me.

"Shh...in the morning, Liebling."

#break writes #munich the edge of war #Major Franz Sauer #Franz Sauer #Franz Sauer x reader #Franz Sauer imagine #Franz Sauer smut #August Diehl

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